Terrified Toddler
She was a toddler, not more than three, dressed all pretty in a baby-blue sateen cotton dress with a little white collar. As she lay on her back, she felt like a cornered wild animal about to be caged. Her full ruffled skirt bounced about as she thrashed her white polished walking shoes up in the air. She felt the outreached hands of a mother, a father and a god coming too close to her. Not only did she keep kicking her legs, she punched her fists to keep them from touching her. She was gripped with fear. They could not be trusted.
A soft, frilly comforter covered her bed, and she turned over to dig her head into the fluffy pillow, still kicking and beating. She glanced back at the three. They were still there, still reaching out for her. “I hate you! I hate you, all! I can’t trust any of you!,” spewed out of her tormented soul, as tears poured down her face. Rejected by her comments they took a step back dropping their hands. Now was not their time.
“What do you need? What can I do to help you?,” came a protective voice from within the client’s soul.
“I need to be held!” wishing deeply that her counselor would take her lovingly into her arms, deep within her bosom, nestled tightly to protect her from all hurts.
“Who can hold you?” asked her counselor in a tender, caring voice. “Who spoke those protective words to her?”
“I did,” she responded wondering if she could really provide the comfort needed.
“Will she let you hold her?” continued her counselor.
“Yes.” Said the client wishing she had said ‘I wish you would hold me’.
“Then hold her.”
Closing her eyes again, the client recalled the scene. The middle aged self, the one in therapy, gently climbed up on the bed and embraced the little child. She held her own dear children this way in the past 15 years and knew how to soothe a little one. She cuddled the frightened toddler close toward her chest, with a soft rocking motion and, ever so understandingly, stroked her hair.
“I can’t trust anyone but you. Everyone hurts me,” sobbed the child. “I can’t count on anyone but you. You are the only one that helps me. Nobody keeps his word. They are never there when I need them. They never come. They only hurt me. I can’t trust them.”
“Father God, come close,” invited the adult self, “I want you here. I need you near.”
He quietly sat on the edge of the bed. He lifted His hand over the embraced child, covering but not touching them. He knew they were not ready. Purposefully, He started to intercede in prayer, prayers that the hurting soul could not speak.
Tears poured down the client’s face. She opened her eyes and understood that a deep work had begun but was not finished. There was no more time this session. She glanced at the large clock shaped like a big wristwatch on the little end table. She was fifteen minutes over her allotted session time. She audibly spoke.
“My time is up. How do I conclude this to keep it contained?”
“Can you see the picture of the last scene…God sitting on the bed with His hand over them?”
“Yes.”
“Remember that picture.”
She closed her eyes and once again brought up the final scene like a single cell from a motion picture, but it appeared as an oil picture in a frame. She thought of her container, the place she kept all of her session’s thoughts. She placed the picture in the transparent container and laid it against the front side so she could see the comforting scene, but not feel the emotions of it. Taking a final moment, she stared at the picture making sure the emotions were safely contained. Then, she opened her eyes.
A soft, frilly comforter covered her bed, and she turned over to dig her head into the fluffy pillow, still kicking and beating. She glanced back at the three. They were still there, still reaching out for her. “I hate you! I hate you, all! I can’t trust any of you!,” spewed out of her tormented soul, as tears poured down her face. Rejected by her comments they took a step back dropping their hands. Now was not their time.
“What do you need? What can I do to help you?,” came a protective voice from within the client’s soul.
“I need to be held!” wishing deeply that her counselor would take her lovingly into her arms, deep within her bosom, nestled tightly to protect her from all hurts.
“Who can hold you?” asked her counselor in a tender, caring voice. “Who spoke those protective words to her?”
“I did,” she responded wondering if she could really provide the comfort needed.
“Will she let you hold her?” continued her counselor.
“Yes.” Said the client wishing she had said ‘I wish you would hold me’.
“Then hold her.”
Closing her eyes again, the client recalled the scene. The middle aged self, the one in therapy, gently climbed up on the bed and embraced the little child. She held her own dear children this way in the past 15 years and knew how to soothe a little one. She cuddled the frightened toddler close toward her chest, with a soft rocking motion and, ever so understandingly, stroked her hair.
“I can’t trust anyone but you. Everyone hurts me,” sobbed the child. “I can’t count on anyone but you. You are the only one that helps me. Nobody keeps his word. They are never there when I need them. They never come. They only hurt me. I can’t trust them.”
“Father God, come close,” invited the adult self, “I want you here. I need you near.”
He quietly sat on the edge of the bed. He lifted His hand over the embraced child, covering but not touching them. He knew they were not ready. Purposefully, He started to intercede in prayer, prayers that the hurting soul could not speak.
Tears poured down the client’s face. She opened her eyes and understood that a deep work had begun but was not finished. There was no more time this session. She glanced at the large clock shaped like a big wristwatch on the little end table. She was fifteen minutes over her allotted session time. She audibly spoke.
“My time is up. How do I conclude this to keep it contained?”
“Can you see the picture of the last scene…God sitting on the bed with His hand over them?”
“Yes.”
“Remember that picture.”
She closed her eyes and once again brought up the final scene like a single cell from a motion picture, but it appeared as an oil picture in a frame. She thought of her container, the place she kept all of her session’s thoughts. She placed the picture in the transparent container and laid it against the front side so she could see the comforting scene, but not feel the emotions of it. Taking a final moment, she stared at the picture making sure the emotions were safely contained. Then, she opened her eyes.
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