Part of my mother’s day was spent working alongside Paul and Ms. Eva in the baby nursery during church services. Precious little ones, only three of the seven could walk and of the ones who do say a few words it isn’t much. This Sunday I had my grandson Liam with me. Things went along pretty well at the beginning. Got them playing on the carpet with toys, propping up and staying near those who don’t sit confidently on their own. Gave one a bottle, fed the other a jar of food. Changed a few diapers. No complainers or criers for the first hour of worship, smooth nursery duty.

Then I had to leave the room for 10 minutes to assist someone. When I returned, I felt as if I had entered the twilight zone. Every single child was crying. Even the ones who rarely cry, even the ones who never cry. Everyone except Liam.

Paul and Eva said it started as soon as I left. One of them (the children, not the workers) tuned up and the rest of the orchestra joined in earnest. I felt so bad, even though I knew it had nothing to do with me. If it had, they’d have all stopped when I got back. But they didn’t. I scooped one up and put her on my left hip; then I grabbed a ball with my free hand and tried to engage a little boy to play with me. Paul had the youngest one in his arms crying (the baby, not Paul), one standing at his knee asking to be picked up, and one standing in front of him who cried whether he was held or not. It was just one of those times. Gradually most of them stopped their tears, and one managed to get it down to a whimper. One was still going strong, having switched from genuine tears to auto pilot. Paul kept empathizing with that one, then started asking him if he was going for the record as to how long he could cry. At one point Paul looked over and asked, “Do you think we’ll get fired?” I reminded him we couldn’t get fired from this job, we were volunteers.

Through it all, Liam the Long-suffering never made a sound. He busied himself with the toys, finding different ones to play with and when one lost his interest he would discover another. Eventually that wasn’t enough to distract him from the cries of the others, and he came over to stand by me. He looked down at the floor, stuck his hands in his shorts pockets, then looked up at me. The look on his face said it all. No look of accusation, or frustration, no whining for attention. Just pure resignation to the fact that he would have to suffer through the noise and play alone until peace returned. After a few moments he walked away, hands still in his pockets. He was met with a hug from one of the other boys. Non- criers need to stick together.

By the time church was out only one was still whimpering. Thank God for that favor. One by one the children were retrieved by their parents, until only Liam was left. Sweet, uncomplaining, patient Liam. Liam the Long-suffering.