I heard the crash and looked up and start running all in one swift movement, plowing through the dining room and over the hip-high baby gate without pausing, straddling it without breaking stride. Twelve-month-old Levi lay on his back underneath the record stand which had fallen forward onto him, pinning him to the ground. As I ran, in the split second between kitchen and living room and holding him, I watched his older brother swoop in and throw the table off.
Then the crying started and I scooped that baby up and pressed him to my chest as the wails pierced my ears. His brother started in immediately with explanations and I resisted the urge to accuse him of causing the table to fall, resisted the urge to pin one more child under a weight of any kind.
Levi paused in his crying and lifted his head to look at the table, as if wondering what happened. Convinced that nothing was broken, I started to breathe again.
Like all moments of crisis, the situation bonded the kids and I as we sat together on the living room floor sharing what we saw, what we heard, what we feared. Solomon was buzzing from the action and bounced on the couch, talking loudly.
I was impressed by his quick thinking and said, “Good thing his older brother was here,” finishing with words I knew he’d relish, “to rescue him.”
His face lit up like the sun through those kitchen windows and I knew he’d greet his sister and father at the door with the story of how he rescued Levi.
Later I remembered how the “Jesus Storybook” children’s bible refers to Jesus as the “Rescuer,” and it seemed to me to be an entirely appropriate title for Jesus, for One who comes when we need him most and throws off the pressing, crushing weight of sin that lies heavy on us all.