Layer upon layer

In the dark we rocked back and forth.

Silent love pouring from my heart to his.

"I love you, I love, you, I love you," my heart sang.  

"Know my love for you, may you always know my love for you."  

The only thing separating our hearts was my skin to his:

T-shirt, 

sweatshirt, 

Colts' jersey, 

and soccer jersey.  

Yes, four layers.  To go to bed.  It is our version of the toddler sleep sack. Connor is into a stage now where he just likes putting on clothes and doesn't like taking them off.  Whatever works.  He sleeps better warmer than colder anyways.  

But as I rocked him with my love outpouring for him, heart penetrating through a blanket of clothing, it gave me pause to consider my own "layers."  What do I "wear" or "put on" that shields me from receiving Holy love?  Out of fear?  Out of control?  Out of pride?  

What mutes me from hearing God's own heartbeat?

Relentless and pure. 

Constant and deep.  

As a mother's love for her chid. 

The more layers I place trying to keep myself warm, the more distant the Heartbeat sounds, the more frozen my own heart becomes.

But ironically, the best way to fight hypothermia is not to put layer upon layer, 

but to go skin to skin.