Last night was a rough one. I was awakened at about 1:30 a.m. by my 22-month-old, who spent the better part of the next two hours screaming for no apparent reason. By the time my husband and I got her settled back down in her crib my stomach realized it was hungry and led me into the kitchen for some crackers. Shortly after 3 a.m., my 2-month-old son decided he was hungry too, and you know the rest.
But over a bowl of Raisin Bran at 6 a.m. I thanked the Lord for sending me to my children's bedsides because those middle-of-the-night encounters give me something I never got in the same way before having children: a firsthand glimpse of God's character.
Cradling Katie in the dim glow of her nightlight, I looked down into big blue eyes while she twirled a lock of my hair and finally relaxed her busy toddler body. Later, after my son's cries for milk were quieted, he looked up at me with a huge gummy grin and cooed as if he were chatting with an old friend over a cup of hot tea. My heart melted into my chest, sinking me deeper into the cushions of the rocker, ready to hold him just a little while longer so we could finish our silent conversation.
Parenthood is such a portrait of God's relationship with us, beginning even in our infancy. Something disturbs our contentment until we cry out for Him, and He always responds with a warm embrace and a comfort only He can give. It's in those moments on the parental night shift that God whispers what He longs for from us, His children - love, trust and a total reliance on Him. How many times have I longed to crawl into His lap, let go of my discontentment and find rest? How must he long for me to delight in His presence with the same adoration my son's gaze speaks to my soul?
Sleep deprived as I may be, I'm glad the Lord allowed me to be called out of my sleep and to my children's bedsides because He met me there. And that's always worth losing sleep over.
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