Delicate Reassurance

I rocked a baby to sleep on Sunday evening.  I held her little body in my arms and quietly hummed a mishmash of lullabies as she balanced delicately between asleep and awake. When I was sure of her slumber, I called in my husband and we prayed for her. We spoke quiet intercessions over the little girl we have grown to love. We asked our Father to give her peaceful sleep and happy dreams. We asked for little things that on the large scale don’t mean much. We prayed for her parent’s guidance and then we ended as we always have with a request that she would grow healthy and strong, to serve and love Him.

She didn’t move a muscle the entire time. Normally she fights the sleep and fusses when I transition from the rocking chair to the crib but not this time. The only noise she made was a gentle sigh when I laid her down, a small surrender from her tired little body. It was beautiful, and I left the room feeling refreshed and thankful. I was thankful that she went down easy because to be honest, I was tired too. Thankful that we had the rest of the evening to relax and that her parents also could relax on their night out, knowing that she was fast asleep.

I didn’t realize until later that for the first time in five months of watching her and putting her to sleep once or twice a month, I left the room not feeling wanting. Prior to this evening I had always fought a hint of jealousy and dissatisfaction. As hard as I tried and wrestled, I always felt frustrated and sad that I didn’t have my own child to rock and hum to, to pray over and protect, to shepherd and love. That night however, I left the room with peace and joy and thankfulness and I realized that the gentle sigh, the small surrender that she gave as I laid her down was not the only one that took place. I had made a small or maybe not so small surrender of my own.

As I mulled it over I remembered something that the little girl’s mom told me recently. That God would give me the children that I’m supposed to love, a truth that she had clung to when she was in the exact same position as myself. At the time I had brushed it off, thinking to myself that it was easier said than done. However, as I sat there in my small surrender I thought and believed that if this was it that I would be okay with that. If this is the way I’m supposed to love Your children then so be it. 

Tears

I read once that all my tears are collected and recorded, counted and kept safe. If that’s the case my jar is probably close to empty, a thin salty layer evaporating into nothing. I haven’t added to it in what seems like forever and to me that feels normal but to others not so much. I tell people that it’s not the way I function; that my sorrows are expressed differently and that’s true for the most part. It’s also true that on the occasions when my chin begins to quiver and the lump rises in my throat, I fight to hold it in. I’m afraid to let a few loose, knowing that if I do it would take a small army to pull me back together and I hate that feeling of not being in control, weakness. And, to be quite honest, I’ve never felt like my tears were important enough. The majority of the ones I’ve cried have been over held back anger and my bruised ego, certainly not something to be cherished.

However, the ones that fell swiftly from my eyes last night were different. Instead of being accompanied by short breaths and sniffles their only companion was silence. They made hot streams along my cheeks and eventually pooled on the red Egyptian cotton of my pillowcase as I tried to find my sleep. Normally I would have mulled it over, dissecting all the reasons causing me to feel this way but I didn’t need to.  I knew these were tears of deep sorrow and repentance; born out of a tired heart.  I didn’t fight it and the minutes accumulated quickly, however, I knew that they were serving as a lullaby of sorts. I don’t know which came first the ceasing of my tears or my dreamless slumber but as I awoke this morning a single tear escaped each eye and then they were gone with as little fanfare as when they arrived.

Those tears, the hot silent variety, are the ones worth cherishing.