In the still of the night

The middle of the night and early morning have become welcome quiet spaces for me recently.  Somehow I'm learning to relish the 4am wake-up calls from a certain little boy and the pregnancy insomnia that makes me alert at odd hours of the night.  When else do I feel so free from responsibilities and able to read, to pray, to let my mind wander? 

This evening I had some lovely quiet time with my boys, as I helped to ease them into sleep in a place away from home.  They were giddy with the fun of sleeping at Papa and Nana's house and excited about waking up to Daddy coming home tomorrow.  As they went from bouncing to wriggling to fidgeting to stillness, I had a chance to reflect and simply soak up the moment.

It is a good place to be.  Sandwiched on one side by twenty-three days that I faced with anxiety, long days without a parenting partner, broken phone conversations, devotions and verses said without Daddy's help.  Sandwiched on the other side by exhaustion and re-entry to "normal" life, hard conversations about the future, decisions about jobs and budgets and child care. 

But tonight... tonight is good.  I can soak in this moment with my sons and look forward to waking to my husband's return in the morning.   Best of all, I trust in the God who carried us through these twenty-three days, gifted me with this moment of peace and joy, and will walk with us through whatever the coming days hold. 

Night-time visitations

They visit me in the night: the things I failed to do today.
           Put the blueberry plants in pots. (How do I manage to repeatedly overlook this all day only to remember it in the middle of the night?)
           Send a reply to that email from a friend.
           Speak to my son gently instead of snapping when he whined for "mama" yet again.
           Bring the laundry in from the line. (I listen to the rain pouring outside; instead of being lulled to sleep, I fret about clothes that are already wet.

As I doze off briefly, I dream of a beautiful day near the water with my family.  Given a moment alone, I wander off to watch the birds, only to be attacked by some large prehistoric animal that looks like a wild boar, only much bigger.  It rams me in middle of my chest, right where I have pain from a pulled muscle. In the gloom of the night, I feel like maybe it is my heart breaking.