Both boys woke up in the middle of the night last night.
As I sat rocking Isaiah in the living room recliner, I tried my best to see the clock through blurry eyes– sometime between 3 and 4, I think.
I ask myself in these rare and painful moments what to do. I could scroll through Facebook and post my woes, browse fashion ideas on Pinterest or check unread emails. But the last thing I need in the middle of the night, when I’m rocking my little one back to quiet, is to read another article about why I am parenting the right or wrong way. The last thing I need to do is see what everyone else is doing or not doing in the middle of their night.
What I need is the quiet space. What I need is the darkness of the night and the tiny light of the desk lamp on the table, and the small prayers I can utter over Isaiah’s closing eyes.
When he woke up I said to myself, Why is God doing this to us?
What little faith have I.
As we rocked I wondered about Eve. I wondered about her middle-of-the-night rendezvous with her little ones. She didn’t have a padded recliner. She had the murmur of Adam’s snore and the pitch black. I had a desk lamp and she had the stars. I read parenting magazines and child-rearing research, and she takes each step, one step at a time, one night as it comes, one dawn as it breaks.
But Eve and I both come to the morning light, remembering our tiny faith. We both come with weary bones and tired eyes, our babies still nuzzled at our chests.
Eve and I both come, awakened to the hope of the new day, to the promise of redemption.