Morning Will Come

This second time around
brings sleepless nights. I wake a dozen times a night to push and prod my belly, urging him to move.  I rise red eyed for good before the sun because it's easier than drifting off and forgetting, waking with panic.

When I dream, I lose him. Everytime. Sometimes I hold him for minutes and then he goes. In others he grows still  inside of me and I feel him leave. The depth of how damaged I have become unnerves me. It shows its face when I snap at his brothers; when the winter's sun dips below the horizon too early; when tears fall while peeling carrots at the sink.  Its resonates in the dullness of my voice when I comfort my son as he tells me his worries.

Eli says that his fears are too big for God to calm. I rationally explain that God is plenty big enough, that perfect Love casts out all fear, that when we seek Him we find peace, that when we hide His words in our hearts we know His peace. Yet I tremble throughout the night. I lie to myself and my son by telling him that God is bigger than his fears, but not believing that He is bigger than mine.

I know that He is. I've known Him since I was a little girl, spoken intimately with him since I was Eli's age. He was as tangible to me in my youth as a being with skin. So there is no unbelief. Just fear; so much fear. I hold so many things  more tightly than I hold Him.
Knowing His glory supercedes my wants, no matter how pure they may be, is crushing. It makes everything else futile.  I know in my bones that His Grace on the cross drawing us near is the story that matters. That Truth is the one my eyes need to seek when the sun dips low and I pine for things lost already, and fear the things that could be lost in times to come.

So today we will guard our hearts. Take every thought captive. Meditate on Truth.  Wait for the darkness to pass. "At dawn, look to the east." Morning will come. It has too.