you woke up again last night, like always, except i didn’t get to bed early enough to have slept some before you awoke. so i was mad, really, that i hadn’t even closed my eyes before you started crying, and you were really crying. i never did figure out why you decided to wail for a half-hour, but as i sat in the rocking chair with you on my lap, i fumed about not this one night, but all of the nights that you woke multiple times, for which i have no reason. and i thought about how long it had been since i’d had a full night’s rest, and i sort of thought-prayed, “God, when will he get it? why will my child NOT sleep?” after you had nursed yourself into deep sleep again, i laid you back in your crib and huffed off to the bathroom, frowning and trying not to stomp like a child. in the bathroom, it clicked.
i don’t lean on sleep. i lean on jesus.
you don’t sleep well yet because i need you to not sleep well. i want to feel rested, it helps me make it through the day, and you have totally obliterated that. i worry and i stew and i get frustrated, but i don’t go to jesus. i have failed (as of yet) to learn the lesson, so God makes it continue, because its important — missing sleep important.
i went back into the room we share — your daddy, you, and i — and covered you with a thin blanket. i prayed this time not for sleep, but for remembering where to go when i’m tired and needy. i prayed to stop trusting in myself, in a well-planned schedule, in energy or hours of sleep or time alone, but to trust in God, my refuge and strength. ah, i thought, so this is what that means.
and then you went and slept till morning.