For once I feel compelled to write an entry that doesn't begin with an apology!
I only want to account for what it was like some time after midnight yesterday when I awoke to the sound of Daniel and Sophie crying. Sophie was calling my name. I had been dreaming, and in my half-wakefulness I considered trying to continue where I left off. There is sometimes a small window of opportunity. But Sophie sounded plaintive and troubled. I got up quietly and entered the room. She had a bad dream, she told me. I stroked her face with both hands and spoke softly to her of being safe and close to us and Jesus. Then, as I usually do when she has a bad dream, I prayed with her and gave her a kiss. She seemed genuinely relieved and closed her eyes.
I expected to find Daniel sitting up in bed asking to be picked up, but he must not have been fully awake when I came in. Once Sophie stopped crying, he didn't make a sound. He was under his blanket and breathing heavily when I left.
Tonight this makes me think of being small and calling for my mother at night when the darkness of my room and disturbing thoughts weighed heavily on me, of her praying with me. While I had yet to experience the Lord work in ways as dramatic and clear as the stories she told, I felt a sense of relief by her experience of God's power. It was second-hand knowledge, but I had reason to trust it. I remember her telling me I could call on Jesus and that he was with me, that even speaking His name was powerful. When I was a little older and no longer went looking for her, I remember how I would whisper His name with the blankets over my head until I fell back asleep, and in a very uncritical way I believed He would protect me.
I cannot say that all of this occurred to me yesterday. I simply did what seemed most fitting and when I left the room was impressed by the ability to calm my children with words, and my touch, and the truth. I thought to myself, "Oh my little daughter and my little son. And O God--what an honor."
