It is after midnight, and here I am suddenly wide awake. It is a strange sensation, since most of my days feel like so much of a challenge to keep my head above water; a fight to focus, snapping back to clarity here and there like a student daydreaming in class. "What?" I will say, and the person talking to me will give me the blank stare of the fully annoyed, who has just spoken for the last half hour without an audience only to just discover that frustrating fact. Each morning I drag myself out of bed, exhausted beyond words, occasionally bruised from toddler size nine footprints climbing up my body to avoid God-only-knows what horror I was unable to protect her from in her dreams. Occasionally, I am awakened by my own stiff neck, having fallen asleep in the wrong position, only to jerk awake to the call of the child in the middle of the night, inflaming the muscles along the back of my ear, ripping down the neck to the shoulder, festering in the night until my whole back, neck and shoulder is sore. Sometimes, I sleep rather well, and I wake cautiously in the morning as the sun's early rays peer in early through the sheer curtains stealthily, as if not to wake anyone else but me, and I notice that for once, no one has interrupted my sleep in the night; no mid-sized visitors have joined my husband and I, no curious dog who I forgot to put to bed, no child in a panic or in need of a drink, and wonder of wonders, I have slept IN. And it is these mornings, jumping out of bed in a panic, reaching for my glasses with the practiced hand of the near blind, that I discover the secret joke of the pleasant peace - it is Saturday morning, and my day to sleep late. I always wake early on my day to sleep late. So I must creep back into the covers and pretend to sleep long enough, hard enough that I believe it; and they believe it too, so that when they come they will wake my husband for their breakfast and leave me awash in the sun's early rays a bit longer to have some modicum of peace.
But it is always this time of night that steals the sleep from me. If I remain awake past eleven PM, I can be assured that sleep will not come easily. It is almost as if the dreams I am meant to dream will come whether I close my eyes and rest or not, and if they be pleasant, I may sit and daydream and write for ages. If they be nightmares, no manner of television or warm milk will assuage the fears that will assail.; it must be meditation and scriptiure. For once midnight is apon me, I walk with the other night-guests, and the dreams that haunt the house are my company. I hear every whimper that visits the lips of the children, and notice every change in the sound of the crickets outside.
The house has a sound when people are dreaming that comforts me, and it is the sound of rest. It is as if time itself were suspended, and no manner of hurry or fury or worry can take that rest away from me. My soul rests in the presence of the dreams of others, and I can almost hear them whisper as I walk the halls of my home. If there is a nightmare, it can often be tamed with the whisper of a suggestion - a word of comfort, a loving touch. I walk from room to room, and look and listen at the doors of my angels for signs that they are not finding rest in their dreams, and in these moments, I too am a guardian of dreams.
It is hard for me to give up these moments, because they are devoid of time and separate from the everyday world. I remember when my oldest child was an infant, and I would get up at 3am to respond to her cries in the night. I remember rocking her for hours after she would go to sleep, and willing myself to remember every detail of those moments; how she felt pressed against my chest, her little head tucked up underneath my chin - how she fit so perfectly there that when she sucked her thumb, her little fingers would tap gently on my chin and when they got longer, would touch my lips just so. I remember thinking how precious those sensations were, and how quickly I would lose them - that one day she would no longer fit in my lap, and soon she would not want to get into my lap anymore, because she would be a grown up kid, and not my baby anymore. In the night, when I prowl my home, I see my family like that - pressing their memories, their faces, their scents into my mind so that I will not forget. I picture them there, resting comfortably, and if they are not resting well, I fix it, because someday I won't be there to fix it anymore.
Beyond anything else, I want them to know how precious they are to me - my husband, my girls. I want them to know how beautiful they are to me just as they are, even when they don't know I am looking, and how much I long for them inside and want everything to be perfect for them. I am just a wife and a mother, so I pray. I pray that God will bless them with courage and grace, and I pray that He will guide them and give them strength. I pray that He will give them knowledge of Him and that they will come to know Him as I have. Most nights, I pray that He will give them rest and peace, and that He will draw them ever closer to Him each day. I pray these things now, and knowing that my family rests safely in His hands, I can let go. It is time for me to go to bed. Good night, my loves.
