James isn't sleeping through the night. Not every night or even most nights. No one asks, like they did with Dylan, so I don't feign politeness at unsolicited advice.
"You know, if you only stopped breastfeeding that child..."He turns two soon. Quiet moments shared are few and far between these days of go go go and Mama, look! I drink them in, nestling him close. His eyelids flutter while breathing becomes heavy and regular.
His quiet nursing and a lone car engine are the only sounds that stir the night. My heart turns to mamas with empty arms, and I lift them high in prayer. The mothers who know the searing pain of loss. Who grieve for what could have been and never was.
Why is the path to parenthood such a hard road for some? {Why was it easy for me? What will be our lot to suffer?}
I pray for mamas-to-be, waiting. Those enduring shots and procedures, filing mountains of paperwork and making room for babies heart-grown.
Jesus, fill their arms.
Tears fall hot. Smoothing James' cornsilk hair, I lift high foster mamas praying for keeps. The ones who pour out love without guarantee. Theirs is love-parental. Love sacrificial. Love without condition.
The love of a mother. The Love of a Father.
Bind up the brokenhearted, Lord.
Thank you for the grace of awake with a child when the world is darkness.
For mercies new every morning.
{shared with heather for just write and emily for imperfect prose.}
