4:30 found us on a deck chair, blanket-wrapped against the cold morning. james' labored breathing quieted, slowing to a regular rhythm. the light in the coop was on, but the road was dark and dawn a long way off.
he relaxed in my arms, knees up against my chest, like when he was tiny. one plump cheek nestled into my shoulder, still damp for the force of the coughing.
sometimes, nothing calms like quiet winter.
their room was a sauna. dueling humidifiers vaporized rainforest thick, scenting the air with tea tree oil. it didn't much help, one cough echoing the other. hers, heavy with cold and recovering from her own virus. his loud like a wounded pup.
sickness strikes at the most inopportune times. birthdays, holidays. tonight, we'd cancelled a sitter, missed a rare evening out, and now jim was gone, traveling.
with dylan asleep upstairs, it was just me and boy-babe. we held on and braced ourselves together against the night.
an ongoing record of God's goodness, #339-350
quiet moments with my rarely-still boy
a girl on the mend
recruiting faithful workers for a summer of plenty
children who still want to be close to their mama (even if i want to be alone)
generous love and laughter
grace for the sick days: extra stories
and movies,
cuddles,
popsicles, and
pjs all day
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