In the great warm room, full of toys and piles of clothes and extra blankets, a sprawling shadow covered the ceiling where the night light met the wooden bars of the bed.
“Mama,” he said, in a hushed, sleepy way, “but I can’t find my dreams?”
“Oh baby, close your eyes and rest. You’ll find them in your sleep.”
He turned and gave a deep exhale, the freshly bathed hair wild and free burrowing into the pillow.
“Good night, mama.”
There is much to say, to continue from where I last wrote. A place of screaming in the darkness, daring to tighten the grip on hope while surrendering to the process. Yet, for all the words I’d love to string, it seems the next part has already been written best here.
For the Lord your God has blessed in you all that you have done; He has known your wanderings through this great wilderness. These forty years the Lord your God has been with you; you have not lacked a thing.”
It’s all there.
We scream into the darkness, the shadows dance, the fears echo; we’re shaken and weary.
And then it cuts through. Blinding us. Saturating us.
Leaving us to stumbling around in its presence.
Speechless and amazed.