"Mama will you lay with me?"
I sigh. Why is this glaring screen more enticing to me than her seven-year-old nighttime snuggles?
"In a minute," I reply, thinking she might just go fall asleep before I get to her. More than "a minute" passes and then, from the bedroom, "Mama?"
I relent. Walk down the dark hall into her even darker room. Grumble as I trip over the toys left out and the Sit-n-Spin rumbles loud under my feet. Will this house ever be mess-free?!
She's tucked in under her t-shirt quilt, a Christmas gift I had made for each of us before our move to Uganda. I cuddle her close, smell her hair, rub my fingers down her arms, think of how big she is growing and she really should have had a shower before bed and she giggles, "Mama, you're taking up a lot of room." In my snuggling I inadvertently took over her pillow and now she's just lying on a corner. I scooch over a bit.
She asks for a song. "But not a catchy one--I don't want to be singing it all night." I begin to sing "Stay Awake," but she stops me. "No, no, not that one! Less catchy!" Aggravated, I sing "Amazing Grace," with all the verses. She calls Benny to her side; he lies down and lays his head across her tummy.
The song's almost over and Noah stumbles in from his room, fortunately steering clear of the Sit-n-Spin. "Mom, will you lay with me?"
I have things to do, yes, but I consent and send him back to his bed to wait on me. I sing another chorus; Benny and Dorothy sing back to me with their snores. My little gift of grace ever-growing, and will there be a day when she doesn't need a mama's nuzzle hug and song to find rest?
I kiss her cheek and go down the hall to the one and only, Noah, waiting for me in his bed. He's nine and still loves a good snuggle time, though he rarely he asks. Everything in me wants to memorize these moments. These too-precious, fleeting moments when hugs and songs are enough to bring rest. I beg/pray that the Father will remind me ever so gently, when I get too caught up in myself, to remember that these days will not always be. That there will be a day free of mess, and that day will also be free of babies and children and scraped knees and silly laughter.
Amazing grace to embrace it all. Always.
[Note: This is an archived post originally posted on April 12, 2011, and was featured on Story Bleed on October 5, 2011 If you'd like to click through and comment on the Story Bleed post that'd be just peachy.]
