Redeeming the Night

It is the eighth day of sickness in our home.

A perpetual cough can be heard, from all corners of the house. The air smells of onion poultices and tinctures; Little Man whines and moans in a most unusual way, trying to let us know and understand his misery. Lady Eliana refuses twirly dresses in the mornings, (also quite unusual!) choosing instead to remain in the comfort and warmth of her flannel nightgown and cap, easing the chill of her fevered body. Big boys cough and sneeze, but continue to run and play as if the illness is part of their game... We're orphans, okay, Micah? Like David Copperfield. Mama is Peggoty, and this is the boarding house...

[Oh, but to read about a bright, shining spot in our week!]

Husband and I rise and fall from our bed almost hourly for the past four nights. Eliana cries in bewilderment, unable, for some reason, to open her door to get to us, then clings to Daddy's neck for comfort. Little Man wakes so often, crying, coughing; then refuses to settle in Mama's arms the way he normally does.

So I lie awake, baby at my breast, head resting back on the wall, comforter pulled high against the chill of the house at night. As my Little Man nurses and fusses, pulling away and crying in between eating, I close my eyes against the tears that threaten.

For I know that today will be another day of difficult choices.

The choice to leave the bed, rather than stay tucked in its warmth. The choice to prepare meals, though my appetite is gone. The choice to read a story to little ones rather than rest. The choice to stay home with sick children rather than worship and fellowship, hearing the Word read by my eldest. [This hurts so much...] The choice to smile and be creative, rather than pull inward and hide away. The choice to just keep going, rather than... not.

Let's begin now, shall we Lord?

I pray for my minister husband, who will teach class this morning. Give him strength and energy, Father. May his mind be clear so that he may speak Your Word to your people, and that You may shine through. May I anticipate his needs today, stepping outside of myself and my weariness to care for him, for he is tired as well.

I pray for my sick children. Heal them, Father. Clear their lungs, take away the fever. Bring back the smiles and the energy in my littlest ones. And may they grow in faith and responsibility and wisdom... I pray for their future spouses, Lord, keep them... Prayers for my children can last for hours.

I pray for our parenting. I pray for our finances. For our church. For our missionary friends, and the countries they minister to. For our president, our nation. I pray for friends, family, for you.

And before long, Little Man relaxes his neck and pulls away, content and quiet at last. I slide down under the covers, tucking him close. His hand habitually reaches for my cheek, and I smile.

The night is redeemed; it is not lost. Dark circles rest under my eyes, head is a little foggy, but heart and mind cling to truth and rest in Him.

The day begins.