I think
when I am old and gray and have a lifetime of memories to look back on
one of the things I will remember most clearly is singing to my babies before putting them in bed,
walking the room in the silver half-glow of dusk.
I will remember the hush of the room and the still weight of a baby’s listening head on my shoulder, and those four minutes of quiet worship as I asked Christ to be my vision, or confirmed again that my hope is found in him alone.
I will recall the kindness of having a place to lay their heads at the end of the day, no matter how wearying the hours before, and those short slips of prayer spoken as I lowered them to bed and asked God to watch over them as they slept, and countless other things about their footpaths ahead.
Yes — I think I will remember this keenly. For if heaven is a place of rest at all, even while it is a revelation of glory so great as to make our adoration of Him effortless, I think something about it will bring back these four minutes at the end of every day, this sliver of caught peace.
And tonight, especially this night, after a long three nights of staying up with a very sick child, there is gratitude to hold close as I lay this little feverless form down.
Gratitude for a peace that is not mine to conjure, and which cannot be stolen.
Gratitude for the immeasurable gift of another day.
Gratitude for time to spend even four minutes in His presence.
Gratitude, tonight, for a Sabbath rest.
