the darkest hour

There comes a time when the day slows down.

The kids don’t seem to notice.   Their life continues on, their miraculous energies stirring away at the candles and cookie dough.   My body doesn’t work that way, not anymore.

It feels wrong to admit I’m tired.  I’m too young to be tired. Tired is what’s happening to my grandma these days, more now than ever before.  Tired is what my mother was.

Wait a minute.

When did I become a mom?

This is the rhythm playing out inside me. Come two o’clock I need to settle down. This is the time for my soul to catch up, and sometimes, for leftover tears–the ones still waiting for a chance at joy.

The drops, the streams, they seem to come from out of nowhere, but I also say it isn’t so.  I know from where they come.  These are the tears of life’s release, the letting go of life itself.

Strangely enough, as God and time and the mystery of body chemistry would have it,  I wake in the night at the very same hour–two o’clock–this time wide awake.

His soul waits for Thee like the watchman waits for the morning.  I wait then too, through the fear, through the darkness, for the rest to come, for the morning light to manifest.

“Take and eat”, Jesus says, “Everything I have is yours”.

I move in closer to the body of another, closer now than ever before, waiting for the hope to appear.  And so I see, as I lean in and listen, that these two’s, these too are a gift.

For in the day He gives me rest

and in the night He gives me prayer.

 

 

 

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