Every night I hold him against my heart and I sing the same song mothers have been singing their children for years.  And somewhere in the middle of the fourth round of Jesus Loves Me, that little bug lets go of the day and I lay him down and close the door and climb the stairs to sometimes a glass of champagne and a string cheese (the high life) and sometimes a husband I can beg a back rub off of, but always to this: another day made and done and safe, another day deeper into this new role that has me thanking a good God for my own mother.

I am hungry in a new way.  I am scouring pages of books, reading about personalities and discipline and tone and baby food recipes.  I am stalling out on articles of chemicals and babies, 100 dead, mudslides and cancer and starvation.  And if I am not careful to anchor myself I am swept away in the fear that follows terrible stories.  I am holding even tighter to a thing I am commanded to hold loosely.  I am confessing to our people that this little boy is a greater source of joy in my life than Christ, that I do not have the faith of Abraham at the altar holding his son.

I am in the middle of his nursery, crooning the third round of the same song mothers have been singing their children for years and I am suddenly gripped by Little ones to Him belong and here I am, stumbling into prayer over words I only sometimes remember to believe and I am letting go of the day, resting in the arms of a good Father who loves His children even more than I do.