our chair

My little one,

We spend hours in our chair. We rock with a big rhythm, one of my feet tucked underneath us and the other propelling us backward and forward, backward and forward, backward and forward.

I have wept in this chair. Tears of fear when I was suffocating in false hopelessness. Tears of joy over your sweet, growing body last night. My spirit ached with love at the wonder that God granted you to us, despite my faults and my inaptitude.

You are wonderful.

When I put you to bed at night, I turn the lights off, wrap you tightly in your swaddle blanket, and we rock in the quiet. It’s always my favorite part of the day. No matter how much time we’ve spent in our chair already that day, I don’t mind going back for bedtime. You body grows heavy with rest and your blue eyes start a slow weakening. I drink in your peaceful face, trying to absorb the details and the full image, knowing someday too soon my heart will long for this moment.

You are exquisite.

Round cheeks and delicate mouth. You sigh and laugh in your sleep. You raise your eyebrows and look surprised. I wonder if you’re dreaming.

Prayers have been poured out on you in that chair. God seems to grab my attention when we’re there, and I ask Him all sorts of things for you. For an abundant life, for a life of fulfilled purpose, for you to be a person of compassion and kindness, for your health, for the blessing of our relationship, but most of all that you would love Him. That He would grab your heart’s attention like nothing else you encounter and that you would run after Him from your youth. I want you to love Him better than I have, more than I do. He’s like nothing else, Caroline. He’s all there is that matters. He makes everything matter. Chase Him. He will be chasing you.

Every night, I pray the same prayer that developed in my heart in your first few weeks, when I was emotionally on my knees what felt like around the clock. I ask the Lord for peace in our home, for the sleep and rest that we need, for peace and rest in your little body and mind. I read in a book (The Mission of Motherhood) about asking Him for the sleep we need and then trusting Him to provide it, and it’s been a great comfort.

I hope someday you find moments to treasure, little pieces of your days that sear themselves onto your heart.

Rocking you to sleep, my little one, is the best part of my day.



A Prayer

My dear Lord-

There is much I don’t understand and much that I know you don’t intend for me to understand. Right now–this season of life I’m living–is fleeting and blessed, and I don’t understand why it feels so dark sometimes. I wonder why this is my experience, why it can’t be light and easy instead. Why can’t I just be emotionally marinating in joy like so many others seem to be? I don’t want the answer to that. I’m not really seeking the “why.” It just hurts, and I want you to know. It somehow comforts me just knowing that you know–you know my heart better than I, and that alone eases the burden.

This pain is refining fire, sharpening iron, shaping by the Potter’s hands. It is good. It will bring good. You have promised it will because you are goodness and love and the perfect parent. I’m a parent now, too, and as the constant giving of care exhausts me, I think of your endless, exhaustless faithfulness. You are good.

Heal my heart and my spirit, and keep my mind centered on You. Thank you for the sweetest of blessings in my life, and help me to feel the joy of them daily.

I love you imperfectly and terribly, and I praise you for your perfect love.

In Jesus’ name, always, I pray.