I will give peace in the land, and you shall lie down, and none shall make you afraid. (Leviticus 26:6)
The voice at the end of my bed is barely a whisper. “Mama,” Isaiah says. “I had a bad dream.”
I move from the cocoon of my husband’s arms. “Zay,” I say. “Come on up.”
Isaiah crawls from the bottom of the bed, over a mountain of winter covers, and slips in between Lonny and me. I can feel, in the dark, that he’s wearing the flannel Superman pajamas. The ones that are thin in the knees. I can feel, too, that Isaiah’s brought Mine-O-Mine, the best-friend blanket he’s had since birth. I wrap my arms around my boy, and he curls into me. His head fits under my chin and his fingers lace through mine.
I listen to him breathe.
In just a few moments, Isaiah is relaxed. I feel the fear leave him. His breath becomes a peaceful song. His chest rises and falls with rhythm. Lonny moves closer and his arm curves over us both.
And Isaiah is settled.
He’s safe.
Unafraid.
We lie in the dark, Lonny and I curved like parenthesis around our son, and I think about Isaiah’s night visit. I understand what’s happened because this is how I often go to the Lord. I’m afraid. I’m worried. Life makes me feel like I’m alone in the dark. But my Father is faithful to draw me to His Word. He speaks to me in a way that is tender and personal and so full of life that it feels as though He’s pulling me in. It’s as though He’s saying, “Come on up, Daughter. I’m here. Find peace and rest in my arms.”
And I move to that place of safety.
And the darkness no longer holds threat.
Isaiah shifts and moves and now his face is toward me. I kiss his soft cheek. We won’t see a sliver of sun for a few hours, and soon I’m falling asleep, too.
But as I drift, I hold warm thoughts of God’s comfort, His protection, and the sweet blessing of finding rest.
Thank you, Lord, for bringing comfort when I’m afraid. Amen.
