When I find my son, he’s asleep.
Don’t we, as parents, love to watch our children rest?
I take a moment to appreciate this silent beauty. Gabriel is completely relaxed. There isn’t a sign of tension on his face. I admire his closed eyes, fringed with dark lashes, lavender lines faintly mapping the lids. I delight in the healthy blush of his skin. I’m lulled by the way his chest rises and falls in a rhythm reserved for rest.
He is peaceful.
I can’t help but reach out and run my fingers over the warmth of his cheek. Through the corn-silk strands of blond hair.
As I watch my little boy, I’m drawn to this tranquility.
Lord, I whisper, I want this kind of peace.
The Lord knows my heart. He knows that my desire is to walk in living-breathing peace. Not just the kind that we hope to find in slumber–what I long for is that soul-claiming kind of rest. The kind that’s present in the wakeful hours. The kind that washes into the spirit as a gentle tide that pulls back uncertainties and leaves a smooth surface of serenity.
The kind that overrides worry.
The kind that falls over fear.
I ponder this. Maybe the restfulness that I long for is somewhat of a choice. Maybe it’s a conscious effort to ask the Spirit to help me claim what I know that I need.
Lord, I choose to trust you with the weight of my worries. Please show me how.
Lord, I choose to trust you with the shadow spaces of fear. Please teach me.
A verse comes to mind as I sit there beside my son. It’s one that the boys and I worked on when the school year was young.
You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you. (Isaiah 26:3)
This is appealing to me. It’s a desire breaking from the center of my soul. I’ll choose the steadfast mind. I’ll choose trust. I’ll choose perfect peace.
And the Spirit will help me.
After all, the Lord is my Father.
And a parent delights to see his child rest.
