Laying beside my sleeping husband a couple nights ago, my mind was wandering aimlessly, noting the to-do's of the next day, wondering about the changes ahead of us, and finally mulling over what on earth to do about our son. Abruptly, I remembered unpacking books from the final moving boxes the week before, in particular, The Power of a Praying Parent. I felt compelled to retrieve the book right then, but the fear of being too tired to mother in the morning kept me under the covers, as if that's a valid reason to resist the nudging of God.
Tonight, I sat down in the midst of the day's aftermath and opened the cover for the first time since Big Sister was a toddler. I dredged through the typical first chapter introduction, wondering if I'd be able to focus long enough to get to the meat of it. After pages of preparation scattered with scripture, I prayed the chapter's concluding prayer and meditated momentarily over the words.
Then my worries, guilt, frustrations, anger, ignorance, and lack of direction came pouring out jumbled and precise, beautiful and disgusting. I prayed for my son in a way that I never have, adding another guilt to unload through my prayer. I sat by his bed with my hand on his back, offering my son's life and my parenting for the glory of God. I cried a storm of silent tears sitting there with my hand on his little back.
Almost instantaneously, God directed me back to His path. The path that was familiar not so long ago seems so uncomfortable in this moment. Where I was wandering aimlessly through our days, our life, my son was following diligently. Oh, how I pray that he follows me as I struggle to get back on God's track with my mothering!
Pour our your heart like water in the presence of the Lord; Lift up your hands to him for the lives of your little ones. (Lamentations 2:19)