She was excited to get to bed tonight. She and her brother had been sharing a room for a few months, but tonight was the first night she had her room back to herself with her brother next door in his new quarters. She oohed and ahhed over his new room and made some requests for hers. "Can I have my chair back please?" "May I have a pretend cake to bake in my princess oven?" Nervous of how the younger one would do on his own, we reminded each of them several times of the new change that would take place. They laughed and nodded and seemed okay with the switch.
We followed bedtime routine normally, read books, our Bible, sang songs and held hands in a circle and prayed. Then, as I began to usher Peanut to her now brother-less room, she burst into wild and sudden tears.
"What's wrong?" I questioned. She climbed her small, almost four-year old frame onto my lap as I sat on her bed. I held her a long while and finally she looked in the direction of where her brother's crib used to sit and whispered, "I don't like sleeping alone."
All the excitement and courage she had displayed only moments ago melted away into frailness and vulnerability. She was lonely. She was afraid.
My heart sank. Deep. In that moment I confronted my own frailties and fears. My own loneliness. I still sleep better with a light on. Still can't quite relax until my hubby's warm body is snuggled against me when I sleep. My own fears. Still can choke some days on the anxiety that rises so easily in me. Still feel so afraid so unexpectedly. But if I could just keep these things from rising in her. If I could just love her enough and train her enough so that she never felt afraid, never felt worried, never felt alone...
Then all the books and articles on children's sleep habits I'd read raced through my mind. "Don't stay with your child until she falls asleep...don't let children sleep in your bed...bad habits...no going back...teach them to cope..." But this was not a moment to train her to cope. This was not a moment to abandon her to research best practices or push her off the diving board and hope she swam. This was a moment to demonstrate that as long as Momma is here I will help her fight her fears- on my knees, yes always- every day before God asking and petitioning; but sometimes, too, squished next to her and 15 stuffed animals in her twin sized bed, snuggled up close, singing the fears away. And I felt...grace.
Maybe sometimes we aren't supposed to fix the problem. Maybe sometimes we aren't supposed to take every teachable moment and try to instill some deep value that will create growth. Just maybe sometimes we can meet someone in our frail imperfection, tell them we understand, hold their hand, and cry right along with them.
Or maybe sing a song till the fears are gone.
And the harsh reality of this world, especially as it relates to the ones we hold most dear, is that our love could never be enough. I will never be able to love her enough to protect her from all the loneliness and fears she will face, but thanks be to God that His love is enough to hold us both when she does face them. His love gives me songs to sing in the dark and lonely places. I can hold her tight because He holds us both tighter. Thanks be to God.
And so we end the night with me holding on tight, whisper singing "Jesus Loves Me" and "You are my sunshine". And she smiles. Through the fears.
"Casting all your cares upon Him, for He cares for you..." 1 Peter 5:7
