Hadassah Lee has been sleeping in the dining room for a few months now, for that in-between season until she sleeps through the night and joins her siblings upstairs. We set up a pack-n-play behind the big French doors, in a nook beside the fire place. From the hallway, you can’t even tell she’s there. But it’s her spot, and she totally owns it. Night after night, nap after nap, I watch her burrow down into the corners of that little place. If she’s not ready to sleep, she lets us know. But most of the time, she doesn’t fight the spot. Her posture is perfect – belly down, hind end in the air, ankles crossed, thumb in her mouth, chubby finger grasping for wrinkles in the sheet. She knows her place, and she embraces it. She knows how to rest in it. She isn’t scared of this in-between season.
When she’s on my hip, she studies everything and everyone. When she’s curled up next to me, nursing down for the night or first thing in the morning, she strokes my arm with contentment. When she’s tackled and tickled by her dad, she cackles and flirts. When she’s passed from brother to brother, she doesn’t fight it. When she’s dragged all over creation for family events that don’t involve her, she falls asleep in the car seat without issue. It’s like she was born for this role. She seems to be perpetually at peace. She knows her place, and she embraces it. She knows how to rest in it. She isn’t scared of this in-between season.
Every single time she’s stuck, or alone, or upset, someone comes for her. She can burrow down into her present, unfazed by her future. She knows where she belongs.
Lord? Let me learn from my tiny daughter? Help me to not fight the spot, the in-between. Show me the beauty found in burrowing down into my present, unfazed by my future. Remind me that You always come for me.