I. WANT. MY. MOMMYYYYYY!!!!!!!!
I curl up into a tight ball squeezing my eyes shut, hoping that will drown out the screaming. I feel Hubby's broken arm itching toward me, offering comfort.
It took a month for Big Boy to show signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. Around mid-January, he began waking in the middle of the night. Alone, that wasn't unusual; he's never been the best sleeper. But we tried everything: firmly returning him to bed, praying with him, threatening, spanking, capitulating. As the nights wore on, the days got harder. With little sleep, none of us could function or begin to heal from the trauma.
As we reached the 2 1/2 month mark, I became desperate. I know I looked tired because everyone I saw asked how I was, with extreme sympathy in their eyes. Finally, one night, talking it over with a friend, it hit me.
This is part of Big Boy's story. We all have painful things in our pasts, things that we'd rather not think about. But Jesus uses those hard things to bring us to Himself. It struck me, as I talked, "Big Boy is not my child; he belongs to God."
Over the years, of course, I've prayed for the boys, asking Christ to draw them. But, in my head, they were always mine, mine to give to Jesus as I saw fit. Suddenly, Big Boy was not a baby to be held close, but a little man, enduring the trials of life so that he can learn about the Comforter.
And, my prayers began to change. No more, "Father, deliver me from this." Or "Help me get some sleep." With glaring obviousness, this was not solely about ME. (But, then what ever is?)
Now the prayers were: "Father, please draw my baby to Yourself. He's not mine, he never was. Show him Your love; open his eyes to Your comfort. Redeem this awful situation for him and for your glory."
Knowing that my son is a child of God--that makes me much this morning.
41. Nap time
43. Saving TV time until the end of the day
44. Dirty faces
45. Active-boy stink
What stories make you "much"?