My hand rests on the gingerbread man. This blanket, that I’ve had since I was a child, now rests on the back of my son. My hand rises with his breath…a gentle rise and fall.
This blanket was my favorite because of its weight. It went with me to camps and college. When I was a teen, I tucked both arms underneath it, my hands clasping a little New Testament – fearing the demons that I believed were inhabiting my home.
I prayed a lot under that blanket.
Now, here I am. Knees knelt on the hardwood floor. Hands resting on his back. This child who seems to be fighting proverbial demons all the time.
I bow my head on top of the hand upon his back. It’s a prayerful position, but I can’t seem to compose my thoughts into a prayer. That is the story of my life these days. But I know God is here in this moment. My silence an offering, a request to the All Powerful One.
When I was away camping this past weekend, I shared a room with my son. That being the case, our night-time routine of rock-for-ten-minutes-then-leave-the-room-listen-to-him-cry-put-him-back-in-bed-five-million-times-over-the-course-of-an-hour-and-a-half was impossible to carry out. So I resorted back to the tactics of infancy: patting and rubbing the back until the child falls asleep.
Each time his breathing slowed rapidly, and he was asleep within twenty minutes. Continue reading