The screaming lasts for hours sometimes. Standing in her crib, calling for mama, daddy, even brother, whoever might come and release her from the agony of bedtime. My comforting words, spoken over her in quiet whispers in the dark, do nothing to soothe her eighteen-month old anxiety.
Does she cry because she feels alone? Doesn’t she see the soft, restful place I have made for her is supposed to be a haven, not a cage?
Can’t she understand that I am doing what is best for her?
I want to tell her she will feel so much better if she just rests. I want her to understand that though she can’t see me, I am right there, bigger than the darkness. I can hear her. My love is always watching over her, and I would never, never let anything happen to her.
But in her childlike mind, she does not understand the darkness and the silence. It is not what she wants, and she throws herself against it. She does not understand that what I have in mind for her is even better than what she has in mind for herself.
She must rest in the darkness in order to truly enter into the day.
She must let go of fear and anxiety and trust that I am there, that I have not forgotten her, that my love hovers over her, unseen in the darkness but as real as the blankets that warm her.
I sigh and muster all my patience and whisper it again, “Just rest. Just rest.” And isn’t this what my Father keeps whispering to me, the words in the darkness that I cry out against, the love that wants to soothe me to peace and trust?
“But I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me.” Psalm 131:2
The action lies with me. To still and to quiet. I can choose this, because I know who is with me in the darkness.
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