Waiting

Her little blinks are getting longer and longer. Slowly her eyelids droop lazily. Soon they are just little slits - I can see her barely peeking at me to make sure I am still there. Quietly I hold her and look back into her sleepy face. I stroke her cheek and her eyes close completely.

After a few minutes I lay her carefully in her crib, tucking her in, making sure she is safe and comfortable. I walk gingerly out of the room.

Minutes later I hear her. Her whimpers become more and more insistent. I know she needs some attention. I lean over the rail and stroke her cheek. She quiets and her eyes slide shut again. I wait for a few minutes and decide she is not quite settled enough for me to leave, but not upset enough for me to stand guard. So I sit on the floor, right outside her crib. Waiting.

She doesn't know I am there. She can't hear me or see me or feel me. All she can see is the tiny world inside her tiny crib. For all she knows I am miles and miles away. But I'm not. I'm so close if she sneezed I could feel her breath, I can hear her sigh, and if I peek I can see her smile in her sleep.

Lord, how many times have you been just outside my view and yet been right there? I can't always hear you, or see you, or feel you - but you feel each breath and hear each sigh and see each smile or tear. Help me to trust in those times that you love me and are never as far away as I might think you are.