We must have gotten something right.

We must have figured something out in this parenting thing.

I had a moment that made this mama’s heart burst… and ache just a bit… all at the same time.

A week of sleep-overs for my 9-year-old daughter.  She was thrilled to have multiple invitations in one week and her beautiful, beaming face shone as she skipped off with her dear friends.

Happy, happy, joy, joy.

Then, the next day…

Mama, I stayed up ’til 2:30 in the morning!

She proudly announced this… certain that this would be a sure-fire sling shot toward adulthood.  (I’ve told her to enjoy the kid thing… such beauty and simplicity in that childhood place… to live a life backwards would be something…)

And I’m not even tired!

Yet.

The day rolls along… children mingling throughout the house… toys strewn… games played… battles fought.  A weekend day.  A daddy day.  The best kind.  Then, the golden carriage of our home ~ turns to a pumpkin.  Just.  Like.  That.  Poof.

This completely exhausted child… melts.

Why didn’t I get her to bed earlier?

I chastise myself (the mama-blame).

I knew this was going to happen…

She needs rest… sleep… peace… quiet

All the little ones are shuffled into their nests for the night… and my beautiful girl… the one who is contagiously cheerful, unquestioningly helpful… my little one with a servant’s heart.  She falls apart… completely.  This little one can withstand many things in this house full of children, siblings, and all things messy… but, sleep deprivation is not one of them (don’t know where she got this trait?  Sigh)

I wrap around this sobbing child, trying to soothe her, calm her, lull her into the dreamland.  No luck.  Daddy steps in… more calming, soothing.  Nope.  Patience wearing thin.

I can’t just let her cry…

Besides, she’ll wake the little ones.  Not an option.

Finally, I bring her into our room.  I hold her and sing to her… memories of a smaller version of this very face peek through the darkness.

I’m sorry, mama

I just can’t stop…

I know this feeling.  We women know this feeling.  That cry that overflows from the depth of all things contained… all things that have been carefully shoved and packed into a deeper place, in the hopes that they will simply dissipate.  We so often want it to all wash away… without actually doing the washing.

My daughter did the washing.  She flowed with every frustration, fear, and feeling… for an hour.

Now, she should be all better.

Ah, not so much.

You’ve got to be kidding me!?

This mom… at a loss.  Then, she asked it…

Can I go in and see them?

Our little ones have a nightly game of musical beds.  The ultimate treat?  Sharing a room with the big brother.

Can I go in and say good night again?

He always calms me down.

There it is.  The fruit of intentional relationships.  The gift of spending our days, our lives, our everything… intentionally together.  (We do have time apart… reference mom wanting to run).

Sure, go say good night.

She enters the room.  Two reading young ones lift weary eyes from bed-time books.

Are you ok?

The concern on their young faces… these faces that during the day sometimes long to aggravate one another.

I just wanted to say good night.

A little sister, only 7-years-old, climbs out of bed and wraps arms of love around big sister.  This little one lifts her sister from the ground in embrace.  Lifts her taller, bigger sister off of her feet.

A thought enters my mind.

He does that… He lifts us off of our own feet.  Picks up our burdens and carries them.  Lifts us in love… and squeezes.

Three young siblings gather on the bed.  Sharing stories, words, comfort between siblings beyond the frequency of mama’s understanding.

You always calm me down.

What?  Big brother demands.  My red-eyed, sleepy girl repeats it.

Oh!  I thought you said “You always call me dumb.”

Peels of laughter.

The pumpkin… a golden carriage again.

My heart fills with joy at the connection of these young hearts before me.  For a moment, I ache… but, for a flash, I think…

You didn’t need mama this time

I can see it.  The growing of this garden is meant to teach them to relate to each other… not just to me.  To lean into each other.  To find comfort in family.  In the family of their home.  In the family of Christ.

Philippians 2:2

then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose.