Midnight Moments

His cries pierce the silence. Wails, really. They wake me with a jolt even though I’m anticipating them. My son needs me.

I quickly make my way to his bedroom—past the dog snuggled at the bottom the bed, past my snoring husband and past the cat who’s sleeping at the top of the stairs.

My son quiets instantly as I scoop him into my arms and settle into the rocking chair. These are our sacred hours—the middle of the night feedings when it’s just the two of us. Okay, sometimes there is social media or an audiobook, but mostly it’s just us in the silence.

Sane people probably abhor these hours—the ones where you should be sleeping but aren’t—I love them. I love the stillness and the silence. Even the darkness isn’t so bad once you’ve gotten used to it. It’s in these moments, I get to just be. It’s a different kind of rest and it’s one my soul craves.

It wasn’t always this way. The first few months were a hazy dream full of lots of worry and doubt and too much scrolling. I was toying the line between “baby blues” and full-out PPD and I began to dread night time. I would read all about these mom’s who successfully trained their children to sleep and the shame would wash over me. How embarrassing that my four month old didn’t sleep through the night.

During one of these nocturnal doom scrolls I was reminded of a quote from the late Shelly Miller’s Rhythms of Rest,

“Pausing for prayerful listening, even for a few minutes, brings everything that is important back into focus. We need whitespace for hearing the truth more clearly.”

These midnight moments were a gift—an opportunity to pause and listen. But I resisted. I had books to read and symptoms to Google and acquaintances from summer camp to look up on Facebook. Perhaps, I thought, I could start with a few minutes of quiet. Just to see what happens. It could be fun. I do love a good challenge. A few minutes turned into several and some nights I didn’t grab my headphones at all as I went to soothe my son.

These hours have become my most precious moments. The sweet joy of snuggles with my son are only enhanced by the growing intimacy I’m enjoying with my Creator. Three main themes come up as I sit and rest and listen and wait.

The first speaks to my anxiety about motherhood. It’s a call and a reminder to surrender.

It was a lesson I learned five weeks into pregnancy. After only knowing I was pregnant for ten days, I started to bleed. There was nothing to do but wait and see. It was a brutal practice in surrender. As much as I wanted to, I could not control the outcome. While the bleeding did stop and my hormones rose appropriately—the memory never left and the helplessness I felt could either haunt or guide me.

God used the sleepless nights of early motherhood to remind me that this new role was one of surrender. Despite my best attempts my son will get hurt—sometimes of his own volition. Even though every fiber of me wants to protect and help him, there is only so much I can do. Motherhood is daily surrendering to this reality and entrusting our children to their Creator. It’s a practice that will end when I do because motherhood doesn’t stop at eighteen. As I stare at my son with his perfect nose and long eyelashes I am reminded of truth: God loves him more than I ever can. As I let this truth permeate my soul it helps me surrender.

The second theme that comes up is my identity. Not in an existential sort of way but instead I’m constantly being reminded of God’s unconditional and extravagant love for me. I am a recovering perfectionist who spends too much time worrying about earning love—so this is a reminder I need to hear a lot. Because just like God loves my beautiful baby boy more than I could ever love him, God also loves me in the same way. I didn’t always have the best example of love from my father. But I know how deeply I love my child. I know the lengths and depths I would go for him. I know the pure joy I feel just being with him and watching him learn and experience the world. And if I can love my son that much—how much more does God love me?

Much of my time in the night is spent in tears as I let this truth wash away lies. The unworthiness I often feel is slowly and quietly replaced with a quiet confidence in who I am—a beloved child of God. As I love my son in the middle of the night and respond to his cries, God is doing the same to me. Moment after moment. Night after night.

It’s in this place of surrender and love that God gives me the freedom to dream.

Dreaming is not hard for me. It’s one of the gifts of an active imagination but after a year of fertility struggles and family heartache it was a practice I abandoned. Why dream when nothing good is happening? Slowly though, in the “whitespace” I began to hope again, I began to dream. Small, big, serious, silly—no dream is off the table.

These dreams don’t have to become reality—it’s just a practice in playing with God. Perhaps someday I’ll write a book that encourages people or speak at a conference. Perhaps I’ll have five children and an old farmhouse nestled in the New Hampshire woods. Chickens will peck about and perhaps a goat or two. Perhaps we’ll relocate to the southern coast of England and we’ll spend weekends exploring the Scottish highlands or jet-setting off to mainland Europe. Perhaps we will. Perhaps we won’t. The end is not the goal.

These sleepless hours started as a necessity—my son needed to be fed. Now they are cherished moments.

I know it won’t always be this way. Most of these days my son sleeps through the night. We’ve stopped breastfeeding—he’s eighteen months now. The only times he calls is if he’s teething or sick or scared. My late-night hours are dwindling but these lessons I’ve learned will stick with me.

When my son climbs higher and higher and falls farther and farther I will continue this act of surrender—trusting God to protect him. When shame and lies come creeping into my brain—lies about who I am as a mother, wife, daughter, friend I will remember that I am deeply and unconditionally loved. When my husband and I look to the future we’ll make room to dream extravagantly with God, allowing Him to lead us down whatever path He has for us.

Sleepless nights might be over but the sacredness of the midnight moments is a gift I will never forget.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Sleepless."