When I was a little girl, trembling under my blankets at some unformed specter I just knew was hovering in the darkness, one thing brought me comfort.
If my parents were still awake—if I could hear the soft murmur of their voices and the muffled sounds they made as they moved about the rooms of our little house—I could sleep. Someone stronger than me, someone whose love was bigger than my fears and all that caused them, was awake.
This past year has brought troubling circumstances which dwarf my childhood fears in every way—complexities that conspire to steal both my sleep and my peace.
And yet. If I can only turn down the volume of worry static—all the growling voices that threaten disaster and corrupt blessed quietness, that priceless gift of night hours—I hear Someone moving about the rooms of my life. His soft-strong voice insists on hope, persists with fear-eradicating love.
And then I remember. Someone stronger than me, Someone whose love is bigger than my fears and all that caused them, is awake. Always.
Are these not sweetest words? “He will not let you stumble; the one who watches over you will not slumber.” (Psalms 121:3 NLT)
Victor Hugo said it so well:
Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.
Yes, He is. That makes for a very good, goodnight.
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