My Noah bug is sick- nothing fatal, just a cold.
But it's one of those nasty ones where goo continually resides under his little nose, and he cries every time he moves because his little limbs ache.
My emotions have varied from intense anger at his irritability, to sorrowful pity at his weary little condition. And my husband is consistently the most empathetic nurturer you've ever seen- which makes me love him all the more, yet frustrates me to no end because of my lack of patience in comparison.
So by 6:00 pm, I am wiped and ready to put the little booger to bed.
I take my little one upstairs, put on his pj's, and sit down with him in his big, soft, micro-suede rocking chair.
And what starts out as a means to quickly get him to sleep, ends up as a quenching water to my thirsty soul.
I begin to sing hymns to him, going through all my favorites:
Come thou Fount of Every Blessing
Jesus shall Reign
Crown him with many Crowns
Isaiah 43
and many more, but last, Not What my Hands Have Done.
And by the last verse of this hymn, my labored, rushed, tiresome singing had turned into a fountain of praise, pouring out from my graciously redeemed lips.
All the while, my little one- who has been somewhat untouchable all day, nestles his little head into my chest and clutches my hand with sheer contentment the entire time...only letting go at the end of each verse to clap with fevered intensity.
I finished the last verse as I lay him in his bed and snuggled him with his blanket.
I kissed him goodnight and quietly closed his door with tears in my eyes and an insurmountable joy in my heart.
Praise God for His love, and for His never-ending, always undeserved grace.
I praise the God of grace,
I trust His truth and might
He calls me His, I call Him mine,
My God, my joy, my light
’Tis He Who saveth me,
And freely pardon gives
I love because
He loveth me,
I live because He lives! Pin It
