A Window

She wakes at 3 AM with memories of a "blue furry thing on the bathroom ceiling."  I'm groggy, having only been asleep for a couple of hours.  "Like Cookie Monster?"  "No, Mommy, Cookie Monster can't get into our house.  Remember you have a rule about monsters in the house."  "Oh, that's right."

Her eyes refuse to close and my eyes refuse to close watching her eyes.  She analyzes shadows for danger.  I am holding her.  We listen to her sleepy-time music again.  At 4 AM, she's still fear addled and sleepless.

I sing to her....my God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do...

The moutains...His.
The rivers...His.
The stars are His handywork, too.


I will admit something to you:  I couldn't sleep alone until I was 12.

Fear, the shape that fills us when we momentarily forget: love.  I tell her I love her, that God loves and protects her.  But how do I make her FEEL this, to replace this terror with the warm constant comfort of His love, the goodness of His makings and doings?  I sing again.  God is bigger than the Boogie Man.  He's bigger than Godzilla and the monsters on TV.  She soothes for a moment.

5 AM:  Mommy, I just need to talk to you.


I sneak into one of my younger sisters' beds.  Even the small, warm assurance of a foot against my foot comforted, stilled.  I would sleep and wake ashamed that I had no courage.

I can sleep in the empty farmhouse alone.  And I'm not afraid.

How is this even possible?

I sleep walk, stumbling into the living room mumbling, cold-sweated, disoriented.  Mom leading me back.

Now, I simply leave no space of my heart unoccupied.   I let Him in:  The knocking at the window was real.