A Holy Work


We sit in the softened dark, the silhouettes of our bodies lit up by the ten dollar Target marquee light that I love way more than she does. We rock. Our soft singing accompanied by the saving-grace white noise machine in the corner and the squeaky rocking chair -- darn that squeaky rocking chair. 

I'm in a hurry to get downstairs and finish more work. There's always something waiting, right? I should have used nap times more wisely. My mind makes mental lists for the next day, and I spend a few minutes wondering how long it will take to get her to drift off into baby never-never land. Maybe she's asleep now? No, I should wait a few more minutes. 

And then I feel it. That moment in between the hours when I was hit, rather profoundly, over the head with a sacred second or two. The hairs on the top of her head tickling my nose a little bit. Her body, propped up on top of that lingering baby bump because that's where she fits best. We sit close enough that the two almost become one (again) and the familiarity is comforting. This is as close to home as it gets. We sit there together, she, dreaming, I, taking visceral stock of what it feels like to be a mother; her mother. And I know this is as close to Eden as it comes. God and us back in the garden. The sacred, the good, the eternal, all lingering in the soft darkness of the night. We are doing holy work. I don't want to miss it.