He's sleeping now. A few minutes ago, I tucked him in with our usual ritual: a kiss on the forehead, traced over by the sign of the cross. I'm hoping that God's perfection will cover my imperfections as a parent... and praying that he has a safe and healthy night.
...It's ironic, that prayer on this night. This is the day most Christians remember the Son of God suffering, dying. I stare at Kaden's sleeping face, thinking about all the nights I've come to watch him breathe, to reassure myself that he's fine. I wonder how often Mary did the same.
...Deep down, I know that our faith in God won't necessarily prevent any suffering or sickness or death. Today that reality is all around me, daring me to just look at his own Son, the one who "couldn't save himself" and whom God didn't save from this destruction. I know, in my head and my heart, that the cross is a symbol not of God's protection, but of God's *presence* with us. Whatever life brings, whatever sorrow comes unbidden and unwelcome, whatever awful things that I can't even bear to think about happening... we are not alone.
...
There are nights Kaden wakes crying, always desperately, always in what seems to be the darkest hour of the night. I am continually surprised that my simply holding him quiets the storm inside so completely that he is able to drop back into a deep sleep within minutes.
...
On those nights- on this night- having Someone around is enough.
...
