Tonight I sat in my usual spot on the kitchen floor. Praying yet again for my sick son coughing up a lung. Trying to explain spitting to a half asleep toddler is like explaining blue to a monkey. Yet here we are. This spot so visited it’s become habit, it’s become a place of comfort.
Tonight I sat there thinking how repetitive my prayers are, how often the same plea leaves my mouth. Still with every ounce of my soul. Sometimes I worry my words are like a resounding gong. Always for healing. Always for protection. Always for sickness. Does he get tired of hearing them in the same way I grow tired of praying them?
But oh how precious God is to speak in the silence, to the moms in the still of the night. Here is where he meets me, when the world slumbers. His love so quick to remind me of our current favorite book Pocket Full of Kisses. Never does he grow weary or tired of our prayers. Our papa in heaven is never too busy to watch over our littles when exhaustion becomes so much we succumb to sleep.
Our God is too like The Kissing Hand. Always there, always shining.