The space around me was black, and I tip-toed, feeling my way to the desk in our room. I listened to the sound of my husband’s breathing in the bed a few feet away, and I gingerly cracked open my laptop, knowing how bright this only light in the room would shine.
I felt my way into the chair and relaxed, letting my back and the bottom of my thighs fill the spaces behind and beneath me, and I quietly tapped on the keyboard. It was a little after five a.m., and I savored this moment of alone time, breathing in the stillness around me, focusing my mind on what thoughts could move through my fingertips onto the screen.
And then she cried.
I sighed loudly, disgusted that five a.m. was not early enough to escape interruption, frustrated at my lack of any personal time. I closed my laptop harder than I should and walked out of the bedroom door into her room next to mine.
There she stood crying out ‘Mama’s’ as she held onto the top of her crib, aching for me to pick her up.
“Baby, why are you up so early?” I asked, verbalizing my frustration to the toddler who couldn’t answer. I pulled her onto my shoulder and plopped down onto the rocking chair, gently swaying back and forth. And as I pulled her close to my chest, I felt the heat of fever.
She’s sick. A twinge of guilt hit me as I let out another sigh for the lack of compassion I had had this particular morning. And we rocked together silently, my hand on the small of her back.
In the stillness of the morning, my back and the bottom of my thighs melted into another chair as that little girl melted into me. We swayed back and forth, and gradually my frustration began to release. She had found comfort in me and was quiet against my chest.
And for a moment, I savored this time with my daughter who no longer wanted to rock to sleep at night, only sickness changing her mind. I remembered her days as a newborn when she and I would share every night together in this chair, rocking as she nursed. She would curl into a little ball against my chest, and we would glide as I lightly tapped her back. She would melt into my body, and we would rock, finding quiet before I laid her in her crib.
And an interruption gave us quiet again.
Sometimes I need to be interrupted. I need someone or something to slap me in the face and remind me of what’s important, to force myself to ask why I do those tasks that I do. For it is in those interruptions that I often find Him and His peace.
As she lay asleep on my chest, I continued to sway in the chair, resting my own cheek against hers. I remembered the laptop on the desk in the next room, but I didn’t move. This moment was one that I wasn’t going to interrupt.