Antique Daddy and I have been saying bedtime prayers with Sean since the day we brought him home from the hospital. It’s our routine. It’s what we do.
Those early prayers were often desperate pleas for help and grace and mercy. We had no idea what to do with a four-pound baby. We were terrified. We felt so very small in the bigness of the task we had been given. We felt as though we had been sent out to fish the Bering Sea in a row boat.
The other night as I settled Sean for bed, I pressed shut the book I had been reading to him and set it aside. I knelt beside his bed and asked him if he would like to lead the bedtime prayer. Sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn’t.
This time he turned his head to the wall and didn’t respond.
“Sean?” I asked again, “Will you say the prayer tonight?”
After a long pause, he turned towards me. His eyes were shiny with tears.
“I don’t want to,” he said, his voice quivering.
That was unusual.
“Why not?” I asked, concerned. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m scared,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I just feel so… small.”
A big tear rolled down his cheek onto the pillow.
I sighed. He gets its. In the shadow of our mighty God, we are indeed so small.
I leaned over him in his tiny bed and blanketed him in a hug. I prayed over him and thanked God for my wise little boy.
I prayed that he might always view his God through the lens of humility and awe; I prayed that he might always feel so small.