Facebook gives me a “Today in the Past” post that hits me in a tender place. Six years ago on Thanksgiving Day, my post read:
2:00 a.m. Heard Isaiah’s voice over the baby monitor. “Mama. Mama, I here.” I didn’t mind a bit.
Sitting in my car, waiting for two of my boys to finish swim practice, I read this and my throat goes tight. I remember that night. I’d been out of town for a few days, and I missed my baby. He missed me too.
His plea pulled me from a deep sleep, but going to him was my pleasure. I climbed our curved, old stairs and entered his darkness. I lifted him from his crib and held him tight.
Together we went to the chair in the living room, the overstuffed rocker that held me while I held my babes. I pulled a soft blanket around us, and our hearts beat close. For a moment we seemed like one again. He drifted off to sleep after a short while, but I stayed awake and held him until morning colored the sky.
My son took comfort in my presence.
It’s the way I’m learning to call out to God.
You will show me the way of life, granting me the joy of your presence and the pleasures of living with you forever. (Psalm 16:11, NTL)
In this Psalm, David shares of the joy of God’s Presence. Oh, the sweet blessing of knowing that joy! It’s a Presence that penetrates any darkness. It brings hope to any circumstance. It is filling and completing and when we’re feeling alone, like my son in the night, His Presence offers comfort and peace.
Thanksgiving for His Presence is gratitude that goes soul deep.
Recognizing His nearness, His desire to be close me too, changes me. It changes the way that I think, feel and perceive life. This revelation overpowers my worries and fears. It reaches my anxious places. It brings security. It’s a truth that I claim. Crave. Need. It becomes as critical to me as breath.
The outflow of a heart that is keenly aware and deeply grateful for His Presence is peace, trust and joy.
There’s a rap at the window, and I look up to see a son’s sweet smile. A moment later the car fills with boyhood, chatter and the familiar scent of chlorine. And as I drive toward home, on to other things, I’m glad for that memory on Facebook.
It reminded me of holding a son. And it reminded me that I am held.
