You Will Keep Him in Perfect Peace

You ask for a story tonight, just like you did last night and those nights four weeks ago, and so I close my eyes and lean back (which I have found is the posture best suited for the weaving of words). Three heads find a place to nestle, and their soft weight grounds me as I tell of rivers running through rooms and recreate yet another fictional variation of light beating dark and love undoing the machinations of hate. My voice is unused to breaking the quiet that envelops me at this time of night, undoubtedly a side effect of living alone. Somehow, though, the tracks it winds down slow, soft, and sleepy seem familiar. As the glow from the strand of Christmas lights hanging in the archway hits your faces and I hear the sound of breathing that has crossed over from wakefulness to slumber, a wave of love washes over.

I sometimes feel daunted by your experience. I am weak in the face of your inescapable repeating griefs, but God gives words and grace and love. When I see in your face and hear in your words the faith of a child, I know what Jesus was talking about. 

"Of course I choose God." 

Of course you do. 

Why should I doubt?

You are children, you are held, you are kept, you will learn to cry "Abba, Father." You are learning the peace that passes understanding, and I am learning with you.