Our sweet babe is transitioning from two-naps-a-day to one, which, in the interim, means very little sleep. (My babies have always been rhythmic like their mama, which also means that life gets all out of whack for them when a rhythm is disrupted.)
So in the wee-dark hours — my designated introverted recharge — when her cries break my quiet, and instead of studying Ephesians and praying through some fog in my heart, I feel her chest rise and fall against mine: I am confronted with weakness, hers and mine.
While I don’t perhaps cherish every minute of that “disruption”, I also don’t resent it like I had resented many disruptions to my schedule in my twenties and even thirties.
I am just learning in all sorts of weakness *much* bigger than a baby waking early — through unmitigated, unrequested, and undesired weakness— that…
God’s best happens when I’m weak.
