Through the Night

She was eight days old when I met her. So, so tiny. I’d never seen a person so small or held a life that fragile in my hands. But when my goddaughter was eight days old, I made the trek across the state of North Carolina to meet Sarah Katelynn and spend a weekend helping her Mommy. Her exhausted Mommy, who had gotten very little rest. And so that Friday night, I held that tiny, tiny brown-haired girl in my arms, rocking and humming while the new Mommy got some much-needed sleep.

Sarah Katelynn didn’t really want to cry that night. But she didn’t want to be put down either. Fed and burped and swaddled and sleeping peacefully, I’d lay her in her bassinet, but she’d immediately begin to whimper. I’d scoop her back into the crook of my left arm and she’d sigh, then fall back to sleep, only to immediately wake up as soon as I’d put her down again. I moved to the couch and was contented just to hold her and stare in wonder at her perfect little eyes, nose, and lips. And she was perfectly contented to lie in my arms and listen to my heart beat.

My Mama tells the story of when I was born…

When you were born, you didn’t cry. I said to your Daddy and to the doctor, “Why isn’t my baby crying?” And then you started screaming, and you’ve never stopped!

I was a colicky baby. Sensitive to light and sound (and everything else). I wasn’t a good sleeper. And that’s something I never really grew out of. When I started being abused at the age of about eight years old, the insomnia fully kicked in, and it was a rare night that I went to bed and went right to sleep. I’d lie awake, staring at the nightlight, listening to the radio, trying to push away the scary memories and shameful feelings. Almost thirty years later – having been through much, much life and many hard times, I have to say that I’ve never felt so alone as I felt on those nights. My parents didn’t know what was going on in my life. They were busy, and I didn’t want to be a nuisance. But lying in my bed those nights, I felt abandoned.

When I was fourteen, I lay in a hospital bed and wished I would die. I’d had surgery that morning, but I wasn’t actually in any physical pain. But I remember being overwhelmed by this emotional weight – almost a presence in the room – that felt that death would be better than life. In the dark, I turned my face to the wall, turned my back to the world, closed my eyes, and wished to die. But in the dark, a hand reached out – not knowing my emotional state, just wanting to show me love – and stroked my back. It was my Mom. And through that touch, I fastened back to earth and made it through the night.

How many nights of my life have I walked in the dark, stumbling, grappling for a hand to hold to keep me from collapsing to the earth? Too many to count.

In Chapter 2 of Fight Back With Joy, Margaret Feinberg says, “We need people who will reach out and hold our hands whenever we find ourselves walking in the dark.” (ebook location 415)

Amen, Margaret.

If we were sitting in a sanctuary right now, you’d hear me quietly begin to sing… Precious Lord, take my hand. Lead me on, let me stand. I am tired, I am weak, I am worn. Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light. Take my hand, precious Lord, and lead me home.

Due to unforeseen technical issues, the linky widget isn’t currently available. If you have written a post in response to this chapter, please leave your link in the comments below. And, of course, I invite you to drop by my co-facilitator, Jason’s place, to see what he has to say today.