Silence

A request for Silent Night.  In the still and darkness of a room only lit by a metallic-blue night light, the voice of a four-year-old half whispering a request for Silent Night.

I don’t ask why or remind him that it’s not Christmas.  I sing.

And as the notes come shaky out of my mouth, his little head finds its way onto my lap. My right hand strokes his so-soft hair. I still smell the bath soap. I rub my grown hands up and down his growing back. We are comfortable in this snuggle.  The notes continue to break through the silent room, house. I sing about the beginning of peace alive on earth. He reaches his arm up and rubs my belly, perhaps wanting to say goodnight to the little brother he felt moving earlier this evening.

Sweet moment.

My heart reaches to its farthest capabilities to try to understand how I am here in this world as a receiver of the creation God has so wonderfully made. He made my son? Incredible. He formed his heart and put those strands of DNA together in a singularly wonderful way so that there would never be another boy like this one? How can it be? It is too marvelous for me.

And to think that I get to be a participant observer to this little creation. Why should I be so blessed?  Why should any of us who are parents, who are watchers of little lives, be so blessed as to be given front row seats for such an event as this.  One special and unique little boy. And the show is mine all for the watching.

Reverence for this brings me to silence. Silent night, indeed.