Mixed-up prayers

This story I dedicate to my friends who are still in the thick of their mothering years, wondering how they will ever survive the seemingly endless season of raising little ones. After spending eighteen years of my life with babies, toddlers, and preschoolers underfoot, I feel I can speak some encouragement with empathy.

It was 1989. We were living in Guatemala City. Never was I more overwhelmed with six or even seven children than I was with "only" those first three boys. They were so little and totally dependent on me. I didn't dare turn my back on them long enough for a quick shower for fear of what might happen.

Oh the stories I could tell about things those little guys got into. Once I remember putting Mikey down for a morning nap, and wondering why the 2- and 3-year-olds were so quiet. Racing through the house, imagining many varieties of disaster, I was relieved to find them blissfully decorating the bathroom wall with a box of giant puffy "stickers" they had found under the sink. That was one expensive mural, but my feminine products were safer than other items they might have discovered under the same sink.

What I remember most about that time period, having three kids under the age of four, was exhaustion. Most of my memories are a blur. I was perpetually tired. My brain was a fog. I purposely trained the baby to nap on a strict schedule to afford me a regular afternoon nap myself. Although Mikey slept through the night at a very young age, and I took almost daily naps, I was still in a continual state of indescribable fatigue.

All day every day I walked like a zombie through the house, muttering a complaint: "If only I had one solid hour alone to spend with God, I think I might survive this season of life." Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Then, out of the blue, my well-trained infant relapsed into waking up every night, right at 2:00 A.M. again. I was indignant with the injustice of life. Tired as I was all day, the last thing I needed was an interruption of my sleep at night! My automatic nighttime prayer as I slumped into the rocking chair with Mikey was "If only this baby would sleep through the night, I might survive this season of life."

Night after night, I grumble-grumbled my way down the hall to the nursery. "If only he'd sleep through the night...." Day by day I grumble-grumbled my way through endless chores and messes. "If only I had one hour alone with Jesus...." It's shameful but true. I had only two automated prayers.

One night in my groggy state of half-sleep, I was so incoherent I accidentally crossed my two prayers as I grumble-grumbled down the hall. Instead of praying for the baby to sleep through the night, I prayed for one hour alone with Jesus. Then it dawned on me as I awoke with a start. This WAS my precious hour alone with the Lord!

After that, I began having the most amazing devotional times in the wee hours of the morning. Even when the baby returned to sleeping through the night, I would wake up exactly at 2:00 A.M., not complaining, but rejoicing in the presence of a caring Father who alone was capable of restoring my strength and joy. I never even missed that hour of sleep. What I needed more than anything was time alone with God, not sleep.




Groovy glasses, huh? You gotta love the 80's!


As you can see, they were never still. In Timmy's defense, we found out later in the day that he actually had mumps when this picture was taken.