I am currently sitting in my almost one-year old son’s room, curled up on his rocking chair, with his heater powering through the cold chill in the air. His breathing gently breaks into a weirdly adorable child-snore every six or seven breaths; he mumbles gibberish in his dreaming, while reaching out a sleeping hand to fumble for his dummy in the dark. The same piano gospel lullabies he’s listened to every night since birth are chiming gently through the spluttering of the warm vaporiser, while traffic rumbles around on one of the main roads in what seems like a million miles from the stillness here.
No questions or responding or conflict or learning or reactions.
Just me and my son, breathing and resting in the still.
This is my favourite place, my safest place to be, when my world gets full.
I often wonder how crazy we all are to bring children into this lifetime. I imagine every generation goes through the same thought process. There is always something unimaginable happening in our world. Always an international crisis, always a soul-tearing event occurring; there’s always famine, always poverty, always sex-trafficking, always warfare and politics and media hype and broken privacy. There is and has always been chaos in this world. For the most part, we are not blind, nor are we ignorant; we are aware and, in particular, we are aware for our children.
What will they see in their lifetime? What new beauties and horrors will they encounter? What decisions will they have to make in a place of pressure and uncertainty? Will they feel confident to stay true to who they are, to ask the hard questions so that their foundations are solid, or even enviable? Will they hold onto hope in the darkest hours, and bask in the warm glow of the glorious highs?
Here, in my safest place, I don’t have to ask these questions.
I have most hours in the day to ponder these never-ending queries, these unanswerable puzzles – and I do. I thrash them out in my mind with God while I go about my day. I swing from tree to tree, branch to branch, questioning, challenging, doubting, planting truth, guarding my heart, discussing, dismissing heresay, forgetting, remembering, standing in what I know and what I believe in. Over and over and over again. I love the process.
But here in the stillness, I ask God to release me from my worries. And not only my worries, but I also ask him to release me from my best laid-out plans, my logic, my wants, my expectations and my box of understanding.
I sit in the stillness, hearing now only the breathing of the life God chose me to create and I choose to put my confidence in the only power that carries me through the waves of confusion the world brings. I choose to rest in His understanding and the safety of His plans and the glory of His love for me – and for this tiny human sleeping before me.
I fully give myself permission to not be prepared for the future in any way and to just enjoy the stillness of each night, of the ‘right now’. I encourage you to give yourself the same permission, every day. Don’t burn yourself out on the things you have no control over. Rest, understand that He is God and take joy in the stillest of moments He gives you to hand everything over to Him.
Kat lives in Perth, Western Australia and is pretty happy with her dandy life of 30 years. She is married to Andrew, who is a freelance graphic designer, all-around cool guy and now dad to their ridiculously adorable little boy.
Kat is a manager of a cafe, with a background that looks like a bag of assorted mixed lollies – administration, finance, selling yoghurt, image consulting, making coffee, and account managing. She loves Jesus, reading, drinking a decent cup of coffee, writing and cooking.