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Hope For The Overtired Mama



From somewhere deep inside my dream I hear it—that sputtering, half cry/half protest I am now so used to hearing. In approximately six minutes, the cries will be at full volume. Slowly, I pull myself through the stages of subconscious to half-consciousness, feeling the heaviness of being ripped out of my REM cycle. These are the times it’s hardest, the tangible weight of sleep pressing me firm against the mattress. A quick glance at my phone informs me it’s 3:39 a.m. *deep inhale + sigh*

Two-ish hours is all it’s been. Immediately I call out to the Father before I just break down. “I know I have absolutely nothing in this moment. Holy Spirit, help me. I need you to move me from this bed. I need you to care for her right now.” Bleary-eyed, yet feeling His strength, it’s enough to get me to her crib down the hallway. I can immediately feel the diaper’s fullness. Whyyyyy. I lay her down to be changed & she begins to protest LOUDLY at the idea of not being held so soon after being picked up.

She may as well be a newborn again. Here we are on night four?….five? of this regression. Up three to four times a night, and she wants my body again & again. Daddy can’t help. I silently curse my magic power of producing food for another human just by existing {because honestly that’s some superhero junk right there-God is so cool like that} and sit down with her. 3:51. Whew.

I am so depleted. I’m weary. I’m emotional. I’m ticked off at myself for getting my hopes up that tonight would be better because she ate a lot of solid food for dinner and that’s “supposed to help her sleep better” *insert eye roll here* I’m frustrated because I don’t really know if it’s her gums or her growing bones or maybe her belly that hurts, or if she’s having bad dreams. I’m annoyed that I am the one who is always needed at this hour. Two nights ago I snapped at my husband for SNORING because, yeah, that’s rational. And to top off this twisted sundae of feelings, I’m treasuring every moment with her, burning to memory how in the darkness she reaches her tiny, warm hand up to my lips, wanting me to kiss each little finger. It’s our thing. And that’s about the moment I remember:

She cries because I’ll come


I have invested so much into this tiny human over the past almost eight months, and because of that, she trusts me. She depends on me. She believes in our connection, clings to it, places her hope in it, casts all her bets on it, because she knows that mommy will come. Through my responsiveness, I am her first example of God's love for her. Woah, that's heavy.

I begin to think of our future foster babe, the one we haven’t met yet; but who already takes up residence in my heart. I wonder if he/she feels the same security in the middle of the night. Does he have anyone who will come? Does she have someone she can trust to care for her?

And I think of Jesus, the same Jesus I called out to just a few minutes ago. Like Ada crying for me, I cried to my Daddy in heaven, begging Him to hold me as I hold her. Dang. What a parallel love story.

She cries because I’ll come, with a reckless dependence on a mother’s love. Through the mess, I see it come full circle — Emmanuel, "God with us,” inviting me to seek His face through the darkness with the same fervor and confidence which she seeks mine. It’s hard, but it’s good.


And so is He.

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