Jail Cell... or Place of Rest?

As I sat in the dark last night , trying to get Elliot to sleep, I glanced around his peaceful room. His little night light was glowing and all along the wall were the shadows of the rungs of his crib. It's a simple, white Jenny Lind crib. Nothing fancy, just round-ish, slightly decorative bars all around.

 I think of my sweet little boy, arching his back in protest the last few times I've laid him in there. I empathize with him for a moment and think "Wow... it is a bit reminiscent of a jail cell. No wonder all he wants to do is get out."

It's so cute the way he 'scooches' to the corner and presses his little face as far as he can through the rungs.  When he wakes up he screeches as loud as he can for someone to 'please come rescue him for heaven's sake'!
He doesn't realize that I am already aware that he is awake and that I also have much more in store for him that day.
 I have great plans for us tomorrow... we have a pumpkin party to go to... lot's of friends to see and toys to play with. There are snuggles waiting for him when he fusses, lots of things to explore around the house... and he'll even be getting a huge serving of sweet potatoes for dinner.

But he fusses. All he can see are the bars that separate him from where he'd rather be. He fights against the sleep that I know he needs. So I put him in his little jail cell. I kiss him and stand nearby as he cries out, then fusses and eventually wrestles himself to sleep.

I know his crib is where he needs to be. I know he'll be safe there. I know what lies ahead for him the next day. 

I even think back to a few times that he didn't need to nap, but I had to put him somewhere as I was dealing with some sort of 'play-dough-poop-dumping-pee-all-over-the-floor' disaster. I hated to put him down... and he would scream as I ran of to quickly deal with life, but I knew he'd be safe there. It was the best place for him at that time. A place where he wouldn't scoot through the broken glass that I'm sweeping up. It's a place where Big Sister can't step on him or poke him with bobby pins as she's styling his hair or dragging him down the hallway by one arm yelling "Walk Brotha! Walk!"

If only he knew that I have his best interest at heart and that there is a bigger picture that extends further than he can imagine. If only he knew how to trust. Trust that I will not leave him or forget about him. Trust that I am trying to meet his needs by placing him there.  He could wrestle all night or he could just sleep.

The Lord has used my children to bring so much revelation to my eyes. I can be so childish sometimes in the ways that I complain or shake my fist against God. I think I know what's best for me. And if something doesn't look good in my eyes that , somehow, God must be asleep at the wheel.

How easily I forget that He will never leave or forsake me. That He meets my every need. That his ways are above mine. And that He is worthy of my trust.


What if I start looking at my currant circumstances as a quiet place of rest instead of a hindering jail cell? What if I stop shaking at the bars and longing for what seems just out of reach... and just trust? Trust and rest. Trust that an All-Mighty and All-Knowing Father has put me in this place for a reason... and rest in His promises.