I tuck him in, his dimpled grin making my heart melt into a liquid that forms in my eyes. The child that I carried for 9 months and soothed as a helpless newborn has traded the crib for a "big boy bed". He grasps his favorite bears as I walk to the door and flip the switch as I always do.
But tonight is different. He sits up, concerned. "It's dark!" I groan inwardly. Transition is never easy. Fears are inconvenient but real. I walk back over to his bed, pat him comfortingly, then I see it. I smile into his worried little eyes. "Oh no, honey! It's not dark. Look!" He shifts to his knees to peer out the window beside his new bed. "There's your own special night light." As he gazes at the street light, his look of worry turns to wonder. "My light?" he asks. "Yes, if you feel scared or if it seems dark, just look at your light." Contented, he smiles and curls up for a peaceful night in his new bed.
As I leave the room, I think of my own fears and how they seem to crop up in the darkness that life offers. How often I look inward and around at the dark instead of turning to my knees and peering through the window of faith at my Light! Always there. Always shining. But I don't always see.
Now, every once in awhile, I'll tuck in my little one and that familiar look of fear haunts his eyes. He lays down and looks out the window, then looks at me. "That's my light?" he asks. "Yes, honey! Your own special light....and it'll be there as long as the dark is." "Okay."
His trust is simple. He trusts my words. He looks for the light and all is well. He rests.
The Light speaks in the darkness of my fear..."I am here. Your own special Light....and I'll be here as long as the dark is." And I rest.