Suddenly someone in
my dream is crying. My brain switches off sleep mode and it takes me
a minute to realize I am in reality again and the crying is across
the hall. Eyes barely able to open I stumble into my four-year-old's
bedroom. He had a bad dream and he is shaking and sweaty. I climb
into his bed and pull the puppy dog comforter onto both of us. He
lays his head on me and wraps his arms desperately around me. I kiss
his forehead and whisper reassuring words. His warm body nuzzles
onto mine and his soft, fine hair tickles my chin. He lifts his
sleepy head and gently places a tiny soft kiss on my cheek. After a
whispered “I love you mommy” he stops shaking and I feel his body
relax and sink into sweeter dreams. I enjoy a few minutes of
snuggles before climbing into my own bed. Now I am awake. Often
after one of my kids wakes me up in the night I can't sleep because
my mind floods with things I need to do or remember, but this time is
different. I look at the clock … 4 am.
4 am … that hour
that has no sound, only the deep silence of a world lost in hidden
caverns of the brain called sleep. The sun has not yet given signs
of rising and yet the newness of night is wearing away. I find
myself remembering other 4 ams in my life. I close my eyes and
remember 4 am in the rocking chair. A baby nursing until sleep
overcomes and the milk drips down his tiny chin that is red and bumpy
from teething drool. I remember looking out the window at darkened
windows and a still city, hearing nothing but deep silence. I
remember softly setting him in his crib, pausing for a moment of
marvel before going back to bed. I remember waking up and knowing
that while the world slept I put a special memory deep into my heart.
Then I start to
remember 4 ams from many years before. I remember walking down a
different hallway into a different darkened bedroom, tapping my
mother on the shoulder and the next thing I know I am scooped up and
taken care of. She sits in the rocking chair, whispers assuring
words and rocks me until the fever releases me into dreamland. I
even remember that the old TV was on, it was that weird digital video
of “Money for Nothing” and honestly that song still makes me
nostalgic. I don't remember how long that sickness lasted but I do
remember that love and care.
It's 4 am and I am
walking down a different darkened hallway. A hallway just as
familiar as that of my home. It is the church where I was baptized
and spent Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings. Where I cried when
my mom left me in the nursery and played tic tac toe on unfolded
offering envelopes in the balcony. My parents were the youth leaders
which meant that even though I was still a small child I was at the
youth group lock-in. After hours of running around giggling and
avoiding Nerf darts I am tired. I turn the door handle. The room is
empty except for my dad in a rocking chair watching Young
Frankenstein. He was chaperoning the under used movie room which was
a place of dark stillness in the midst of a church full of hyper
teenagers. I climbed onto his lap, I remember being a little scared
of the movie, and burying my face into his shoulder. I don't
remember how much sleep I got that night but I do remember the way it
felt to find a place of comfort and love in the dark stillness of
night.
As my mind replays
these images I tell myself to hurry up and fall asleep before my
6:45 am alarm goes off. But I have this pit in my stomach. The
memories of love and warmth have not made me feel warm and cozy but
rather some kind of deep ache in my stomach. My parents have
recently turned 70 and I am now the age they were when they held me
on those dark nights. Some day my boys will be on their own, out in
the world and finding their own special 4 am memories. It is that
ache that comes with the awareness of time, the sudden ability to see
the vast space between our days and the knowledge of love so deep it
hurts.
I picked up my son
from school yesterday and he showed me a worksheet with apples, ants,
alligators and the letter A colored green and red. My youngest is
doing worksheets in school. More so than his first day of pre-K this
made me realize how much he has grown. He is learning independently
from me and preparing for the world. I start to feel that ache but I
also feel such joy in seeing his confidence and abilities. Time is
passing, but I get to watch and while I put away these memories deep
into my heart I also get some souvenirs along the way. So I will
keep that waxy worksheet and know that I have it, even at 4 am, as
proof of this beautiful life I get to witness.
