It's so quiet tonight. Listening to my husband sleeping peacefully next to me, my wandering thoughts turn to Owen...his absence is so palpable. When I was pregnant with him, I would lay in bed and day dream about how we'd spend our nights together...I imagined holding him close to my chest, nursing him, gazing into his big eyes, watching over him as he fell asleep. I hoped he would be a night owl like his mommy. Night time was going to be our special time together.
After he died, nights were excruciating. I couldn't sleep (which wasn't abnormal), except now I hated being awake during the lonely hours of the night. My arms cradling my empty womb I cried out for Owen, screaming his name over and over into the dark. Rocking myself back and forth, rocking myself into a trance, the quiet of the night mocked my sorrow. No baby to nurse, no baby to cradle...my baby was gone.
I can feel God's presence tonight, holding me up, comforting my aching heart. He has not forsaken me.
Tonight the quiet of the night reflects the quiet of my soul.
O Lord, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.
O Israel, hope in the Lord
from this time forth and forevermore.