Grace that Presses In
His body is fighting sleep. Head turning one way, then the other. Restless feet. Arms trying to find their place.
What I know, as his Mom, is that stillness will serve him best.
When he finally surrenders, his head on my heartbeat, I feel every muscle in him relax. Sleep comes hard and fast now. We press into each other, matching breathing rhythms.
The aged and cracking leather couch — Holy Ground. And we surrender ourselves on the altar of grace. A grace that invites me to press in, too. To stop my thrashing about trying to make myself comfortable. To end the movement towards my own desired end done my own way.
What He knows, as my Father, is that stillness will serve me best.
In the quiet of that Saturday morning, with the manifestation of a promise dozing at my side, my Jesus whispers His peace to me again. His banner over me is Love. And it’s under me, too. And wrapped all around me. It presses in from all sides in the tenderest of ways.
My mental jukebox selects an old hymn and I hear it complete with organ and harmony: “My Jesus, I love thee. I know thou art mine. For thee all the follies of sin I resign; My gracious Redeemer, my Savior art thou; If ever I loved thee, my Jesus tis now.”