The vigils of motherhood

"Mommy, my tummy hurts!"

His whisper knifes through my sleep. I open my eyes to my youngest softly crying at the side of my bed. I close them again quickly. Perhaps if I wait a moment it will just be a dream. I open them again. He is still there.

I lift back the covers and pull him in, spooned against me, trying to offer some comfort. I'm barely coherent, lost somewhere between sleep and irritation and concern, but resigned to the long night ahead of us.

Sleepless vigil mingles with fitful dreams in the half-night. Half-uttered prayers fall unfinished. Anxiety fights exhaustion. Is it swine flu? Or just stomach flu?

Between trips to the bathroom, I test his feverish forehead, fall into sleep, only to be jarred awake by his moans and cries. I remember other sleepless nights with my children, watching for each breath because of RSV, or waiting for fevers to break, dreading the endless laundry that daybreak will bring.

In the half-light my memory drifts to another vigil...

You need to come now. It's not good.

Another bedside, another son.

I can't do this. I'm not strong enough.

I wasn't. But though I walked through the Valley of the Shadow, I was comforted in the arms of my Shepherd and filled with His strength. My grace is sufficient, my power is made perfect in your weakness.

I am too weak in myself for the vigils of motherhood, too weak to walk the road of parenthood alone. The sheer terror of love, the endurance needed, the wisdom for uncharted territory - it overwhelms me. Daily I need a source of strength greater than my own. Daily I need to be filled with God's strength, God's wisdom, God's love.

From the sleepless nights of infancy through flu and lice, broken arms and broken hearts, we stand guard over our children. We stand vigilant against germs, strangers, drunk drivers and mean girls, watchful and waiting, shepherding them to adulthood. We hold our breath until they get there safe and sound, persisting in the belief that if we are vigilant enough we can protect them, that we can get them there.

But we can't. It's not just strength for each day that I need - I need to surrender each one of them to the care of One who can protect them from what I cannot.

The breaking dawn gives way to day. The patient is enthroned on the couch, flanked by the remote and a bucket. I faithfully deliver saltines and ginger ale while scouring down the house to eradicate the virus, hoping to shield the rest of us from it. At the end of the day I tuck him back into bed, still feverish and flushed. Worry nags at my heart. I fall into bed, exhausted.

Bright words and bright light end the second night.

"Mommy, I want to cuddle you!"

His words are cheery, his eyes are clear, his cheeks are cool. He slides in against my back, wiggly and lively. I am spent, drained; yet I am full and my heart is at rest. He is well and so are his brother and sister.

Jennifer Zach lives in Ahwatukee Foothills with her husband and three children. They are members of Bridgeway Community Church. She can be reached at jennizach@yahoo.com.