He is making noise.
Fussing, yelling, anything that will make Mom come in and hold him.
Mom? How is that my name now? How in the world am I here in a little Idaho town raising a son?
Quietly, I go into his nursery, the one his dad and I worked on every night as we dreamed about the little one who would soon inhabit it. When he sees me, his cries instantly stop as he looks expectantly at me.
I hold him, covered in the blanket knitted by my mother, his Nana, and sit to rock him and sing one of his and my favorites:
As I went down to the river to pray, studying about that good old way and who shall wear, the robe and crown Good Lord, show me the way.
A black spider, all spindly legs, skitters across the popcorn ceiling. In and around his landscape he goes, stopping every now and then to reassess his route. The number of spiders I have killed is directly proportional to the number of days my son has been with me - I never worked up the courage before. Now, I am his protector.
Oh, brothers, let’s go down, let’s go down, come on down. Oh, brothers, let’s go down, down to the river to pray.
He is staring up at me now, this firstborn son of mine. Eyes bright blue and so opposite his father’s, round and curious and learning.
All the books say not to rock to sleep, not to sing, not to get babies into bad sleep habits. I’m too tired for sleep habits now, too tired and too overwhelmed with this being a mother.
As I went down to the river to pray, studying about that good old way.
Every day and every night his father and I pray over his soft head. Prayers of love and hope and courage but mostly of grace, amazing grace, to dwell in us richly and to overflow into him. I pray for him too, to know and love his Lord and to obey... us? Who are we to deserve the obedience and respect of another human? Every day is another full of angry words and bitter thoughts and rebellion against our Father.
And who shall wear, the starry crown Good Lord, show me the way.
The spider is over his crib now. I can’t put him back in with it right over his defenseless body. I sit and rock and rock, and confess the sin of pride, the sin of knowing better than my peers and my parents and my God.
Oh, brothers, let’s go down, let’s go down, come on down.
My baby’s eyes close, flutter open, close again. I check on the spider’s locale and see that he has moved back to the corner of the ceiling. Standing up, I gently lower my son into his crib. Of course he wakes up and looks at me, but I know and he knows that he needs to sleep now, so I rub his back and leave, closing the door behind me.
Oh, brothers, let’s go down, down to the river to pray.
Good Lord, show me the way.
