When my kids were infants, days and weeks old, I would pray for the light to return.
Evening loomed like a heavy, musty blanket; it seemed preposterous that I was responsible for these tiny little pieces of life through so many hours of darkness.
The unknown lingers everywhere in the darkness, you know.
As the first wisps of light peered timidly into my windows in the morning, I'd breathe deeply, open my eyes, and thank everything that we'd made it through once more.
:::
My sister birthed her very own baby daughter last week.
I've been trying to impart bits of helpful knowledge, have tried to remember the things I'd wished someone had told me.
"The nights can feel long at the beginning. The morning will come."
My stomach tightened for her. I remembered that this was her time to wait for the light, not mine.
"She'll make it through, of course she will," I thought.
Of course she will.
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