It is not yet dark outside, as I lay on the floor of my boys' bedroom between their two toddler-sized racecar beds. Each of my hands holds a chubby, clammy hand of a 4 year-old boy. I sing to two of the few people I allow to hear my true singing voice, "Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father..."
"START OVER!!!" interrupts a frustrated voice. "I want to sing with you!"
"Great is Thy faithfulness..." I begin, again. I am joined by one voice, but the other is silent.
"I WASN'T READY!" This time he kicks his legs and pouts. "Start from the beginning!"
One more time, I begin. "Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father". Two sweet voices join me, and the cute way they mispronounce several of the words tugs at my heart. How long will they go on talking the way they do? I love it. We continue singing, but it is not long before one voice drops out again. I am towards the end of the song already, singing, "All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided", when that voice interrupts again. "WAIT! Start from the beginning! I'm not singing!"
This time, I don't start from the beginning. This time, I finish the song and tell him we are done singing. I am still holding his hand, as I repeatedly tell him to be quiet. Nothing stops him. Punishment proves to be ineffective. It takes me awhile, but I finally realize he needs to be held. I pick him up from his bed, sit with my back against the wall, kiss his head and explain that we will try again next time. He cries and snuggles closer. I sway back and forth, and if I stop, he moves his own body back and forth to prompt me to continue that motion. Soon, his cries turn to sighs. His eyes start to droop. I rub his back with one hand as I continue to hold his brother's hand with the other. He looks in my eyes and smiles, then closes his eyes one last time and falls asleep.
I sit there, rocking my boy and remembering. We have done this so many times, this snuggle and rock routine. But it has been awhile, and his long torso barely fits against me anymore. I shed a tear, as I think that this could be the last time I rock my boy to sleep.
"It's my turn now?" his brother asks. As it usually goes with twins, boy number two needs the same treatment boy number one got. I take the first and clumsily move him to his bed. He wakes and looks at me, saying, "I didn't want you to do that. I want you to hold me more." Then he closes his eyes and is asleep again.
Boy number two is all smiles as he climbs on my lap. He finds a comfy spot, and I sway side-to-side. I rub his back and hold him close, taking in the scent of his hair and the way he grabs my neck and holds me tight. He looks and me and says with a sleepy voice, "I love you". He pushes back and holds my face between his hands, then carefully places sloppy boy-kisses on my cheek, then my forehead, then the tip of my nose. We both laugh, knowing this is what I usually do to him at bedtime. Then he settles in again, and as I rock, he quickly falls asleep.
I hold this sleeping boy...this last baby of mine...and I pray. I pray that as my boys grow, they will learn to seek God first. I pray that they would take after their namesakes, following what God instructs them to do regardless of what others around them do.
I kiss my sleeping boy one last time. Then, having learned from boy number one, I more gracefully transfer this boy to his bed. He sleeps through the movement, and I sneak out of their room.
Once in the hallway, I shed another tear. But this time, I also smile. I am no longer thinking of how this might be the last time I got to rock my boys to sleep. I simply feel blessed. I got to rock my boys to sleep again.
