I’m sitting on my sofa tonight, with my little boy just shy of 15 months snoring (yes, he snores) quietly next to me. He usually falls asleep in my arms in the evenings while I sit and watch a movie or television with my hubby. I love it.
He sleeps next to me for a while, and I begin my second ‘shift’ of working and catching up on orders. Many of you know I am a religious night owl. It’s in my blood, I can’t help it.
This little boy brings so much joy into my life. And that’s when the guilt seeps in.
Guilty for wanting more out of life. For being a tad angry at times that I’m missing out on raising my daughter. For avoiding prayer because my heart’s just not in it these days.
I have almost concluded that avoiding God is better than being totally against Him. But that’s no way to live. Not when I really think about it.
When I really think about it…
The God that decided to take Jenna home is the same God that gifted our family with the sweetest boy I’ve ever known. And I’m not just saying that. He’s sweet, like really really sweet.
The God that rocked our world with all the unanswered questions surrounding my pregnancy with Jenna is the same God that allowed my preemie son, born a month early to weigh 7 lbs, 5 ounces. My doctor was ecstatic. A moment I’ll never forget.
The God that let us bury our newborn daughter also allowed us to celebrate Joseph’s first birthday.
The God that watched over Jenna as she fought so hard in the NICU is the same God that watches over our son every night.
I will never, ever understand it, but I do know He’s a good God.