During Gray's summer break my office doubles as a rumpus room. As I click away in Photoshop he hovers at my elbow hoping I'll take a break so he can check his Farmville plantation. He is bored. I wish we could ride our bikes up to the neighborhood pool, but I am rushing against a deadline; in fact, I have been, all summer. For two and a half months I do my best to squeeze full work days into a few measley hours. When that inevitably fails, sleep is the first thing to go. I count down the weeks before his various day camps with the expectancy and anticipation of a heart patient awaiting a transplant, simultaneously hating myself for harboring such longings. I adore my son. He is God's gift to me; we get on like peas and carrots. This will be the only summer of his life that he is nine. I don't want it to go by in a big blur of boring. And so, I pray. "God, please help Gray have fun today. Please send friends to play with him. Please occupy his mind, inspire his artistry, give him ideas to pursue. Thank you for this work—help me do it well—and please, Jesus, help me to be a great mom, too."
Every day in a varitey of ways, God answers my prayers. Lego buddies for Gray routinely appear on our door step. As for me, I am the recipient of supernatural rest—rest that I should not have, considering how little I have slept. And, September is only a few weeks away: dawn is breaking.
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." ~ Matthew 11:28