When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things in the whole wide world was when I would fall asleep while watching TV and my dad would have to put me to bed. I can remember being carried through the house when everything was silent, and him checking all the lights and locks to make sure his family was safe. Funny thing is that I don't really recall actually being put in bed as much as I remember being held in his arms. I loved this feeling to the point that I would either try to intentionally stay up past my bedtime or, more often, I would fake being asleep. At the time, I don't think I could explain why I liked this so much, but as an adult, I now recognize that amazing sense of security and safety of being held in my father's arms.
Fast forward 30 some-odd years. I now have a daughter who will be chatting away, fidgeting with a toy, or just squirming around under her blanket when we let her stay up to watch a movie or TV show with us. But when it is actually time for bed, all of a sudden her eyes are closed and she is perfectly still. . . . save the semi grin on her lips. As you go to pick her up, she actually helps you and puts her arms around your neck all by herself. She's a pretty bad faker, but the effort is just adorable. She's not to particular about whether it is Mom or Dad who carries her to her room, but I have to say that knowing what I know now, I really love it when it's Dad.
I'm sure there are some lovely devotional thoughts I could pull from this, but really I just wanted to draw the picture of something that seems to be inside us all.
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