She's needed prayers today, my littlest little.
After being sick in the car [all over the car - cue: cancel plans. All plans] she quietly whiled away the day, happy, as long as I was nearby.
We snuggled on the bed, her sitting still longer than I am used to.
We talked about her 'Snow White' skin, and her dark eyes "same as yours mum" and read a gazillion storybooks, and watched a gazillion more episodes of Peppa Pig.
While she slept I made muesli bars, and prepared a gigantic pot of bolognese for dinner, unsure how the rest of the day would pan out.
Cuddling her, I thought about how I can't protect her from things, but I can pray and it lightens the burden. And while I don't yet understand why some prayers are answered and some are not, and why some answers are a long way off and others are nonexistent, I know that CS Lewis was right when he said that the prayers change him more than they change God.* Prayers move our hearts to Him, to His heart. His heart for my children. For us.
And I rest then.
Regardless of whether my circumstances change, I catch a glimpse of His heart for me, and I know I can do it. I know He wants the best, gives the best, sees the best. And I can do this.
I can comfort her with words, with touch.
I can clean vomit from car seats, and add eucalyptus oil to the loads of washing.
I can make sure she only takes small sips, and doesn't eat too soon.
And through it all be truly, gut-wrenchingly, painfully thankful for all I have.
And thankful for the colour that returned to her cheeks this evening, and the food she has kept down, and the peaceful sleep I hope for, for all of us.
* I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time- waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God- it changes me.