It's not the biggest storm we've ever had, but he's completely overtaken by it.
We've been trying to go to sleep for about 20 minutes, snuggled together in his bed, but he can't relax enough to take his eyes off of the storm. He's wholly intent on watching the lightening flashes jet across the sky just outside his
window, and he nervously asks about each loud rumble of thunder that meanders in
through the open window of his darkened room.
I open my arms for him, but he's too preoccupied with the storm ... until he grows tired and cannot keep his eyes open.
Finally, he tucks himself into the crook of my arm. The thunder roars a bit louder ... and he sandwiches me into a headlock between his 3-year-old arms, drapes his legs over my body as while the tree branches dance wildly in the wind just outside his window.
I try to slowly slide myself from his grip after I think he's drifted to sleep, but he whimpers about loud booms and holds on for dear life.
There's surrender tonight, heaping high in the midst of the storm.
Him, drifting to sleep.
Me, sinking into the bed until deep slumber takes over his body. And while I'm lying next to him, I know I've had trouble averting my eyes from the storm.
It's not the biggest storm I've ever known, but my eyes are glued to the window, worried about what's coming next ... when exhaustion sets in
and I, too, have to choose
or throw my weary arms around my Father's neck
and surrender to the Rest that only surrender brings
when there's storm thundering outside.