Spectator 

He’s struggling to fall asleep.

I watch the sun show her face for a little while, shyly smiling from behind the patchwork of clouds. There is a jigsaw of light and shadow on the wall.  

Two eyes stare up into mine.

I sway from side to side.

This movement has become second nature. The rhythm of to and fro. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

I’m never sure how long it will take. It could be minutes… Or it could all be in vain.

He knows this comfort now. This place close to my chest; this slumbering dance. He fights it. He wants to be independent. Exploring. Experiencing. No time to rest.

The sunlight lingers. Cars drone past; a constant trickling of movement. A tram bell tolls in the distance. Footy fans trudge excitedly by, regaled in reds, blues and yellows.

I feel like a spectator.

Watching life pass me by.

Seeing others succeed and perform and fulfil and achieve and advance and prosper. I’m sitting on the sidelines, trying to scrape together the enthusiasm to cheer them on. My voice catches in my throat as I question why I’m here.

I’m painfully aware that this is my season on the bench. A position I freely chose.

I look down and see heavy eyes slowly closing.  

And my Abba holds me close to His chest; the motion of this sacred dance filling me like a glass with the clear, sweet liquid of rest. As I close my eyes I hear my Daddy’s heartbeat.

And I don’t want to be anywhere else.

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