Nine O'Clock And All's Well

Nine o'clock and all's well. Dishes done, homework finished, games played, showers taken, prayers said. The hustle and bustle of the day gives way to night and the silence that comes with it. Sleep comes blissfully, quickly, thankfully.

In the stillness of the night comes a small voice. "Mom." Resistant, my brain tries to ignore the admonition. But the voice will not be set aside. A little louder, "Mom!" The cobwebs clear, realization dawns, and then the voice calls again, insistent this time: "MOM!!!"

Adrenaline flowing, I make my way through the moonlit hallway to the stairs where I make the familiar ascent, hoping against hope that no books were left in the path to obstruct my darkened vision.

"MOM!"

"I'm here, buddy, I'm right here."

"Mom, it's so itchy!"

"I know, doll, I know."

"Mom, it's stinging! It's burning!"

I swallow the lump in my throat and examine the source of my child's torment, this alien skin that my child flays like the pelt of a wild animal. Like a prisoner in his own body, he wishes he could shed it and be rid of the discomfort. His skin has betrayed him. With every angry sore that appears, he is more discouraged.

I anoint, I soothe, I sing, I hug, I caress . . . I pray. I cry out to God, "Father, help me! Help my son!"

The discomfort passes. The intense pain forgotten, my child burrows deep into his covers and presses his head gratefully to his pillow. As I stoop to kiss his cheek, I feel two small arms encircle my neck. That sweet baby scent wafts into my nostrils and I breathe in the moment. Cool lips press against my ear as he says, "I love you so much, Mommy."

And in the renewed quiet of the night I hear these words echo in my ears: "I love you so much, Daughter."

Thank you, Father.