A Bedtime Prayer

Bedtime at our house is something.

Often the event that it most closely resembles is the moment a bunch of wild convicts attempt a jailbreak. Or, more innocently, it is probably not unlike a bunch of baby chicks trying to escape the walls of their little hot-lamp-heated enclosure, as if they’d know what to do with themselves if they got out. You get the point. Mayhem.

But as often as we can we try to redeem bedtime, as often as we can make it meaningful, we try to craft a moment that our children get caught up into.

Tonight was one of those moments.

I read a long portion of the Narnia series to Wilson, our 6-year-old boy. And I went for it—made-up-voices with wild inflection, a quickening pace before pulling way back into a painfully long, dramatic pause. Total silence.

There were a couple moments of uncontrollably gleeful yelling from him as I pulled taut the stunning string of fantasy that C.S. Lewis left for us. I could see it in his eyes. I had him. For 15 minutes he was utterly absorbed into a different world.

Then Lisa, my wife, and the one who keeps our family so beautifully in sync, took over with the boys while I went in the room next door to read to our 8-year-old daughter, Lillian. I read her the story of Elijah and his interaction with the widow of drought-stricken Zarephath in 1 Kings 17. I let her tease out how it might have felt to be that widow that day, and then she starting making the connections of other stories where God seemed to be asking so much of people just before sneaking up on them with goodness. I could feel it—this was shaping up to be the best bedtime routine we’ve had as a family in recent memory.

And then I heard it.

This is my daughter, whom I love; in her I am well pleased.

It was as if Jesus were cracking the surface of his baptismal waters all over again. The heavens might as well have opened as the Voice reverberated through my mind about this 8-year-old girl right in front of me. And so I said it over her:

This is my daughter, Lillian, whom I love; in you I am well pleased.

I told her this is what the Father proclaimed over Jesus, the Son, at his baptism and that He was saying it about her right now in this moment. And that He’s perpetually saying it about her, even when she doesn’t hear it or feel like it. I kept saying the phrase as I wove in other prayers about third grade beginning, and about her flourishing in her studies, and about nurturing great friendships, and about the joys of starting soccer practice. Then a goodnight kiss. She was at peace. She was ready for sleep.

Then I ran into Wilson’s room and lay down next to him. I started praying over him and pronouncing blessing and peace, and then I launched in.

This is my son, Wilson, whom I love; in you I am well pleased. You are a son of God, Wilson, and the Eternal Father is wildly interested in you. You are never out of his thoughts; you are never out of his sight; your existence is an existence defined by His sheer determination to love you, to keep you, to lead you, to hover over you with his delight.

I felt his tense little body slacken and settle into peace, and he grabbed my neck and whispered his love for me. It was the kind of moment I’ll always carry with me.

That’s how humans were made to go to bed.

Interestingly, our Jewish brothers and sisters conceive of a day much differently than a Westerner might. In Judaism, the day begins at sundown.

There was evening, and there was morning—the first day…

In this paradigm the day begins slowly because it is evening. Let’s eat a leisurely dinner. Let’s sit around and talk. Let’s go on a walk, and then after that maybe we’ll read a book. Evening. Now we are tired, so we should go to bed. It is evening, after all.

The Jews see themselves first as receiving beings; the doing comes last. All human work is responsive. God initiates. The very way “time” works for them is instructive—we start our day by receiving daily bread and the good gifts of friendship and intimacy. Then we go to sleep. The very last thing we do is work, which is, of course, our joyful and proper response to such a gracious God. And we’re ready for it because we’ve just woken up from resting in God’s love.

As I type this, it is 10:28 p.m., which means it is time to fall asleep. So many people will be tempted to see this as the end of their day, and they’ll struggle to rest because while they sleep the world may just race by them. They may wake up having lost ground, which is how the Fear taunts them.

But as you lie there in bed, the day is just beginning. “In the beginning God.” And while you fade into sleep, there is a world of blessing, the Father’s pronouncement of delight and acceptance and pleasure swirling about you. As the psalmist put it, “The LORD who watches over Israel will neither slumber, nor sleep.” So go to bed. God stands at the ready, he’s on the job so you don’t have to be. And take an extra 10 minutes to listen. The Father is there with you, praying over you.

You are my child, whom I love; in you I am well pleased.

Can you hear it? Will you stop long enough to receive it? Because it’s happening, it’s being pronounced, it’s poised to wash over you. If you’ll just let it.

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