I’m pretty good at pushing away uncomfortable or sad or downright horrifying thoughts in the daytime.
Sunlight means there’s plenty to do and plenty to keep my mind from dwelling too long on anything that will make be cry or bring me to my knees.
But there is a dangerous space just between wake and sleep, when the house is quiet and my mind is free to explore random corners that guarantees unpleasant thoughts will pour in and overwhelm me.
I can’t tell you how many times the last moment before sleep claims my consciousness is filled with thoughts of Dominic.
Not sweet memories of his smiling face.
Instead they are graphic images of what he looked like, crumpled on the ground, perhaps gasping one last time trying to fill his lungs before his soul flew to Jesus, leaving his body behind.
It’s impossible to describe the electric current that shoots through my midsection like a lightning bolt. I cannot help a heart that doesn’t carry this awful burden understand how such flashes disrupt any hope of peaceful sleep.
I used to be afraid of ghosts in the dark.
I never slept without aid of a nightlight until well into my adult years.
I’m not afraid of specters anymore.
They are small potatoes next to a mother’s own heart screaming, “Where WERE you????” when your baby breathed his last.
Nights are just plain hard.
Only sorrow and a broken heart in bed together.