My three-year-old woke up one night, moaning, “I don’t want to be…! I don’t want to be…!” over and over.
Something just wasn’t quite right, but in her sleep-fogged state, she couldn’t verbalize exactly what it was.
So I held her, in spite of her kicking and thrashing, reassuring her that things would look better in the morning.
I cry to God, “I don’t want to be! I don’t want to be! If this is what life is like, I don’t want to be!”
He holds me in my sin-fogged state, though I push him away.
“Relax! Just rest in My arms,” He tells me. “You’ll see clearly in the morning.”