Discomfort

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.”