The other day my family was watching old home movies of when our kids were babies. Watching their antics and hearing their little voices made me recall a few memories of my own childhood. One of my sweetest recollections is, oddly enough, of going to bed each night. After brushing my teeth, or at least pretending that I’d brushed my teeth, and getting into my pjs, I would crawl into bed and wait for my dad to come and pray with me. I’m sure that many nights he was worn out from a busy day, or had weighty things on his mind, but still he would listen for my I’m ready now! shout and climb the stairs. I don’t think he missed too many bedtime prayer times. Dad would come in and sit on the edge of my bed, tuck my covers in all snug and tight, and pause to chat just a bit about my day. He would ask what I wanted to pray about, and we would each pray, mine simple and childish and brief, and his a little longer and more grown up sounding. After the last amen, we would sing a Psalm together. The same one. Every night.
...I will both lay me down to sleep
and quiet sleep will take…
A final kiss goodnight, and with my Curious George tucked beneath my arm, I fell asleep with the echo of my father’s gentle voice reminding me of how much I was loved by my daddy at home and my Father in heaven. Such a simple routine, but such a big deal. Those long ago bedtimes still shine brightly in my memory. How very thankful I am to have been given the gift of a praying dad. And how cherished I have always felt to know that he still prays faithfully for me.
Thanks, Dad.
{alison}