I cradle two of the triplets in my arms in the dark. 2:08 a.m. Maybe I’m starting something that’ll be hard to break, this picking them up in the night when they cry. But right now I want to soothe them more than I care about tomorrow.
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
I sing them the old classic, but I keep it low because the third one—their counterpart in the womb—snoozes nearby. And she snuffles too. Oh no… Is she getting a cold?
I focus on these two who seem jostled by all the “news” of this transition: new sleeping arrangements in new beds in a new house with a new person holding them now. And I pray peace flutters to rest on them anyway.
Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Outside the window, the bleak glow from the street lamp spotlights our own tender and mild scene. The babies’ eyes widen. Silent now, they gaze at me. And I think of a different silence—one leading up to that night in Bethlehem so long ago—four-hundred years of silence spanning the Old and the New. The kind of silence that affects the soul. No new word. No grand pronouncement. Only the long wait for the Promised One.
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
The babies stare at my face, and I need to keep the song going or they’ll unravel again.
Silent night, holy night
Shepherds quake at the sight;
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
Wait. Was that last line from the next verse? It’s “glories stream from heaven afar,” isn’t it? But who cares if I jumble the lyrics? Not the thirteen month olds, apparently, because they smile at me now.
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
The baby girl pokes her finger into her brother’s mouth, amusement igniting her features. Oh great; she thinks it’s playtime.
“Shh,” I whisper, putting a stop to her fun. “You sleep now.”
One at a time, I tuck the babies into their beds again. Only a whimper from them. They wriggle from their backs onto their bellies, inching their knees under them until they’re little balls of darling.
My heart stretches, and I sigh to make room for it.
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.