2:14 a.m. Sleep recedes like a blanket that slides off the bed, and I’m wide awake—vulnerable to the darkness, my fears uncovered.

I worry about my son as he inches toward adolescence. So many concerns as we try to strike a balance between equipping him to be independent while providing enough structure and consequences to hold him accountable for his choices. Isn’t there a verse somewhere in the Old Testament that celebrates a time when “justice and mercy have kissed”? I can’t remember it here in the dark, so I pray in my heart to balance justice and mercy as I struggle with parenting my son. 

The dark knows no boundaries and my anxieties balloon and rise. I wonder about how we’ll transition back to life in the U.S. when we return in 2008. Where will we live and where will the kids go to school? They went to private schools before, but I’m not sure we’ll be able to afford that option if we move closer to Washington. Wondering about my work situation…and whether I’ll ever live in our cozy Cape Cod on Cleveland Drive again. The night is full of questions, not answers.

Like a toddler, I bring the blanket to my cheek and listen to E breathe. I look for a comfortable place to rest my mind and my body. I try to exhale my fears, to push them away and let them drift into nothingness.

Sunday morning is coming with all its rituals--pancakes and bacon and all of us together around the kitchen table and then church and communion, with the four of us lined up in a pew and then along the altar rail.  Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. I have to keep faith that we're going to be OK.

September 10, 2006