Fleur De La Lune

Writings of Nancy Jo Sullivan

I had a bad cold that evening, and I crawled into bed much earlier than usual. While my husband and kids watched a movie downstairs, I huddled under blankets, my body achy and chilled. A soft rain shower fell out side my bedroom window. I started to relax. The sound of the dropping rain had a soothing rhythm, a soft, pattering cadence that calmed me like a lullaby.

Just as I began drifting off to sleep, I noticed Sarah, my Down syndrome daughter, standing in the doorway. With her curly hair pulled into pigtails, she was wearing a long robe and fluffy pink slippers. Her petite silhouette was shadowed by a light in the hallway.

“Mom…..you…….you……forgot to tuck me in,” she stuttered in a respectful whisper.

For Sarah, daily patterns and routines were very important. Even though she was sixteen years old, she still functioned at the level of a first grader. I knew this family ritual that we called “tuck-in-time” brought closure to her day and predictability to her life.

“Let’s wait a while,” I suggested as I motioned Sarah near. Without making a sound, Sarah sat down on the edge of my bed. For a moment, the two of us listened to the rain drumming on the roof above us.

“The rrrrain is nnice,” Sarah said.

I took her hand in mine. “It is,” I replied as I began remembering her early childhood and the many mother-daughter moments I had spent at her bedside. Night after night, I had tucked her in, snuggling a quilt over her shoulders and tracing a small cross on her forehead.

I remembered one night when Sarah was about nine years old. I decided it was time to teach her bedtime prayer. While Sarah nestled beneath her blankets, surrounded by pink-checked pillows and stuffed animals, I slowly repeated a rhyming passage about God and guardian angels, a simple four-line prayer.

“It’s….It’s….ttoooo hhard ffor me,” Sarah admitted with a sigh of dismay.

Stroking her hair, I saw her brow wrinkle with frustration.

“Sarah, what do you want to tell God?” I asked as I gently folded her small fingers into a clasp of prayer.

Sarah closed her eyes tightly as if formulating her thoughts.

“Dear God…..I…..I….love….mmmy mom,” she said.

Throughout the years, Sarah had offered this “mom-prayer” time and time again. Though she had never learned to memorize other childhood prayers, I had grown used to this nightly routine of guiding her through simple question-answer petitions.

But now, much to my surprise, I felt Sarah tug my bedspread over my shoulders, gently and tenderly smoothing each crease of the quilt.

“Mom, what ddo you wwant to tell God?” she asked as she traced a small cross on my forehead.

I closed my eyes. I felt like an adored child. I felt safe and secure.

“Dear God……I love Sarah,” I said softly.

Sarah smiled. The prayer lingered. The rain continued to fall in song-like beats, covering our home and sliding down my bedroom window in small streams. So, too, a shower of love was raining down on us from heaven, blessing us.

I began to doze as Sarah quietly tiptoed to her room across the hall. I heard the squeak of her box spring and the rumpling of covers as she crawled into bed. I wondered if I should help her settle in for the night. She’s growing up….let her go, an inner voice whispered in my heart.

Curling up in the comfort and warmth of my bed, I called out to her. “Sarah, are you an angel?” I heard her giggling. She thought I was joking.

From across the hall she called back. “I…... I…. am.” And the rain kept falling.

Labels: Poetry and Inspiration

posted by Fleur De La Lune @ 11:03 pm