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I remember bringing that squishy baby home from the hospital. His 9-pound birth weight didn’t label him as scrawny by any means, but he was so small to us. I cringed the first time I laid him in the bassinet beside my bed. I wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on him all night long like the nurses in the hospital nursery. I couldn’t make sure he was breathing every second of my coveted slumber.

To calm my worries, we turned on our bathroom light and left the door wide open. The extra light wouldn’t disturb our angel from his sleep, but it sure gave this mama some peace. I used the glow of the distant bathroom light to watch that tiny chest rise and fall each time I opened my eyes. But I noticed something as Elliott continued to grow.

The older he grew, the less light I needed.

Unintentionally over the weeks, I would crack the bathroom door less and less until one night I didn’t need it at all. “It’s too bright in here!” I thought, and I closed the door. I realized the prayer I had been praying over my baby every night had been answered, and I slept peacefully through the calm hours of the night.

RELATED: To the Mom With the Anxious Soul

One of the downfalls of 2020 (Ha! Weren’t there many?) was the absence of an Easter Sunday service at our church. No fancy outfits, colorful flowers, or potluck get-togethersthough I am humbly reminded that is how the first Easter was celebrated as well. We watched our Easter service online via God’s gift of technology.

After taking our communion, which consisted of room temperature coffee and a piece of stale popcorn, our pastor began speaking about Jesus’ last words on the cross. This idea completely changed my prayer game, not to mention changed my life as someone who pretty consistently battled worry and anxiety.

He began to explain we should be praying those words and release ourselves to the Lord, just as Jesus released his spirit to his Father on the cross. “Father, into your hands I commit my ______________.” You fill in the blank. I commit my job, my finances, my health, my family, you name it.

This Easter sermon has stuck with me for the past few years, and the first night I had to lay my 3-day-old baby in the bare bassinet beside me, I committed my son to my Heavenly Father. I began to pray that prayer every night, even those nights I was too tired to finish a full prayer and would drift off to sleep before I got very far in my conversation with the Lord.

My son was God’s child before he was ever mine.

And I pray this prayer helps me release the helicopter-mom tendencies I know I sometimes possess.

RELATED: It’s Hard to Imagine, But God Loves Them More

Things are slowly reminding me that my baby won’t be this small forever. Our newborn clothes are already packed away  (though when you are nine pounds at birth, that happens rather quickly). Our naps are lasting 30 minutes instead of two hours, and we are alert more than we are sleepy. Our bedroom isn’t as bright as it used to be because the older he grows, the more peaceful my heart becomes and the less light I need. 

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So God Made a Mother's Story Keepsake Journal

Alyssa Mashaw

Follower of Jesus, wife, boy mama, and former teacher who loves to share my love of writing through the eyes of motherhood.

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