She had a nightmare.
At least that's what I assumed it was. She screamed, and clutched desperately at my arms as I picked her up out of her crib walls. She can't speak our language yet, so her tears were mixed with babble and she pinched her eyes in terror and buried her head into my neck.
It broke my heart. For the rest of the night, I let her sleep in our bed, pulled her under the heavy blanket and gently stroked her arm to soothe the nerves.
She held her nearly empty cup of milk. I watched as it dripped, slowly trickling milk to my tired daughter. It seemed to satisfy her and I dozed in and out of sleep, waiting for another plea for comfort. It didn't come. She slipped back into sleep, whimpering once before silent sighs took over. In her dream-state, she sucked on that now empty sippy cup, and the squeaking air eventually woke her again, and I filled it up. Sleep came softly, gently and we woke up in sunshine, both smiling and ready to take on the fear-free day.
I don't consider myself full of faith. I'm easily satisfied with dribbles of hope, trickles of faith. I know my Father watches me, shaking with nerves, seeking shelter in his arms. I collapse into Him, crying about the things I fear and dread, finding comfort in the last few drops of faith and hope I can find.
I live there a lot. On the drips. Praying that one drop will last long enough until I can find the light again.
I wonder if He waits for me to ask for more.
If I'm just one prayer away to go from a drip to all my needs supplied.
Am I satisfied with too little?
Do I expect meager amounts from a Father who gives without measure?