Every night, before I leave the little boys’ room, I kiss their warm cheeks. “May angels watch over your sleeping heads.” Then I tuck the covers under their chins and quietly shut the door. It’s an eighteen-year-old blessing that’s natural as can be.
Last week I wasn’t feeling well. It had been a long day, and bedtime couldn’t come soon enough. Lonny and the boys headed upstairs for the nightly routine, and I slipped between the covers of my own bed. The room was quiet and still and dark, and I drifted off in no time at all.
I hadn’t been out for too long when I felt a warm whisper against my cheek. Then I felt a small hand on my forehead. Samuel. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to interrupt something precious.
“Dear God. Please help Mom feel better. And let her rest well. And thank you that tomorrow will be a new, fresh day.”
Then I heard his footfalls head toward the door – soft slippers on hardwood.
But Samuel wasn’t finished because he stopped, turned around, and revisited my bedside. He bent and brushed his sweet lips against my cheek. Another whisper. “May angels watch over your sleeping head.” Then he was gone.
I snuggled deeper into the blankets and smiled. As for the angels watching over my sleeping head?
One already had.