The Last Bedtime Story

There is a ritual in our house that I both treasure and fear. Every night, after the bath and the pajamas and the glass of water, my son asks for one more story. He climbs into my lap, his body warm and heavy with the coming of sleep, and opens a book we have read a hundred times.

I know the words by heart. He does too. But neither of us rushes. We linger on the pages, pointing at the pictures, making the same voices, finding the same jokes. It is the same story, but it is never the same moment.

I am aware, as I read, that this is temporary. One day, not long from now, he will read to himself. He will stay up late with his own books. He will close the door, and the ritual will quietly end. I do not know when that day will come, but I know it will arrive too soon.

So I read slowly. I ask him about the characters. I let him turn the pages, even when it takes longer. I hold him a little tighter, not because I am afraid of the future, but because I am grateful for the present.

Faith teaches us to live in the now, not because the future is dark, but because the present is where grace is given. The story we read tonight is enough for tonight. The love we share is enough for today. And that is a miracle I am trying not to miss.