At six every single morning my two-year-old wakes up, calls for me and expects a transfer to my bed stopping only to pick up a bottle of milk warmed to his exacting standards along the way.

Then we pretzel. And I dread the moment my alarm will go off.

It’s tender beneath the covers in the predawn stillness of the house. He wraps chubby arms around my neck and breathes nose to nose, whispers, “Hi mama.”

“Hi, Micah.”

“Wuv you, Mama.”

“I love you, Micah.”

Sometimes he grants me an inch or two of personal space. Sometimes my back hurts and I try to stealthily turn over and into a different position. It’s a favor rarely granted. But this morning, from behind my turned shoulder I heard him, concede, “Here go, mama.”

And a young arm tugged and strained with the heavy comforter to pull a portion of it over me and make sure I was snugly tucked in.

“Thank-you, honey.”

“Wel-come, mama,” my little maharajah murmured and I could hear the smile coming thick through his words.

The bed, the blankets, the mattress are all mine. The room, the house, the roof over it all provided because of his father and me. Indeed, his very existence can be traced from his bellybutton to my heart. He offers back what already belongs to me.

The metaphor is not lost on me.

The earth is the LORD’s, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it. Psalm 24:1.

And still, I am as certain that I feel His joy when I offer bits back as I am that I feel a warm back pressed up against mine under a shared duvet at 6am each morning.