The Night Watch

Margaret remembered the worst week of her life — the week her daughter Elise was four years old and burning with fever that wouldn't break. For three nights, Margaret dragged the rocking chair from the nursery into the narrow hallway outside Elise's room and sat there, blanket over her shoulders, listening for the sound of labored breathing.

She did not sleep. Every creak of the house snapped her awake. Every rustle of sheets sent her to the doorway, hand on the frame, watching the small chest rise and fall.

On the fourth morning, Elise woke up cool and hungry and asked for pancakes. Margaret wept in the kitchen while the butter melted in the pan.

Years later, when Elise was grown and sitting at that same kitchen table, Margaret told her the story of those three nights. Elise had no memory of it. She had no idea someone had been standing in the hallway, watching, waiting, refusing to sleep.

That's the promise threaded through every line of Psalm 121. The psalmist lifts his eyes toward the hills — the hills where ancient travelers feared bandits, where the road was treacherous and long — and asks: where does my help come from? And the answer comes back steady and sure: from the LORD, who made the very hills you fear. He will not let your foot slip. He will not slumber.

You may not remember all the nights someone stood in the hallway. But He was there.