It is 8:14 pm. The room is darkened- but hints of light peek under the bedroom doorway onto the green rug. A bit of Chicago light pollution sneaks through the window blinds. The fan blades whir overhead, and the noise machine muffles some of the traffic sounds.

My four year old daughter’s body is curled next to mine (cuddling, like she says). Her head cozies into my left shoulder, and she tucks the top of her feet under my calf. “Because you’re cozy and warm, my Mama.” She is as safe as I can make her. When strangers or family tell us to hold onto moments from when our children are small, I know they mean moments like these. But I am also keenly aware how fleeting these moments are and how fragile life can be. 

Calmly, nonchalantly (and to my ears, sweetly) we quietly sing together the end of what the Catholic tradition calls Night Prayer, from the Liturgy of the Hours. Right now we are praying the Canticle of Simeon, those beautiful words from Luke’s Gospel. We remember the words of a very aged man, glad to meet the infant Savior his heart had longed for his whole life.

”Lord, now you let your servant go in peace, your word has been fulfilled. My own eyes have seen the salvation, which you prepare in the sight of every people…. A light to reveal you to the nations….” 

I have prayed this Canticle with her since she was a few days old. Even on those earliest nights just home from the hospital, when the total blurriness of sleep deprivation clouded my mind, and the three of us lived surrounded by the milky smell of infancy, we prayed this way together. 

And if you aren’t listening carefully, you might miss a critical element. I am praying about death – with my four year old. She does not understand yet, that in addition to the words of Simeon’s Canticle, the accompanying Litany of Saints- where we ask saints and our loved ones who have gone before us to pray for us- entrusts us all to the love of God from now until our last breaths as she enters the unawareness of sleep. 

She does not know yet that she might pray these words with me as I die one day (like I did with my mother’s parents, when they lay dying). And this does not sadden me to think of or feel overly morbid – it just seems like a gentle way of forming our family to be people who can bear with one another and love one another in the best moments and in the hardest moments of life. Right now, these prayers form a simple, meaningful nighttime tradition that I cherish. I hope she will feel the same one day.

Together we end the litany of saints, “And may the all- powerful Lord grant us a restful night, and a peaceful death.”

My daughter eventually drifts off to sleep, sheltered in my love and surrounded by the infinite Love I cannot see, but that I hope she always knows. 

May love like that bless and keep her always. 

Amen. 

P.S. I participated in a Spiritual Nonfiction online writing workshop back in January and wrote this piece in that context. I realized I never published it anywhere, so here it is! I probably need to do a long form something or other about Night Prayer one day, because it’s been a foundational spiritual practice for me since college and has been an absolute anchor through both significant life happenings and calmer, more routine nights such as this. P.P.S. If you have publishing connections for pieces like this, let me know – I am working towards more publishing slowly but surely.