"Daddy," he cried...

2:40 a.m.  I throw the covers back and quickly orient myself to what's going on.  My family has been sick.  Stomach bug sick.  Vomiting.  And other gross things if you catch my drift.  Well, at this point, my oldest son was the only one still in need of fully recovering - my wife and middle son were for the most part on their way back to wellness.  Nevertheless, I was sleeping on the couch to be in the middle of the house to hear who would need help - the boys in one side and my better half in the other.  

So, there it was.  The sound of my oldest yelling, "DADDY! DADDY!"  Rubbing my eyes, I pull myself off the couch and dart to the guest bathroom, where I see my five-year old son hunched over the toilet.  I move behind him to sit on the side of the tub, as I had already done  probably six times so far this night, and I rub his back as that horrific sound of his stomach entrails entering the toilet.  Poor thing.  Helpless.  A victim to the sickly condition of his body. Exhausted.  Weary.  I wipe his mouth, hug him tight, and feel the weight of his body go limp as the utter nature of his fatigue and sleepless state take hold.

I carry him into the living room and make a bed for him on the love seat, tuck him in and kiss him on the forehead.  I know it won't be long until he is awakened again for another bathroom run, followed by the cry of "Daddy!" once more.

As he lay there, the Spirit of God pricked my heart and whispered to me as I sat in the darkness of my living room...