It's dark. The house is silent. Breakfast is still three hours away. Dressed warm enough to go outside, I ease down to my basement study and turn on the desk lamp. It flickers once or twice before its dusty yellow light focuses on the Bible laid open beneath it. The table had been set; my soul had been starving, and now, I made it on time. The banquet is before me. It's dark. The house is silent. Breakfast is still three hours away.
But then I hear footsteps. This is unusual. Footsteps, now? This early? But wait, not just one set, not two — is that three? I make my way back up the stairs to find three of my children strangely awake, wandering around with sleep in their eyes. One had to use the bathroom, the other had a bad dream, and the third just wants to party. I attend to everyone and escort them back to bed. Then I am down the stairs again, only to hear another round of footsteps moments later. So I go up to deal with that. There are some tears and hugs, and then I retrace the well-worn path down to my study. But tears and hugs don't put kids to sleep. It isn't long before I am up again, and then back down. Up, down, doors opened, doors closed, and then again, and again — God! I am trying to pray!
[Read the rest of the article at Desiring God.]