I was transported. Seriously.

When our kids were small we always read a Bible story before they went to sleep. Sometimes we read different books first, but the last story they could always count on to be a true story from God’s Word.

“Ok,” I’d transition, “that was a good story. Now we are going to read an even better one because this is a true story from the Bible. This really happened to real people a long time ago.”

It seemed important to me to distinguish between pretend and real. I wanted the last thing said, the last thing on their minds before they went to sleep to be from Scripture. I may have been a little obsessed with that.

Recently on a trip to visit our son, daughter-in-law and our two-year-old grandson Roman, it came as no surprise to be asked to read the bedtime story to Roman. My son Justin, and daughter-in-law Lauren, have created their own bedtime traditions with a Bible story to top it off. When we visit we love to be a part of the process.

Even when my children were little, my husband was king of storytelling. Whenever he could, he put them to bed, probably one of the greatest daddy-husband things to do in the whole wide kingdom of parenting.

With Roman cuddled against his Grandpa on the rocking chair, blonde hair spread against my husband’s chest, and thumb securely in his mouth, I time traveled.

I sat at their feet on the padded footstool to listen.

Serene and secure, but fully awake, Roman listened. Eyes wide, he followed pictures on the pages of the Children’s Bible Story Book, running a free finger over a rock and touching people. Occasionally Roman pulled his thumb out, so he could talk clearly. He turned his little face up at Grandpa. Grandpa looked down mirroring Roman’s furrowed brow intensity as he commented about the characters and imagined the noises.

“Yah, yah, ‘cause he was bad,” Roman nods, at one with the story.

“That’s a horse.” His little finger points, “It goes…neigh…”

Even a real horse ought to look twice it was so perfect. The sounds, the story of the walls of Jericho tumbling down, and that thumb, it was all so familiar, so similar and somehow, so comforting.

Roman, sitting on my husband’s lap, looked a copy of my son Justin twenty years ago. I interposed my grandson Roman’s little being over my memory of my son Justin and the traced features fit perfectly. Time stood still. I no longer listened. I felt. Memories flooded, as if my own little boy sat in front of me again, to touch and hold, and it was pure sugared sweetness. It was magical.

And then my husband raised his head, the story ended. Our eyes met, a little watery, a lot of love, and he said to me, “You want to pray before we go to sleep?”

“Sure,” I smiled back, tenderness in my heart so full I could hardly hold all of it.

“Dear Jesus,” I began in simple to understand two-year-old-language. “Help Justin sleep good tonight. Help him to love you because you love him….”

And so, I prayed simply and sincerely.

When I looked up my husband looked at me oddly. Roman looked at me like “whaaaaaa Grandma”?

“Now you want to pray for Roman?” my husband’s eyes twinkled.

“Did I just pray for Justin?”

My husband nodded. “He should sleep good tonight,” he said with a grin.

Once upon a time, twenty years ago, when we did dumb things we didn’t broadcast them. Child monitors didn’t exist. I forgot about that blessing and curse until I came out of Roman’s room.

My husband and I finished with the prayers, hugs, kisses and a song, then tip-toed backwards and shut the door. When I lifted my eyes, my son stood waiting. Could it be a worried look on his face?

“Did you just pray for me, Mom?”

Drat. My eyes travelled to the receiver in the corner of the kitchen, it’s red lights danced to my grandson’s movements.

“I’ve never quit, Son,” I answered.