She was sick. At two o’clock Sunday morning Abby ran into my room, whimpering, her hand over her mouth. Sleepy as I was, my first thought was that she’d had a nightmare.

That changed when the vomiting began. I half-ran her, half-carried her to the bathroom, and together we leaned over the toilet. Once her stomach was empty, all she wanted was to go back to bed.

So cradling Abby’s six-year-old frame like an infant’s, I carried her to bed. I tucked her in with a towel under her face — in case she couldn’t make it to the bathroom again. She rolled over, hugged her stuffed bunny, and fell asleep immediately.

Back in my room, I took note of the stains on the carpet and decided to clean up in the morning. And I lay down again, wondering how many more times I’d be woken.

***

I remember going through a phase only a few years ago when interrupted sleep seemed to be the norm, more than four hours without a visit from a child an anomaly.

For a long time, I chafed at it. With each interruption, I’d get more and more frustrated. After all, many nights I was visited by all three — with three problems and at three separate times. Of course I knew it wasn’t Abby’s or Hannah’s fault if she was the third to wake me in one night. But I still felt angry — at all of them. After all, my sleeplessness was their fault.

But sometime during that period, something changed. I’m sure it was gradual, but my awareness of it came suddenly.

***

Abby was around three (Hannah, 6 and LC, 8). It was a typical night, which means I’d been up twice already. After reassuring a child who’d had a bad dream, I headed back to bed. And I lay back down.

But instead of grumbling or giving Charlie the stinkeye as he snored so peacefully in his spot, I simply wondered. Wondered who would wake me next. What new need I’d be called to meet before dawn.

My musing was arrested with a realization:  I felt … fine. Not angry. Not even depressed. Just fine. From that day forward, my irritation about interrupted sleep came and went, but the intense anger never returned.

Somewhere along the line, every night as I plodded on and did what I needed to do, God had changed me.

Of course I’d been praying for help, mostly prayers of, “Please let no one else wake up tonight!”

But in his typical fashion, God gave me not what I wanted, but what I needed:

Acceptance.

I finally accepted my lot. My burden. My seemingly neverending situation.

And after I stopped fighting, peace was free to come.

A wise friend once told me that in acceptance there is peace. Through this experience, God showed me it was true.

After I stopped struggling against my restraints, I was able to see the freedom I actually had. My perspective changed and I began to imagine a future with eight-hour nights of glorious sleep.

I could see that this was a season.

And I felt, of all things, grateful. After all, I had it pretty good: healthy kids, safe and comfortable home, loving husband. Things were not so bad.

Of course, my new perspective changed how I treated the kids. With less anger to take out on them, I was more and more able to deal with them with patience. From then on, my nights of wakefulness gradually decreased. And even when I was woken from a deep sleep, I usually remembered that it wasn’t so bad. That was why in the early hours of Sunday morning, I treated my girl with compassion.

***

Like I said, I still feel frustration. I still respond inappropriately to it more often than I’d like. My perspective has not been totally transformed.

The truths of a perfect God must be seen through the smudged lens of my imperfect humanity.

But for me, knowing the truth — that peace really does begin with acceptance — has freed me to love selflessly and with compassion.