I smiled at the smile on his face as I laid him back down in his crib. It was 10:30 and Jude had been asleep for 3-1/2 solid hours, but he needed a snack to tide him over into the wee morning hours. (He’s a grazer like his momma.)

As I pulled my hands out from under his neck and back and let the sleep positioner cradle him, he stirred and shuffled his swaddled feet. So I put my hand back on his head and laid my other hand over his chest. Then I timed my own breath with his, letting my exhalations lull him toward deeper slumber. A minute later, he yawned, sighed contentedly and smiled again. He was asleep now.

I pulled my hands off his head and chest, but let them hover over him. And it was as I inhaled his sweet baby’s breath that I realized something. Jude will never remember this moment. How he was hungry. How I fed him. How I swayed him back to sleep. How I stayed with him till he reached the REM stage. How I saw him sigh and smile.

He’ll never remember it.

But I’ll never forget.

Maybe there’s something of God in that moment. In fact, I’m certain there is.