Waking

When Nightmares Come

“You can go to bed without fear; you will lie down and sleep soundly. You need not be afraid of sudden disaster or the destruction that comes upon the wicked, for the Lord is your security.”~ Proverbs 3:24–26

THE DARKNESS in my bedroom was the sort that felt alive, thick as molasses and just as smothering. It pressed against my eyes when I woke, wide and startled, on a night so silent it seemed the world itself was holding its breath.

Then came the sound.

A soft tap… tap… tap—paws, unmistakably paws were crossing the wooden floor with deliberate care. A low, rumbling breath followed, heavy and close, as though whatever owned those paws was considering me very carefully.

I feared to move a single muscle. At four, perhaps five years old, I knew very little about the world, but I knew enough to understand this: I was far too small to be brave, and far too young to be ready for whatever lurked in the dark.

I inched the covers over my head ever so slowly, a flimsy fortress at best. The beast did not seem impressed. I could feel its breath through the blankets, hot and damp, its teeth sharp enough to slice through sleep itself. My heart thudded like it was trying to escape before the rest of me could go with it.

“Help,” I whimpered, the word tumbling out before I could stop it. “Mom!”

The darkness shifted.

She appeared as though she had been waiting just beyond the edge of the night—solid, warm, unmistakably real. She smelled of soap and safety. Her hand gently brushed my hair, slow and certain, and the monster retreated at once, offended or perhaps simply embarrassed to be discovered.

“Shhh,” she murmered as though calming the night itself. "There’s nothing here. Just a bad dream.”

She knelt beside the bed, the way mothers do when they intend to stay. With her there, the shadows shrank back into their proper corners, sulking. “Everything will be OK,” she whispered, until sleep claimed me again.

When morning came, sunlight spilled across the room, bold and golden, and there she was, still smiling, still present, proof that the night had lied.

We outgrow childhood nightmares, or so we like to think. In truth, they merely change shape. They arrive later wearing adult disguises: unpaid bills, frightening diagnoses, broken hearts, aching grief, the quiet hum of anxiety that keeps us awake at three in the morning.

The beasts still prowl. We still hear their breath.

Fear lingers the way dreams do after waking—unwelcome, stubborn, convincing. Yet we know the truth now, that darkness is never the final chapter.

Psalm 17 offers a gentle promise: that our satisfaction is not found in the now, but in the moment we awaken in heaven to see God face to face, when all will finally, and fully, be well.

It's the same promise as that childhood morning: waking to light, to peace, to the smile of the one who never left our side.

Just as my mother stayed beside me through the terror, the truth is: The One who loves us most remains through every long night without exception.

He may not banish the darkness at once—but He always brings the dawn.

Blessed are You Lord, God, Creator and sustainer of all there is. When the fears of life feel real and overwhelm us, remind us that You are closer than the darkness. That day and night are both the same to you. Calm our anxious thoughts and help us rest in Your presence. Thank You for the promise that one day, we will awake and see You face to face—no more fear, no more darkness. Until then, help us to trust You with every worry, and walk today in Your Peace. Amen.

© Copyright 2021, Revised 2022, 2023, 2024. 2025, 2026 Gary Landerfelt MyPericope.com