-The Ross Family-Benjamin, Lenae, Gabriel, Eli, Noah & Quinn

I'm a night owl. It's a habit I cherish and loathe in the same turn. My children are early risers and as soon as my eyes slowly flutter open to the sound of their little voices calling for me from across the hallway, I ask myself why -why?!- did I drag myself to bed at the hour I did.

But now, at the height of that late hour, I relish it. I drift quietly in socked feet from room to room and look bemusedly at the slumbering faces of my men. Ben mostly sleeps on his back, arms crossed across his chest like a mummy. The baby is sprawled in his bassinet, arms framing his head and hands loosely clenched into tiny fists. Gabriel is a traditional sleeper who loves him some pillow and tends to hog the blankets. Eli prefers tummy-sleeping and uses his pillow for warmth.

After I've satisfied my nightly need to memorize their dreaming faces, I putter around quietly in our never-quite-clean-enough home. Some toys I stash away and some I leave in their places. I read a chapter or four in my latest book (this one; thanks for the recommendation, Sarah!) but eventually tear myself away to work on a pot of soup.

Pasta e Fagioli... I'm taking my first stab at it tonight, tentatively because I am intimidated by memories of Olive Garden and my mother's even better version. Whatever the outcome, the process alone is therapeutic. I am a girl who loves the smell of printer paper, multi-colored paper clips, and gel pens. I can be a computer geek, a tech-head, and I adore compiling PowerPoint presentations. Throw me in a kitchen, though, and my heart settles. It's like I've bumped into my true self again and we shake hands and take a walk to catch up.

That walk, in the middle of the night, is soothing. I hum worship songs under my breath and enjoy the simplicity of chopping vegetables. I admire the rich red broth while I stir, and eye the bread machine thankfully across the kitchen. I think of the way the boys will marvel at their little cups of soup tomorrow, how Eli will eat all the noodles first and Gabriel will most likely avoid the beans. And my husband in his office will make exaggerated noises of contentment while he eats his own bowl, making his co-workers grin. Each bite is a little reminder to them of my love and care, my small imprint on their hearts that they'll remember in unlikely moments years from now as they stroll through a farmer's market or sit down to a meal at an open-air cafe.

I should be sleeping, but these stolen pockets of contemplation are just too romantic to pass up. While I hover inside them, the world stills for as long as I need it to and I hear the voice of God in my heart.