Ask me how I know there's a God up in the heavens

I have been struck this week by the horrific stories of Vanessa George and her friends who have been sharing abusive photos on the internet and by mobile phone. They have pleaded guilty and (presumably) face life imprisonment, but leave behind a string of worried parents.

I cannot begin to imagine the horrors of child abuse: either to myself or - possibly worse - to my children. And when I try to think how I would react if it were my child ... I don't know. Anger, fear, confusion all spring to mind, but none of these words are adequate. The parents in Plymouth don't know one way or the other whether their child has been abused, whether photos of their darling son or daughter are currently being traded around the paedophiles' child pornography sites. They may never know.

The same day as the news broke I happened to hear this song playing on my random music list: Ask me by Amy Grant. It spoke to me of how God's love can pull it all back together again, even if he doesn't seem to be there when the actual abuse is taking place. It will not be everyone's reaction or experience, but I know this is a song of hope and, ultimately, triumph over adversity. I pray for this peace and mercy on all those children and their families.

Dreams and prayers

On Saturday night I didn't sleep well. Two or three times I woke during the night having dreamt about my son. Of course, now I cannot remember the dreams properly, although the first did involve saying goodbye to the dentist (or maybe doctor?) after my son's treatment - I was very cheery and confident whilst he was looking very unhappy about what had happened.

Each time I woke with a certain fear, a sense of foreboding. The dreams all had this sense of things not being quite right.

Thankfully, I remembered the advice from the excellent 'What happens when women pray' by Evelyn Christenson (an old book, but full of everyday truths). Each time I prayed for my son, and quickly drifted back into sleep.

Sunday morning came, along with my daughter jumping into our bed. Again she asked where her brother was; again we explained that he was at cub camp for the weekend. Somewhat forlornly she wandered off to watch TV by herself.

Then the phone rang. It was the cub leader. My son had been sick: another parent was bringing him home.

And I wonder - just wonder - what was happening overnight. As I prayed for my son, was he being healed of something worse, or did I fall asleep too quickly each time?

Thankfully, he recovered quickly: a good four hours sleep in the middle of the day, a lot of water and watching the men's final from under the duvet all combined to return a pink colour to his green cheeks. Thank you, God, for blessing my child.