She rises when the world goes still.
Not in blazing ceremony, but in steady duty.
She pulls at the tides no one sees, guiding oceans of need in the dark.

She is wrinkled, dimpled—
not polished, but marked by time and touch.
Growing and shrinking in cyclical surrender.

Her light is borrowed, but steady.
She does not speak, yet everything listens.
A glowing presence that ministers in silence.

She is the lesser light to rule the night, 
ordained from the beginning.
Not lesser in power, but in quiet majesty.
A ruler—not by force—but by loyal presence.

She reflects, not because she must,
but because she was made to.
Waning, waxing—she is never quite whole,
yet always enough.

She keeps watch when all else sleeps,
holding shadows gently,
giving light where there was none.

And if you look closely—
The ruler of the night 
is not the moon at all.
It is a mother,
rocking her child
in the dark.

Anointing with milk, offering her body,
laying down her will again and again.
This is her priesthood—robed in sacrifice.
Crowned in compassion.

She cradles the stillness, submits to the burden, and answers the cry.
This is worship. This is grace.
She rises in the dark not for glory, but for love.

In the dark, the world cannot see her.
But heaven does.
Heaven is near in the dark.

God rules the night, too.
He walked Gethsemane beneath the stars.
He bore sorrow when no one watched.
He wept alone so that we wouldn’t have to.

And so in these shadow hours—
when love costs sleep, comfort, and even sanity—
She finds a quiet kinship with Him.
Pain that deepens her joy.
Grief that opens her heart.
A disciplined reflection that becomes her communion.

Because to rule the night is not to conquer it—
but to fill it with light that was never ours to begin with.
She rules in shadows, unseen—
rocking, nursing, praying,
while the world sleeps on.

To cradle them gently. 
To nourish them faithfully.
To endure it willingly.
To love through it endlessly.