My son
My boy
This child we prayed for two years to conceive. Our hearts groaning to the Father in supplication
"Please"
"Please"
Who's birth story includes words like "catastrophic", "induced coma".....and "miracle"
....also, hysterectomy, loss, grief.
Matthew. The name means Gift From God
And you are.
You are!
Even when I'm so lost to the chaos that I can't see it
You accept nothing without a fight, from the moment your eyes open in the morning
Till the moment, with tears in both of our eyes, that you finally succumb to sleep at night.
You sass-back
You spit in my face when I correct you
You scream endlessly and break almost everything you touch
And then you go looking in cupboards for more..
You pull my hair and tell me no
No
No
No
And I don't always choose grace.
I don't always (often) find the strength to be patient, to speak love.
I scream
I say hurtful things
And I cry
Becausee you deserve for me to be better, to be more.
And when I'm feeling like we are drowning in my inadequacy
Overcome by your spirit
I see your little hands fold in prayer
And a small voice asks "Where did he learn?"
........
I am not enough to temper the storms of your heart my son.
But HE is
And when I focus on the behavior,
when I let the raised eyebrows get to me, when I let myself think of all the
things you shouldn't be.
I forget
I forget that you are not mine.
You are HIS
And my job, my privilege is to pour myself out
Everyday
To bring your heart to HIS
So He can do a great work.
................
Later, I lay in bed with you and breathe in the scent of your hair
Still a baby smell despite your strong, lean limbs
Murmur comforting words as you writhe and whimper in pain.
Your body growing so fast that it stretches and strains, pulls bone and tissue
I adjust the hot pad and wish that I could take the pain away from you
But that is not the way of the world
We hurt
And growth is painful
and often not pretty
As your breathing evens out I pray for more grace, more strength.
And I'm grateful
For you
My son.
