It’s Monday of the last week of school. The oldest had exams, and I picked him up from school today and he hung his head, tired–there were hours of angles and conjugations and it’s hard.
He stood outside the building waiting. I came wearing his sweatshirt–the one that’s too small for him yet it fits me, and I remember how he used to fit snug inside. He was there, all nestled and warm, but he was born broken. I used to wonder if the needles slipped when he was being knit together.
I learned by fits and starts that the Father’s wise and provident hand makes no mistakes, and that we all have our hurting places that can’t be fixed, but can only be redeemed. My son has shown me that being broken on this side of heaven is far better than being “whole” and lost to grace. This child of mine has taught me joy–that it doesn’t come from perfect performance or the world’s accolade, but from a heart beating with gospel life.
Ah, and there are so many good gifts on a Monday in June: s’mores over the grill, a game of tag in the yard, dear friends sharing dinner, the little ones at their little table, exams almost over, New Jersey blueberries at the grocery, a son who loves His Father. (#33-39)