My Second Son

He says "kisses" and points to his cheek.  I kiss him.  He says "kisses" and points to the other cheek, and again I kiss.  He says "kisses" and points to his forehead, and I kiss once more.  A two year old can stall bedtime like no other!  But I have to admit, I willingly complied.  It won't be forever that my kisses will comfort and my hugs will protect.  He won't lazily fall asleep stroking the silk liner of his blankie.  He won't tiptoe down the stairs in his footie pajamas - the ones with the doggie on the front.  His footsteps creak the old wooden staircase slowly until we say his name - at which point the patter becomes quick and a giggle slips out as he dives back into bed.  The Farmer and I exchange looks, holding back giggles of our own.  He's two and he's a pistol.  He throws his toys and throws fits, and throws his head back when he's mad.  But he cuddles close when he's tired, and he smiles fierce when he tries to please and I love that little boy - round belly and chubby toes, my second son. 

I think about who he is and who he will become, and will I have eyes to see him as a man today - to guide this man into the form God shaped his heart into?  Not as my son - something to mold, possess and display, but as a creation from the hands of God, a display of His glory, His wonder, His will.

The floorboard squeaks and I turn to see his footie pajamas at his feet, and his hands stroking his bare belly in the light of the kitchen and as I turn and catch his eyes, he laughs a deep laugh, and moves - encouraging me to chase him, and I do, and I will chase him for all the days I can. 

The gift of a Mother's Day

My feet have been swollen, my back aching, my belly bulging, and my patience lost.  In the last stage of my pregnancies I have usually been anxious, irritated, and impatient.  I am eager to deliver the child - to empty the womb and to hold that which I have waited for.

There are some things we carry in life that last so much longer and are so much more uncomfortable than the final stage of pregnancy.  We move about our world, accepting of the stage, but nearly unable to bear it much longer. But still delivery eludes us.  The swelling of anger, the fatiguing sigh of pressure, the aching sting of stress, and yet we must press on. And so I do.  And people - well meaning people - make comments, assuming that I chose the state I am in, that I prefer it that way and arrows pierce a mother's heart.  And I press on.  And others who have the delivery I so long to have, complain about the pressures and strains of their world, and I understand their trials, and I understand their frustration, but at the same time I envy their position and can't they see what I would give to be in their shoes?  And I press on some more, and my heart aches.

But this week, the delivery came. The birth of all things new - of a momma who gets to raise her own children, of a woman who gets time to be a wife, of a daughter who gets a companion and guide, of sons with a mom who has time to play catch and to wrestle - who can finally have the luxury of making messes and reading all cuddled up close on the couch.  These won't have to be memories, few and far between, but daily moments of grace and love.  And I will fail and they will forgive, and we will live - as a family.  For isn't that what God calls us to?  My heart overflows with joy.

And in the emotions during the delivery to true motherhood, I reflect back over the last six years of praying, begging, pleading with closed doors, and hardened hearts, and impossible obstacles.  And I wonder - is the joy of deliverance that much greater because of the waiting? 

I know the answer, for He has taught me well in these past six years.

I shout - He is Faithful!

He is faithful - not because I am delivered, but because I am held.