We’re lying in bed early on a Saturday morning. Me and the smallest. He’s squirming around and vaguely swimming in and out of sleep, eyes closing as soon as he makes contact with my skin. Opening again when he fears I’ve sneaked out of bed like I did 10 minutes ago. I’m not allowed to leave this circle of snuggle. Not for a moment.
I give into it. The grey light of morning shows me his little face and I savour the small hands that stroke me and the arms that grab me tight. I look in his face and become aware of the other parent in the room. The invisible one who knows me well. I talk to him. I ask for so much for this small one. For protection, for kindness to grasp him, for him to cherish the women he meets throughout his life, for his life to be full of compassion. Softly I am reminded that he may not become the perfect man. Neither of my beautiful boys have perfection in their future. I love small broken ones who are full of self and demands. I am one of those myself.
I sigh. Imperfection haunts me here. I ruefully adjust my requests and pray for deep grace and love for these boys whatever they grow into. Through their dark nights when they won’t love as they should. Through their pain as well their joys. Through their failures as well as successes. I ask for patience with the ups and downs of seeing their anger and rage when they don’t get what they want. I ask for an environment in our house that nurtures their faith. I ask for patience when they get it wrong and for patience and grace when I get it so so wrong. I too am full of anger at times and I haven’t been given up on yet. The fears of what they might become fade and I am reminded of a story that redeemed me and is still redeeming us. Of grace on the road and new starts.
I soak up the small ones smell, gaze deep in his eyes and bop his nose. He giggles and we snuggle some more. Who knows how long this need will last but for this moment I cherish the wonder. In the grey light of morning. I cherish the wonder.