My son, the Warrior

july12 081Nathanael climbs up on the couch, grabbing his blanket and asks me to sit down, Mama.
I look at him, big brown beautiful eyes like his daddy, hair sticking this way and that, amiss and crazy, just like we all like it and giggle about::: because that hair is sooo him.
Our little bull in the china closet, hugging fiercely, dog-chasing, grumble-growling, mischievous-toy-hiding, squinty-happy-eyes-at-saying-grace, sing-me-twinkle-twinkle, sweet-toothed, cuddles-with-metal-trucks-and-baseball-bats-when-he-goes-to-bed little boy who we pray each night will grow
::: for his wife, his children, his great-greats that will follow in the trail he is starting to blaze with his Tonka excavators and singing dump trucks moving all kinds of boulders:
All these things:::
we pray:
for his
And he stomps around in his diaper falling-off-yanking-it-up:::: and his sword-weilding and cat running away, curls bouncing, yelling his warrior chant of “Ho-Hoooooooo!”
And right now he asks me come sit down Mama, pouting, perfect little grin, tapping the couch, right here, Mama
And I stare at him, back at the dishes, the toys underfoot, back at him, and I say just a minute and I choose the laundry instead…
And He stops me half-way down the hall and He says
Go back there with him.
Go back there with him.
And I go.
And he nestles into my sweater without saying anything, and he closes those dark brown eyes and falls deep into my breathing and I look at him and I do not look back
at the laundry
at the sweeping
at the end of that book I am reading
at the piece of play-doh stuck to the floor
at the list only half-crossed off on the counter:::
Because I must not.
I dream at my little boy-man
right there, while he lays quietly, so content in the crook of my arm,
and I know this day will never come ’round again
and it is not about being sappy and syrupy and oh-they-grow-so-fast-love-them-they-will-be-gone-so-soon.
This is about my
who I have been given to raise in the Lord,
Trusting Him Who gives with grace and love,
This little man of God who is my gift from my Father
who He has SHARED with me… me.
and that pile of clothes must wait.
and that phone call must go unanswered.
and that computer must stay off.
I must be strong in He who gave me this task and be choosy and wise and pray for endurance…
because there is….
…. that adversarial voice telling me to work and be busy and do it all and do it now and be distracted and miss-out-on-what’s-important and flail with anxiety and breath shallow breath and finish up and do that chore and fester with exhaustion and be frustrated with demands and never be still and do not listen to Him and instead keep in step with the world because that’s where it’s at and make that money and fill up your head with junk and eat more and… and…
This is my high, high calling.
This little warrior-boy of ours with the curly brown hair.
This little warrior-boy of ours who we pray to raise to be a warrior for Jesus, swinging his sword.
For Truth.
For Love.
For his God.
I pray to be the mommy he needs me to be.
I pray to be the mommy He needs me to be.
“O God from my youth you have taught me, and I still proclaim your wondrous deeds. So even to old age and gray hairs O God, do not forsake me, until I proclaim your might to another generation, your power to all those to come…” Psalm 71

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