Josh

The blinds slap at the window sill, the coolness rushing in on a breezy day.  And it hits me, how can everything just seem so normal?  How can I talk with him casually as though there's nothing wrong?  That his grown man decisions are so wrong, but i'm not allowed to warn him?  In respecting his autonomy and adulthood, I let him careen over a cliff in the distance, even if it's at 30 miles an hour.  Eventually, he will sail over the edge, too late.

I've pretty much made peace with all that, I just keep praying.  But every so often, like today, when that breeze tapped me on the shoulder, I want to run to him, to plead with him, to let him know the building he's living in is on fire.  But I know he doesn't wanna hear that from me, so the attempts have ceased. 

But here's the thing, once you're a mom, you held him, loved him, suffered with him, celebrated with him, you just can't sever the tie lickity-split.  "I asked the LORD to give me this boy, and he has granted my request." I Samuel 1:27.  I have loved him more than I thought possible.  And he loved me back.  Now his love is distant, I believe it's there, he says so, but hard to tell.  And when my mind runs to past viewing of little boy days, the tears just naturally come.

I don't believe I know anyone with as much God-given talent or potential.  Handsome and funny, full of style and personality, but I cannot support his lifestyle.  It is heart-breaking.  People, girls especially, left in his wake, hurting.

The thing is, this heart that is aging and preparing to go home, longs for a few sweet moments with the boy, the man.  And they will not be forthcoming.  And this heart, more than anything, wants to know that he walks with Jesus as he once did.  I probably will not live to know.  I could not have lived through the events of the last few years without my love, my David.  Though we all have made mistakes, his unwavering support and love, holding me when I am distraught, etc., helps me stay sane in it all. 

And Jesus, always Jesus.  The wakings in the night, the fear that can grip my heart when there's a phone call later than usual, the wondering, the grieving, He holds me through it all and sustains me.

So on this blustery day in April, about a week after he turned 36, I once allow myself to feel the grief, the missing and I pray, and I weep.