Flying down the stairs to the Shoulder's office at eight A.M.
To his arms and his words and his strength.
Speak into the warm curve of his neck
that the Boy is breaking my heart today.
That he hates me sometimes.
And I don't like him sometimes.
And when in all the world did this get so hard?
Swimming in failure and fatigue and frustration.
I bite my tongue until it bleeds at nine A.M.
This strange see-saw of him slamming doors at ten A.M and...
Needing fifteen hugs before eleven A.M.
Snacking right before lunch at twelve P.M.
Crying because I asked him to put dishes away at one P.M
Me sitting here whipped and wiped at two P.M.
Remembering to give thanks....
For a boy who drives me daily to Jesus.
That he loves me.
That I love him.
For his beautiful eyes.
Long dark lashes on pale skin.
Faintest remaining freckles.
His hands on the cello.
The way he loves to laugh.
The way he laughs at me.
That we both keep trying.
Knowing that God knit him together just so.
That I am learning to trust Jesus.
Because I am not enough.
And the boy and his mama need a Savior,