On Growing Up

When he first came home, I carried him close; under my chin, where I could smell the warm and marvel that we'd been blessed with a boy after that girl.  He was beautiful, in the way dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked, dark-haired baby boys can be.  He slept a lot and cried little; smiled much and caused joy to bubble up and spill over.

 

He grew and continued to bless our home.  God-honoring son, near-perfect student, sweet servant and brother.  For the longest, he imaged so much more of the boy's shell he was leaving behind and not the man he was growing into.

Arms were soft; cheeks, too, and round.

 

The teen years came, and we've hit some rough patches.  Growing up is hard for a young man.  I think it's harder for mom and dad.  But grace abounds...

 

Stepped on the porch today, saw him across the property.

Yelled my hello, asked how he was.

 

"Ok.  Hey, can I get some water?"

 

He's splitting logs in near-100 degree heat.  Got his jeans on because you don't chop wood in shorts, and he's wringing wet.  He's got work to do, though.

 

I fill the thermos with ice and water, take it to him.  Have to cross the dry creek bed and quite a lot of brush.  I worry about ticks at first, but my thoughts quickly turn to copperheads.  As the mind does, my thoughts spin 100mph as I walk.  I close the gap between us, and I realize (not for the first time)...

 

I am feeling safer the closer I get to my son.

 

This is new for me.  I used to protect him!  I used to have 20 back-up plans rolling around in my thoughts for every dangerous scenario as we walked out our front door.

 

Now I see him across the way and feel completely confident that, should any danger come my way, this young man would competently handle it for me.  He could (he can, because he has!) pick me up, haul me out of the woods, and get me to the nearest

ER as well as any other man on the planet.

 

Not sure when this changeover happened.  It wasn't yesterday.

But it did happen when I blinked.

 

I hand him the thermos, and he expresses his weary thanks.  The cheeks that are dripping salty sweat haven't been soft in a long time.  And the arms and shoulders ~ they are incredibly strong and large, more than able for the work load he's got in front of him.

 

I have to tell him: "Hey..."

 

"Yes, ma'am?"

 

"I just want you to know how proud I am of you.  That you're working so hard.  Like this."  Because there's been so many more times when the statement has been about what's been wrong rather than what's been praise-worthy.

 

He nods his head, mumbles a thank-you.

 

"Well, gotta get it done.  There's work to do."

 

Yes, son.  There's work to do.  And you will get it done.  Because you have,

and you can.  And I am one of your biggest fans and supporters.