eleven.

so this kid. he's eleven.

it seems just a few blinks ago he was crazy about cookies and sir topham hat and he’d sob his eyes pink each morning when the preschool van fetched his brother and never once took him. and i'm still unclear on what i was doing, exactly, while he got so articulate and wry and tall, but here we perch on the razor edge between childhood and teenage angst, a divide sharp enough to cleave me through.











in many ways it's the whole point of the mom thing, to work ourselves into obsolescence. but when he stops needing a copy editor or cook or chauffeur, i suspect he may still need someone who prays. someone who hopes. who sees him honestly, but is wholly and irrevocably on his side.









z, you have a mum and a dad and siblings and a church family and friends who treasure you up tall. you have a clear mind, a heart that bruises quick for others.


and mostly, mostly. you have a God who loves you with a tenderness so fierce that he died so you could live full. love him back, my sweet boy. taste and see just how worth it all he is.