Well, hello there young man.
Look at that hair, will you? The color of a brilliant sunset. Then there are those perfectly placed freckles and full lips...
As crazy as he makes me, I love this face. Aren't these two gorgeous?
My first-born was God's way of breaking my will. My stubborn, prideful, selfish will that believed I could control all circumstances around me with my determination. From the moment the nurse placed him on my chest, I began a journey of sacrifice and humility that I will be on until the day I die.
I became a mother, yes, but I also became so very intimate with my flesh - my ugly, angry, controlling flesh that desperately needed a Savior. And I'm thankful for that. I am. But I sure haven't always been so.
I can take you to the spot in Houston, Texas where I would take this boy daily into my bedroom for spanks, and talks. It's also the place where I would fall to my knees - literally - in tears of frustration over this child. I couldn't control him. He controlled me, it seemed. I couldn't make him DO RIGHT. He made me DO WRONG everyday. I felt like such a failure.
I remember the years he turned 3, 4, & 5 thinking - "We made it. We made it. Praise God, we made it to 3, (or 4, or 5)." I would inwardly sigh, so thankful that we hadn't killed one another in the course of 365 days.
This year, I've watched him grow so much. Taking responsibility. Not giving up. Recognizing his own need for a Savior. A Redeemer. He's turning 10 soon, and I'm going to say on that day with a smile,
"We made it, buddy. We made it."