The afternoon was quiet. Blonde Boy sat content at the table painting his model ship. First Boy’s legs dangled over the stuffed chair as he read from a favorite book. All was well. They wouldn’t need me for the few minutes I needed to rest my eyes.
I fell into the couch and within moments slipped into a deep sleep. Not soon after a poke in the arm and an “urgent” question jolted me awake. And as I gave a repeated lecture on kindness to sleepers, I remember (once again) I can never slumber from motherhood.
I turned back into my pillow for another few minutes to make up for the interruption. My few minutes turn into hours. In my deep slumber I feel a hand patiently resting on my arm. It’s the heat of this touch permeating my skin that awakens me. I open my eyes to see First Boy standing over me. I smile. He remembered to awaken me with a gentle touch. He begins to talk to me. I can’t remember what he said or what he asked. I think it had something to do with the library—his happy place.
“You’ll want to renew that stack of books, so you can finish reading them.”
“I’ve already read them.”
“All of them?”
He smiles down at me, “Yes, all of them.”
I rub the afternoon sleep away from my eyes and think on the towering stack of books renting space from his bedroom floor. Yes, of course he read all of them. It was a well known fact reading was his favorite past time.
I smile again at him and his eyes tell me he sees a proud momma. He smiles back at me in his sheepish way, and I can feel his heart welling up with joy. He is nearly ten, but still I pull him close. I expect resistance, but instead he leans in and snuggles.
I cherish this moment. I think back to the countless times we once snuggled and napped on the couch together. Before there ever was a Blonde Boy, before his mother typed wildly into a computer, before homework, before…
…before Hope was bashed in.
For three years we struggled, fought and battled the temper of a boy whose world was falling apart. This boy, First Boy—took in every seen and unseen conflict of his parent’s marriage within his heart. And when his heart exploded it blew up at me and every thing around him.
I could tell you countless heartbreaking stories of his aggressive and irrational behavior. I could tell you of the hopelessness that lived inside me. I could tell you of the pain I felt for my boy as he carried an angry and broken heart within him. I could tell you how it wasn’t until he literally bashed in Hope did we all seek help. Because this wasn’t just about him. It was about all of us.
And we, he, and us—we’ve all come so far. Those painful memories fade with each new dawn as we continue to walk in healing and wholeness.
But it hasn’t come easy. Healing came by way of tearful prayers, resistant surrenders, and painful confessions…and a whole lot of work. Not just from our boy, but from us—his parents.
And it’s been a long road…
But if it’s quite okay with you, I’d rather not talk about all that right now, maybe another time—but not now. I want to be present in this moment—where we are right now. And right now we are here—together.
And First Boy, well…he’s a healed boy—a playful and peaceful boy. Sure he has moments (don’t we all) ,but his heart—his sweet tender heart is restored.
And somehow in the midst of afternoon naps, library books, and a sweet snuggle. A mother doesn’t just hold her son—she holds answered prayer.
The prayer of Hope restored.
On the journey of a Healed Hallelujah,