I am at home pondering the fatigue my son feels from his own living, and it all feels so heavy.
I try to comfort myself that at least he has a life.
The Boy-Man critiques his father's approach with him and I consider his truth-telling-heart --
how he really doesn't understand, though he says he does;
it just takes so much effort to ask the whys and discipline challenges life's *fun*.
He hugs me and turns with tears in his eyes and I consider what point there is in leaving him --
getting ready in the dark of dawn to board a train to be gone for a night;
truth is, work sometimes takes more than it gives.
I consider how Grace isn't given as it should be -- mostly for ourselves.
The Boy wants to play goalie, but we already have one for his team, and I am afraid for the possibility he won't be given an opportunity . . . and for his disappointment some day.
I regret unfair words I spoke to him --
the way I took cheap, rude, cruel shots at his dreams and challenged his heart.
I failed to reach for the gift of grace.
And yet, it's grace that I See.
I wanted to quit on all those dreams and even encourage him to consider quitting, too.
Then, I reeled in pain over truth -- how turning our backs on dreams is death to life.
I was sorry for every snarled word I said and wanted to hold The Boy tightly.
I wanted to wake him up and encourage him
to chase hard and fast for those dreams . . .
because God put them there.
Because of Grace.
I want to make all of the Boy's dreams come true,
and make our days not be so rush-y and hurry-up all the time.
I want all his dreams to be sweet and his feelings to be happy.
Truth is, sad things happen and disappointment comes . . .
And dreams are sometimes unrealized in this lifetime . . .
But, does that have to mean they are dead?
Are not dreams Grace?
Just because a child leaves this life way too early than we think is right, does it mean her dreams weren't for purpose? Is there not grace for the pony wishing and dinosaur hunting?
I mess up . . . my Boy sometimes hurts . . . and I can't make things go my way . . . and
there are no guarantees except for Grace.
I think to myself how all of this wrestling and pondering isn't important when there are children who won't open gifts with their name on them and their parents are barely able to breathe.
Yet, my son's dreams, and his fatigue, and my hopes . . . are all so very real and indeed important. And the stupid fights we have and the sore throat from shouting . . . it's Real, and human.
Thank God for those children whose living has passed on -- whose dreams are remembered and still, purpose filled.
Thank God for those parents who are broken hearted -- who ponder what really mattered and for their dreams of men and women-growing.
Thank God for grace.
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