Last week I found out that Titus is losing weight again. I didn’t want to say it again. I didn’t want to type it. We have a good too many doctor appointments set up now between Little Rock and Kansas City, going from allergists to GI docs to neurosurgeons to pulmonologists. It’s okay. I know it’s okay. I know the grace for today thing.
I’m as fearless as I’ve ever been. I’ve got black paint beneath my eyes. Brass knuckles, and I’m not retreating. I’m only waiting, on reserve. I’m drinking hot tea instead of liquor. When Seth gets home, we find each other. Kitchen business, dishwasher clank and juice dribbled from counter to sink, and we’re there in the middle in slow motion – boys blurring around, and we’re in the middle. Skin to skin. Even hands touching say Jesus is near. Hands say breathe.
This is so dramatic, but everything is. Do we believe that Jesus lives?
Do we believe that Jesus lives inside?
Do you believe the Spirit of the living God is inside you?
Yesterday I held one of my best friend’s babies. He’s not just any swaddled child. After three amazing girls, this is the boy. The surprise. The Adam. She said, “We have a son. We have a son,” and I held him, like a million promises, and we sisters cried. Out of her beautiful bouquet, she gave me a rose.
I remember those first few hours after each of our four sons were born, that rush of hormones, oxytocin, my favorite drug, bring them milk, bring me sleep, give me labor rest, make me feel Jesus in my finger tips. It was love making at its finest, clamping down. Touch the skin, the baby as precious a creature as ever hit earth’s air. I’m half drunk in the memory.
I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen: my sons, our tomorrow, cellular structure, shield of faith, calm that holds, a hope that demons fear.