needed things
And he is six and he walks into the kitchen, all tousled hair, sleepy eyes, and sweetness. And we tell him. His face is so small and dear, so tiny and he doesn't understand the depth of our words. In that moment I am 11 and instantly have wisdom beyond my years because of that look of innocence and because I know a little more than he. And he is thirteen and he is confused, growing and lonely. I'm driving us down the road and I'm singing a song of love for a God Who is beginning to fill in my blank and wrecked spaces. He is dozing beside me, mumbling that I am a good singer, that he likes the song. Yet I cannot be the arms that hold him because my own grief wells inside of me, by times, that I fear it may consume me. He is still so small and young and yet he knows too much and has felt too much. I feel I am his protector and I am not able to fix this. I cannot be what he needs and there is an ache that I shouldn't know and I do and be...