Note: This is a reprint of the letter I wrote you for your senior year Kairos (“God’s Time”) retreat. Maybe you saved it, maybe you didn’t, but I thought these words were worth capturing in your book.
You were born blue. It took a few seconds for you to
start breathing and it turned your whole body blue for a few terrifying
heartbeats. I don’t think I have ever prayed harder than I did in
those moments following your birth. As I watched the doctors poke your
tiny body and listen to your tiny lungs, I knew I would call you Samuel, which
means “heard God.”
“You have a son,” God told me in the endless seconds it took
for you to take your first breath. And I whispered those words back to
you when they finally laid you in my arms. “I have a son,” I said to you.
You looked up at me with your wise baby eyes as if to say, “No duh.” Even
your baby sarcasm couldn’t rattle my joy, though. I had a son. I had you,
and I knew God had heard my prayers.
In the years that followed, I wasn’t sure I was cut out to be
a boy mom. I didn’t know what to do with a child who tried to swing from
the curtains after watching Tarzan (in case you are wondering, it didn’t
work). I wasn’t prepared to deal with the Orbeez you stuck in your ear
(BOTH ears). None of the baby books prepared me for “Shrek” to be your
first word. We visited the emergency room for stitches so many times when
you were in grade school that one summer I asked the ER doc if they had a
punchcard—buy 4 visits, the 5th one is free! You have always
kept us on our toes.
But you have always been brave. The first time you
jumped off the diving board at the swimming pool, you told me you were going to
do a flip. I told you this was probably not a good idea, that since you
had never jumped all alone you should just try and hop off the end and swim to
the side. You gave me that same incredulous look you’ve been giving me
since birth, and said calmly, “Nah. I’m going to flip.” And sure
enough, you marched confidently to the ladder, climbed up, strode to the front
of the board, and executed a perfect front flip. I’m not sure if fear
ever entered your mind.
You are also kind. When you don’t know I’m looking, I
watch you with your friends and your little cousins. I see you notice
when someone needs a hand, or an encouraging word, or a treat from your endless
stash of sweets. When we visited the Mexican cenotes, you slowed down to
help me and my bum foot up the rocky paths. Your teachers tell me you are
sensitive and aware of your classmates. They say you are a friend to all,
and I can see in their eyes how impressed they are with your authenticity and
genuine kindness. You try and hide it with your snarky comments and
humor, but I see it, and I relish it.
I know growing up in our house can be challenging. We
are big—a big family with big bodies and big personalities, big messes, big
noise, big plans, big fights. We aren’t often gentle with one another,
and I know that hasn’t always been easy for you. I’m sorry if I didn’t
always protect your sensitive heart in all that chaos. I know you could
probably have used a little more tenderness along the way. I should have
slowed down and listened more, looked after your spirit with softer words and
some slower moments.
Do you remember that book we used to read, I’ll Love You
Forever? The repeated line is burned onto my heart when I think of
you as a little boy: “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as
long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” You probably don’t remember that
I used to cry when I read that to you. I always knew you would grow up
into the great strong man you have become, and I knew I’d miss that curly
headed boy who stuck things in his ears and broke my furniture and always
needed stitches. I do miss him, but I wouldn’t trade him in a million
years for the man you are becoming.
I am so excited to see where your life takes you in the next
few years. I know a brave and kind and funny boy like you will find
success wherever he lands. It will be a wild and wonderful ride, and I
hope you’ll let me come along to keep cheering from the sidelines.
I am so proud of you for making this retreat. You know
my faith has always been extremely important to me. I don’t know how to
get by in this life without it. I hope you can live up to your name and
honestly say you have “heard God” this weekend. I pray that this puts you on a
path of seeking God’s will for your life, because if you live close to Him and
His purpose for you, you will find a life of joy and meaning beyond anything
this world can offer. I could wish nothing more for you.
I don’t know how to put into words my joy and pride in being
your mom. Thank you for letting me share this life with you. You
are everything I prayed for in the breathless, blue moment of your
birth.
Love you forever, Mom
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