I am allowed to stare at him.
I am his mother.
I admire the man he is.
His was the soft little fuzzy head, my infant son,
that I cradled on my arm
and caressed with my hand.
He doesn’t know how my eyes
are adoring his profile,
following the line from the top of his forehead
to his chin - so familiar to me.
I watch him handle his instrument,
engrossed in his craft.
He is unaware
of the power of the love I have for him.
Because the emotion is screwing up my face,
I have to divert my eyes
and distract my thoughts.
If I look any longer, I’ll embarrass myself
in this public place;
but maybe that would be okay.
I turn my eyes to my child’s child,
dozing on his mother’s shoulder;
his fuzzy head hanging limp.
How beautiful the pride of motherhood looks on her
– who is carrying another child I cannot see.
Thank you, Lord, for joy in my motherhood!
+ + + + + + + + + + +
Perched in the choir near my husband and daughter, I could observe my son on his guitar. What a blessed woman I am, to stand and worship God in this place - with my family!