I Am Allowed to Stare At Him
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 an