Eyes filled to brim.
Body shaken and tense.
Confusion, disappointment contort the face of child at jagged edge of manhood.
He didn’t get in.
Questions, tears escape together.
“Why is he luckier than me?“
Spiritual warfare wages. This boy formed in my womb, knows of God. But doesn’t know the Father who can only be known through time and trial and…seeking.
Teeth clenched, heart aching. Determined. Satan will not win. Not this battle. Not. this. boy.
“Satan, get away!”
Words come. God’s ambassador to this boys heart. I tell him about the Father I know.
Higher ways. Wiser thoughts.
Good. My good. The good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.
Faith. Without knowing. Without seeing. Abiding.
And . . .
It’s okay to be angry. But tell Him. It’s okay for the words to be raw. He’ll hear your heart.
Tell Him. Ask Him. Trust Him. Thank Him.
Lies seem true. But they are lies construed to deceive. To trap. To kill.
Seek God. Whole heart. Entire mind.
He is good. He is true. Always. Infinitely. Forever.
I am thankful for my own scars. For the trial by fire that nearly consumed me.
Because, I know my God. I know how to find Him.
So, I draw this sweet man-child a map. Instill a compass in his heart. So he can find his way through the storms and fires and wreckage.
Jesus, my sweet son. Jesus. He is the way. The truth. The life.
God. He is Yours. You are good. He is Yours. I like to think he’s mine. But in these moments I am thankful he is not. Take Him Father. He is Yours.