Letter to my 3-month-old son

Justus Thor,

As soon as you were born, you lifted your head off my chest.  You held yourself up with your strong little neck as you blinked and looked into my eyes.  It was a moment I'll never forget.

My mind couldn't wrap around how I was staring at a little person who was half me and half your amazing daddy.  A little person who I instantly knew I would gladly die for without a second thought.

Your little fingers and toes are so very miniature and perfect.  It's incredibly hard to explain why a mom finds those things so breathtaking.

You're such a serious and observant fellow much of the time, but you smile with your whole body.  Your cheeks and your whole face squish up until we can hardly see your eyes at all, and you kick your legs out as you crunch in half like you're doing a major sit-up.  At the same time, you squeal with delight.  It lights up a room and makes me laugh.

When you're sick, you hate sleeping alone, so sometimes I will pull you close to me and marvel at your adorable little face as you dream.  I think to myself that I know I'm biased, but to me you are just the cutest thing that ever lived.  And while you sleep you stir with a frown and reach out your hand to feel if I'm there.  If your hand touches my arm, you keep it there and go instantly back to sleep.  But if your fingers find nothing but the air, your little coughs are interrupted by whimpers because you want to be close to someone.

Little one, I am overwhelmingly filled with joy to steward your little life for a season, but you are not mine.

I call you "mine" in the way that a jeweler might call "his" the priceless jewel he has been commissioned to polish, set, and protect from thievery.  You are on loan.  You do not belong to me.

I once heard it said, "The day your baby is born is the day you begin letting go."  

As much as it waxed profound and tugged at my heart strings, I knew I could not accept it as true.

You have never been, and never will be, mine to let go.  I shared this with your daddy when you were four days old.  You, like everyone and everything else in my life here on earth, are held in the open, outstretched palm of my hand.  You and all the rest in the hand are God's... to place there, to take back, to rearrange and mix around and use and tweak.  May I never clutch my fingers up and over you, necessitating a painful lesson in having my hand pried open so that I learn to let go.

I pray often that I may never mistake selfish possessiveness for love.

May I never mistake sentiment for love.

May my love for you be pure-- no ordinary human love, but the wise and self-sacrificing love of Jesus that I don't have in myself alone.  That love can be poured out from Him, through me, to you.

Possessiveness besets many a parent.  I pray that I will have no greater joy than knowing that my child walks in the truth, even if your walking takes you far away from me...  because it's not about me.  It is all-- this cosmic, unfathomable story of the ages-- about our precious Savior.

And if your life follows Jesus to some distant country and people who have never heard the Gospel...  I pray that the tears in my eyes will never affect you more than does the image of the nails in His hands.

Life will hurt you, little man.  And many times I will ache for you with the knowledge that I cannot protect you from it.  Know this:  Jesus is the only one Who will always be there for you.  Grab onto Him and cling to Him like a life raft outside a sinking vessel... like your very life depends on it, because it does.

Know that all the junk this world has to offer is just that: junk.  You can take it from me, or from Scripture, or you can take it from people who have guzzled from the silver chalice of all the most enticing things of earth and in the end only find themselves more empty.

Don't follow your heart.  Your heart will lure and deceive you and break itself into a thousand pieces if given half the chance.  But don't crush your emotions as only foolish and wrong.  Weigh and measure them up against the truth that is exclusively found in God's Word.

You are precious and beautiful, but you are not an "angel."  You are more than an angel.
Children of God understand things that Scripture says angels do not:  "Angels long to look into these things."  Nor are you a saint.  You are full to the brim with a sinful nature that pits itself against the Lover of your very soul.  Yet, though your sins are as scarlet, they can be white as snow.  That is a promise of God.  The "saints of God" are simply those of us who have been cleansed by His blood.

You are not an angel.  But I pray with all of my heart that you will be a saint.

I am limitlessly proud of you, but not so blind as to think that you are the most gifted baby who ever lived.  On a simply human level, you will be exceptional in some ways, average in some, weak in others.  I will cheer you on and my heart will burst with happiness for you with your every success.

Nonetheless, dear one, know that at the end of it all, my feelings for you have nothing to do with your achievements.  I frankly don't care about how you stack up against other babies.  I will not chart and track your progress as if you're a lab experiment.

You are and will be well above average in many areas-- this does not make you "more than."
You may be very average or even below in others-- it does not make you "less than."
All of it matters not.  God made you.  And who He made you is perfect.

There is only one Person I hope you know:  Christ.  

There is only one kind of person I hope you grow up to be:  His.  

There is only one cause I long for your heart to wrap around:  His Kingdom.  

There is only one kind of woman I could wish for you:  a daughter of the King.

There is only one particular place I hope you live:  seated with Him in the Heavenlies, your eyes never wavering from the perspective of the eternal.  

And there is only one destination I wish for you:  Heaven.

Be strong, precious young man.  Listen to your father and emulate Jesus.  Grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior.

I love you always and forever, no matter what.

Momma