My Father's Son

The floorboards creaked. I opened my eyes. Light from the hall spilled into our room, and I saw Isaiah pad across the bedroom in footie pajamas. The green digitals of the alarm clock displayed the time. 4:05.

“I’m scared, Mama,” Zay said. He traveled to my side of the bed and raised his arms. Mine-O-Mine, his well-loved blanket, draped his shoulder.

I pushed the covers back to welcome Isaiah. Then I hoisted him up. “It’s okay, Zay,” I said. “Let’s snuggle.” I rearranged the covers and curved around my tiny, fleece-clad boy. He settled in, and Lonny curled around both of us. Then I closed my eyes against the light.

I was just about asleep when I heard a tender whisper.

“I love you, Isaiah. I’m glad that you’re my son,” Lonny said.

I listened to the rhythm of Isaiah’s soft, even breath and felt his chest rise and fall under my arm. “Lonny, I don’t think he can hear you,” I said.

“It’s okay,” Lonny said.

Then we all fell asleep.

The next day I sat beside Isaiah while he worked on a coloring page. His little tongue poked from of the corner of his mouth as he tried his hardest to stay in the lines. He was lost in concentration, so I was surprised when I heard another soft whisper.

“I am my daddy’s son,” Isaiah said. He head was still tipped down.

“Isaiah, what did you say?”          

My youngest guy lifted his head. He was radiant. Peace, pride, comfort, and joy were evident in his smile. With a strong, firm voice he repeated what he’d whispered -what he’d heard the night before.

“I am my daddy’s son.”

Lord, thank you for letting me raise these boys. And thank you for their daddy. I ask that all five boys would find their identity in You, that one day they’ll stand as men and with this same peace, pride, comfort and joy. Let them confess with their mouths and their lives - I AM MY FATHER’S SON.