Like a pressed flower
It’s sad how fast the children grow. It happens in the dark as you sleep, in the dark, as you live and work and wither. Their little fingers, stretch out, large enough to hold your hand. Their legs grow large and cumbersome, too cumbersome to sit on your lap or shoulders. Their arms reach around you… where as before, they only clutched you.
I stood over my son as he slept tonight, something I hav’nt done in quiet awhile. I used to sneak in beside his bed every night, sometimes I would look at his delicate chest moving up and down and pray for his heart…. sometimes I would look at his seemingly innocent face and cry for the task before me, that for any father with love, is almost unbearable. Once or twice I cried for my sin in his room, as he slept, a baby; I would cry for that child I once was and the man I must be for him.
A weepy man you may say, and it is so, But never have I shed so many tears than with and for my son. Tears of regret, tears of worry, tears of fear, confusion the list goes on.
The reason I walked into his room tonight was a flash back I had, this memory caused my nose to run and tears to pucker in my eyes. A very simple and small memory, a moment of maybe five seconds in a life years ago. He was crying, he was scared to the deepest core… I don’t remember what it was that frightened him so, maybe lightning, maybe a spider, a dream… I don’t remember. I only remember the fear and utter helpless look of his tears and buckling little legs as he ran to me clutching me with arms that could only clutch and not surround. I had never seen him so afraid, and I hope that I comforted him and made him feel safe… but sadly, I don’t remember that either, only the five seconds as he ran and clutched me.
I noticed his legs long, he looked like a miniature man as I stood over his bed tonight, and for some strange reason, he looked not as he should be… He should be small and delicate. Now he is tall and strong, everyday stronger and more potent, and me, every day, more tired, old and confused.
Those five seconds are, even now, a shadow, with ghost trails as he runs across the room to me, I pray that this memory, will fade no more. I loose so many memories of him as it is, as if I was never to posses him… only to love, cherish and protect him right now.
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One Response to “Like a pressed flower”
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Hey Ezra,
just discovered your music today and am enjoying it very much. Thanks.
I was especially moved by how you spoke of your son. I, too, have a son (almost 3 yrs.) and I, too, stand over his bed at night praying for him. I have two little girls as well and pray for them also, but it's a different prayer. Every bit as much love, but a different prayer. I think it's much, much more difficult to be a real man in today's world. Being a Christian is hard enough at times, but carrying the responsibilities that God has given to men can sometimes be overwhelming. I, too, cry for my sin and for my inability at times (many times) to be the Godly example of a man before my son. I named my son Elijah because it means, "man of God" and that is what i so desparately want him to be.
I will lift you up in my prayers and would ask that you might remember me as well on occassion, as we are in this battle together.
Thanks for your words and your music. Both are inspiring and encouraging.
Allen Combs