I shuffle through the living room headed to my mug of hot tea waiting in the kitchen. My little man is trailing me.
He notices the Book on the table.
Still there from last night.
That bible’s been through hard times, mom.
Weighted words gliding lightly from an innocent tongue. Truth falling heavy on a drowsy heart.
His father’s bible.
A bible falling apart. The mainstay of one who’s solid as a rock.
Late at night.
My husband awake.
Yet not alone.
Patiently discipling our youngest son as they traverse rocky terrain.
Just look at it, mommy.
I see it.
Oh my child.
If you only knew.
My eyes gaze just past the bible of hard times.
A smaller Book rests comfortably in the shadow of the seasoned one.
A veteran guiding the vulnerable.
The ripened and prepared fertilizing the budding bloom.
Delicate and precious moments spent tenderly with one another.
Refusing to tiptoe even through battlegrounds.
My little man will one day have a bible like his father’s.
The father with his son.
Living life fully.
With hard times bibles in hand.