Dear Million:
Two years ago, Daddy bought you a squeaky hedgehog dog toy and a hedgehog blanket.
I cried because you weren't home.
Last year, we bought you presents and a book.
I cried because you weren't home.
You celebrated you first Christmas with a photo album of us, clothes we sent that were already too small for you, and a toy hammer.
And I cried when I saw the pictures. Because you weren't home.
Tomorrow we will celebrate our Christmas with you at home.
And I'm pretty sure I'll cry.
We no longer know where the squeaky dog toy is. (I'm fairly certain BonAmi finally had his way with it.)
Your crib is no longer a symbol of a big empty place in our hearts.
You use the hedgehog blanket we bought you every night.
You will open presents from us. In person.
You will dance in your jammies to the Drifter's "I'm Dreaming Of a White Christmas" like you enjoy doing.
In your big-boy jammies that made me cry the first time you put them on.
You're growing so quickly.
What happened to the little one-word wonder from five months ago?
Million, what I want you to remember when you're a big man and hear about this Christmas is not what presents you got, not the silly things you say, or even how you enjoyed licking a plate that BonAmi had been cleaning off for us. What I want you to remember is the concept of "home."
Mama and Daddy try to make our family's house into an atmosphere that reflects what God wants a home to be.
But we know that try as hard as we may, we'll never have "the perfect home."
We're imperfect people.
And God doesn't want us to have the "perfect home" here on earth.
Because that is what He has in store for His children when they go to heaven.
Our attempts to make heavens here on earth cheapen the perfect home He has for us.
We become ungrateful, dissatisfied, and proud.
We worship the created rather than the Creator.
When you're a big man, I want you to think about what a home is.
And I want you to take delight in your earthly home without worshiping it. And I'd also love to know you will be joining me in my heavenly home.
Merry Christmas, little man.
Love,
Your teary-eyed Mama
Two years ago, Daddy bought you a squeaky hedgehog dog toy and a hedgehog blanket.
Last year, we bought you presents and a book.
You celebrated you first Christmas with a photo album of us, clothes we sent that were already too small for you, and a toy hammer.
Tomorrow we will celebrate our Christmas with you at home.
We no longer know where the squeaky dog toy is. (I'm fairly certain BonAmi finally had his way with it.)
Your crib is no longer a symbol of a big empty place in our hearts.
You use the hedgehog blanket we bought you every night.
You will open presents from us. In person.
You will dance in your jammies to the Drifter's "I'm Dreaming Of a White Christmas" like you enjoy doing.
In your big-boy jammies that made me cry the first time you put them on.
You're growing so quickly.
What happened to the little one-word wonder from five months ago?
Million, what I want you to remember when you're a big man and hear about this Christmas is not what presents you got, not the silly things you say, or even how you enjoyed licking a plate that BonAmi had been cleaning off for us. What I want you to remember is the concept of "home."
Mama and Daddy try to make our family's house into an atmosphere that reflects what God wants a home to be.
But we know that try as hard as we may, we'll never have "the perfect home."
We're imperfect people.
And God doesn't want us to have the "perfect home" here on earth.
Because that is what He has in store for His children when they go to heaven.
Our attempts to make heavens here on earth cheapen the perfect home He has for us.
We become ungrateful, dissatisfied, and proud.
We worship the created rather than the Creator.
When you're a big man, I want you to think about what a home is.
And I want you to take delight in your earthly home without worshiping it. And I'd also love to know you will be joining me in my heavenly home.
Merry Christmas, little man.
Love,
Your teary-eyed Mama
.... the deep heavenly words are failing me. too touched.
ReplyDeleteThe picture that hit me was the one from 2 years ago. And I was all... what the heck. That was NOT 2 years ago. It's too fresh.. and then I remember that I may have been a bit 'touched' and 'emotional' at that particular time in my packing haze. Funny the things that stick in our memories. I can't tell you much about that time, but that picture was too real.