I remember the day my son was born.
“Come here, come see.” I’d say to every doctor, nurse, or visitor in the hospital hallway that day. “Come see my new son. I have big plans for this one.”
I already had four daughters, all of whom I loved more than life. I dreaded the days when they would become teenagers. But this time around I had prayed for a son. A son to do guy things with. My own dad hadn’t been around a lot and I knew I would do better. I would teach him all the things my dad didn’t teach me.
“Dear Lord,” I prayed, “Please let this one be a boy. I’ll teach him and show him how to be a man.”
He answered my prayer. I was thrilled. When my son became a young boy I got to work. I taught him about football, hunting and garage work. I remember getting frustrated when he seemed to prefer soccer, reading, and drawing. But it was okay, that’s why I was here…to teach him.
“Dear Lord,” I’d pray, “Please help him be more like me. Help him understand that I am trying to help him be a man.”
He answered my prayer. I wasn’t as thrilled. As my son grew so did our frustration. The harder I pushed the more he resisted. Soon my son’s frustration turned to resentment and by the time he was a young man it had turned to rebellion. Didn’t he understand how lucky he had it? Here I was trying to make him a man.
“Dear Lord,” I prayed, “Help me. I don’t know what to do with him anymore.”
He answered my prayer. I broke. A desperate choice landed my son in jail. How blind I had been. How much time I wasted. I loved my son but had I ever cared? Did I ever care about his talents? Did I ever care about what he wanted, dreamed or valued? I had wanted to make him a man, but what man? The man he was supposed to be, or the one that I had wanted to be.
“Dear Lord,” I prayed, “I have been a fool. I taught him how to be me, but very little about you. Is it too late? Please say no. Please give me another chance. He is no longer a boy, but please let me try to show him how to be a man, one who knows you and your plan.”
He answered my prayer. I waited. Every day I wrote letters. Letters to a son I barely knew anymore. I wrote of forgiveness and asked for my own. I wrote of love and acceptance. I wrote of lessons that should have been given long ago. Five years I wrote without reply until the day he knocked on the door. He was older, and tougher, and though he was a man I could only see my boy.
“I got your letters,” he said without any greeting, “I need to know Jesus can you show me how?
I was not ashamed of the tears that fell down my face as I hugged my son. Once again the Lord had answered my prayer. I was able to show my son how to be a man of God. As my son poured out his heart I could just picture the scene in heaven as Jesus called his angels….
“Come here, come see, come see my new son. I have big plans for this one.”
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