Oceans For Emotions: Love for sons only grows
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Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and whether it be right.
- Proverbs 20:11
God has blessed me with two of the loveliest sons I could ever imagine, except maybe his. They are grown men now, but I have memorized each of them and know their hearts by heart. From the time they were born, they have changed into men, but have not changed much since they were children.
One of them is spending part of the week with me, and I know and can predict his likes and dislikes in most every way.
If it was Brad, my youngest son, I could predict that with this beautiful weather, calm seas, partly sunny skies and little breeze, I would hear him early on the first morning he was home getting out the fishing tackle and loading the car.
When we got to Magnolia beach, we would look at each other and nod in recognition and say, "Crabbing bridge." He would ask, "Do you want to fish here across from where the tree used to be when I was little?"
That tree hasn't been there in 20 years, but I knew the location of the shell reef he was referring to. He would say, "I know, Mom, we have to go up to the beach brick bathrooms before we could start fishing, and I know you don't want to die in a beach bathroom," and we would laugh at our private joke.
Brad would say, "I'm used to driving all the way down the beach road to the Indianola fishing center before we start fishing to check out how everyone is doing along the beach front. Mom, I really didn't care how anyone else was doing, but I knew the beach front was the only place you would let me drive when I was just 14." I would reply in a motherly tone, "I know it, Brad. But it was a fun game we played."
A little farther down the fishing road, we would stop where a group of rocks jut out of the water and I'd say a little silent prayer. I'd say, "Thank you, God, for Your son; He was perfect. My sons aren't, but thank you for loving them anyway."
Then we would stop at the Indianola Fishing Center, eat pimento cheese sandwiches that we make in the car, but never eat the corners, for that's what we throw to the seagulls who, later, will dip and dive to show us where to fish.
Brad and I would eat fresh fish for supper.
But Brad is not the son that is staying with me this week. I'm lucky enough to have his older brother, Buck - (yes, Buck Wheat). With my blessings, he changed his name to Jonathan when he became of age, but I can't call him that. He's "my Buck" in my mind, my heart, and my prayers at the jagged rocks - my seaside chapel.
Buck's recent piano performances have been broadcast on Chicago Public Radio. I listened to him introduce my great-nephew, Zach, to playing the piano and it was so wonderful to see how it could be passed from one generation from the next. (The only thing I can do on a piano is dust it).
Buck also amazed us with his singing; he performs in a select choir at the Episcopal Cathedral in Chicago, as well. I'm glad he came from a musical family - at least on his dad's side. If he did get any genes from me, I'll bet they're fish-stained.
Dear Lord, I know you are the omnipotent Creator because those squirmy little things you gave me as babies grew up into two of the most beautiful, but different, men. Even though I wasn't a perfect mother, thank you for blessing us all with Your love and the love we have for each other.