Eight times around the sun, my not so wee man, 2920 days (plus a few because I’m months late, as usual) you’ve populated our world with the force of your personality.
For the record, you love Dogman, actual dogs, baseball, skateboarding, Minecraft, legos, and jumping on the neighbor’s trampoline. Your best friend is your little brother and you are always up for snuggling your baby sister (who worships you unwaveringly.) You breeze through school with a mathematical bent, and perhaps, my most favorite, you have an uncanny ability to spot Stan Lee cameos in the Marvel cinematic universe.
In year eight, we learned again of the steadfast, loyal heart you have for your friends, a heart bruised a little by difficult goodbyes to the friends you do love so well and the hard work of starting over in a new town. You do the work well, though my son, and for that I am grateful. Your classmates voted you “Fabulous Friend,” and I pray that that will be the legacy you always leave in your wake.
In year eight, your strong sense of justice continues to develop, and I pray that you use it in the service of others, in the service of the gospel. Use it to fight injustice, to stand up when others are unwilling to do so. You have power, and you have privilege, son. Use it well.
You are sensitive – when you are wounded, yes, but more importantly to the wounds of others – and my son, caring for others makes you far more of a man than ignoring the wounds. By the grace of God, we will teach you to be strong, and brave, like the men of old you were named for, the mighty men of Asher. Enduring, too, but not at the cost of your sensitive soul.
Happy (very late) birthday, my steadfast, loyal mancub. As always, l pray you never forget how very much you are loved, and nothing, in this universe or any other, will ever, ever change that.
Love,
Mom.