My Little Warriors

I repost this ever so often mainly as a reminder to me.. but also as an explination to you, my reader, whoever you may be on my perspective of my boys.

my five year old warrior

I watch my five year old warrior lower himself into the steaming tub where mr.bubble ministers to the wounds my son has suffered in battle today. His arms bear the scratches from the apple tree he scaled, and both knees are streaked with bloody reminders of his encounter with the sidewalk while charging on his trusty bike. Gently i towel down his bruised thighs, dotted with bites from relentless mosquitoes. With vigor I rough up his sun bleached hair and shoo him into his room where he dresses himself for bed. A story, a prayer, a hug and a kiss. My brave warrior closes his eyes, and i stand back, marveling that this long, sturdy body, lying lumpy beneath the covers, once fit in my arms and nursed at my breast. Many summer nights, just like this one, I rocked him. For hours I rocked and i sang and I prayed. Oh, how i prayed! I close his door softly. My soldier needs sleep. Tomorrow great battles will be fought... in the sandbox, on his skateboard, with the neighborhood kids. He will return to me, bloodied and bruised, and there will be so little I can do. I have no power over scraped knees and stubbed toes. But the real battle- the one not against flesh and blood but against principalities and powers of the air- has already begun in his young life. And in that battle, i am the warrior. I pray. Oh, how i pray! that God will have the ultimate victory. - Robin jones Gunn