I’m there when he comes home.
The bus stops and he’s grinning, each eager step a stretch the length of his leg, one arm steady on the rail, the other outstretched to greet my momma squeeze.
I'm crouching and hugging and I remember the mother on the news this morning, she wailed hysterics because her son is never coming home. And I remember a mother who watched from a distance as her Son hung from the tree, bled out from hands and feet. She watched Him die. But was she there when He ascended home?
Politicians fight power wars shutting down government funding to a mother whose son was killed in the very war that protects them. And now her son isn’t coming home.
Sons lost in war, a war on terror and a terror war among the things unseen.
Flesh and blood lost, one son’s body brought home and she can’t be there when they roll him lifeless off the plane. Another Son taken home after His tomb opens empty, and she prays faith in the promise that His Spirit will return.
My heart heavy I link my fingers through his and we take our time walking.
“Mommy, today we had gym and Mr. Armstrong says we can only wear tennis shoes, not Crocs.”
Washington, a stubborn mule, withholds death benefits to a mother, and can she afford to be there when they carry her son’s tomb onto American soil? Washington still gets paid. But who will pay for her son’s funeral? How will she bury the boy who lost his life?
And how does a mother grieve when her Son paid it all?
I tighten my grip on his hand. “Okay, buddy. I missed you today.”
Her son, he lost his life. And her Son, He gave His. And I walk with mine toward home, his words linger love to my soul, “I missed you too.”
