Saturday, November 5, 2011

Ride With Me

My kind-hearted neighbor told me recently, "I don't do Jesus." This tickled me to no end, as I thought to myself, I really don't 'do Jesus' either. Through all of my years of Sunday school and MYF, I never believed that a compassionate person, no matter who or what they worshipped, would be doomed for eternity to the fiery pits of hell. Why would I worship someone who would do THAT? And yet, my head is often filled with thoughtful prayer as I stand at the fence and watch my sons climb the starting hill to take their places in the gate.

Emerald Angel, Mignon Wolfe 1996

So, if I don't really "do Jesus", who am I talking to?

My mom was an artist, painting angels and flowers and all things beautiful.

William's Firetruck, Mignon Wolfe 2004
On the back it says, "To William on your 3rd birthday. I will love you always, Mimi"

She died suddenly one November when William was only three. Flooded by grief, one thought raged in my mind. She'll never know her grandsons. 

William and my Mom, August 2003

I often wonder what she would think of them. I think she'd marvel over William's tenacious drive for perfection in all things, and laugh over my complaints about the way he nit-picks his brother. "He's just like your sister at that age",  I imagine her saying with a knowing smile. How would she feel knowing her seat at our piano is now occupied by Wyatt, who, with his blonde locks and vibrant personality, is her spitting image?

My Mom and Wyatt,  Mardi Gras 2004
I'd like to think she'd burst with pride. To her, they would be the most wonderful boys between here and the moon.

I wish she could stand by me at that fence and share the excitement and anticipation. Instead I send my silent plea. Keep them safe. Ride with them.

Seven years later I allow myself to dream that she is where she is meant to be.


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