My children are beautiful. That may seem odd considering they're both boys, but the truth remains. I'm bowled over by the sheer awesomeness on a daily basis. At ages five and two, they're precocious, vibrant tornadoes, all discolored knees, toy trucks, Goldfish crackers, and toot (and booger and poop and pee and anything gross) jokes.
Right now, the entire world pretty much loves 'em as much as their father and I do. Kids have a way of disarming just about everybody with their precious innocence and shameless abandon, don't they?
One day, however, there will be a shift. Though biracial, they'll be seen as Black men, and in this country, that is...problematic.
As a mother, of course I worry. I carry this knowledge with me and it is
, y'all. And sometimes, I just don't know what to do except cry, hoping the Good Shepherd can decipher the blubbering and tears of despair because there
a prayer in there somewhere.
And then I find that blessed reassurance, once again:
Why, my soul, are you downcast?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.
I will get up. I will move forward. I will not live in fear.
This post is part of the
celebration hosted by the wonderful
! If you'd like to join us, all you've got to do is write for five minutes--today's prompt is
. Then, leave a comment or two on a few other blogs. Easy-peasy, right?