Yesterday evening I sang in a concert where a little nine-year old brunette played a snare drum while we sang of princes and fifes. The least emotional of our 20-piece program, yet I could hardly get the words out because I thought of my own little drummer boys and how they are turning into men.
my son, Perry
And when Sister Cutler handed me a list of songs and asked if my husband could play them for the ward Christmas party next weekend it hit me again. There on the list was "When Joseph Went to Bethlehem" I went back 20 years in my mind to when my first-born would sing this song. Each line went up in pitch until his neck was stretched out and his voice cracked and his dad and I would smile and ask him to do it again.
I am home today, taking a sick day. I will be blowing my nose and napping after I write to my missionary son. And as I walk back and forth past my Christmas tree I will see the handmade ornaments and the glittery stars cut out with six-year old hands and I may get a little misty.
Though we celebrate the birth and life of the baby Jesus on this holiday season, I find myself thinking of my own baby boys. Swaddled in my arms, with their own futures to face. And I love Him, and them, even more.