My Son

My son was not strong
by any measure of man.
But his song I will sing whenever I can.

It sounds of truth
and rings out of grace,
Removing the veil and revealing God’s face.

My son was a picture
painted bold and bright.
His life throwing color on world’s canvas of night.

The subject unfolded,
a new stroke each day.
Until brought into focus was true joy’s way.

In the least likely place
and hard to explain.
Joy was found in the midst of the pain.

The awe of a life
and the wonder of birth.
My son was a gift of unspeakable worth.

His heart could not hold
his song came to rest.
And I am left with no son to hold on my chest.

My son was not strong
by any measure of man.
But his song I will sing whenever I can.

So ask of my boy,
consider it no bother.
When I tell of my son I tell of my Father.

This is a poem I found on another blog. The poem was written by a father who lost his little boy after ninety-nine days of life. I can't say that every word of this poem fits with our story, but so much of it does. I'm struggling with the part that speaks of finding joy, although from my previous losses, I know there's joy to be found. I especially love the last two stanzas.

I may not post anything new for a couple of days, I filled the next two days with a lot of distractions. Today, I was short and impatient with the kids a lot. I found myself easily frustrated and aggravated. Please pray that I will be loving and kind with my children, the way my Father is loving and kind to me.

Love,
Jennifer