Planning Girls’ camp for my church has been overwhelming. So many details. Last night, one of the other leaders sat on my couch to discuss the many things I have to do in the next couple days…
My 3-year-old came to me crying, begging me to open the door to go outside. He needed to go outside and the door was stuck. I tried to comfort him, but I kept talking to Suzanne, trying not to get impatient. Summer days are long, you guys.
Again. Jude pled. “Mommy, open the door! I need a flower.”
Again, I told him to wait, that Mommy was talking to someone.
This scenario played out a few more times, and my little boy was in tears. Eventually though, he disappeared. A few minutes later and I heard a tapping at the back door.
There stood my boy, who had somehow found his way outside by himself. I opened the door, and he held up a single flower for me.
He had wanted to go outside to pick Mommy a flower, and that was more important to him than anything else. His determined spirit to do something kind for me brought a burning in my chest.
That kind of love is what stories are made of. My little Jude melts me. A mother’s love is nothing short of heavenly. At times.
Remind me that in a week….