The heart of him

He brings home the prayer journal he's kept at church. Sweet, short prayers ending in Jesus' name with cryptic y's and g's dotting the pages (I'm afraid to ask, don't want him to know I've been peeking).  I flip through it anyway because what mother doesn't want to know what her child talks to God about?

He writes about friends with injuries, family travels, and brother with split lip. He thanks God for mom and dad, for home and school. And he writes about death and Ireland.

I hesitate to photograph or expose this holy moment. I cry at the heart of him.

Because I don't want him to think it's more about money than people, don't want him to worry about the future, don't want to burden him with uncertainty. But also because he loves, he believes God is good, and he knows we ultimately belong where Jesus is.

Which brings me to the second thing he brought home.

If You'd Been There / Jesus Appears to Jackson

His response? OMG. 

I cry again at the heart of him, laughing through tears.

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