... and when he is old ...

"Hi, Mom," I hear. A man's voice, and not my son's, comes crackling through the phone.

I scooch up higher in bed, hoping the extra few inches will land me in that elusive current of "Yes, I can hear you now." It works.

We'd spoken earlier in the day, when his father and I had walked together down a long gray strip of gray in a tunnel of sun-flecked firs. He'd sounded cranky then. Bible college has its moments.

"Sorry about earlier," he tells me now. "There's a lot of warfare down here. I didn't mean to be so crabby."

Warfare. Like migrating birds and winds and well-wishes, warfare honors no borders. Its arms are long and unhindered, its claws hungry for flesh.

We swap war stories for a minute. And then my boy begins ministering. "Read Psalms 7, Mom. The whole thing." Without the benefit of his Bible, he quotes words that pierce and burrow, soothe and heal.

This is the child who once doubted. This is the boy I've dreamed giant dreams for, prayed mountainous prayers over.

"I'll be praying for you, Mom," he says, after we've spent the better part of an hour talking about God, and His goodness, our worship of Him, and the new work He's doing in our midst.

"Goodnight, honey," I tell them all ... the man he is this moment, the man he'll be tomorrow, and the boy still there--the boy who would fall asleep to my half-whispered songs.

Beautiful, beautiful
Jesus is beautiful
And Jesus makes beautiful things of my life

Carefully watching me
Causing my eyes to see
That Jesus makes beautiful things of my life