"Pray for my arm, mama. Pray for my arm."
I almost missed the moment, small as it started out. To most, it was no big deal, really. But as the cloud of mindless distraction dissipated, I realized the largeness of his request.
It was the first time he had asked me to pray for him with absolute insistence. He offered up his arm with deep concern, displaying the the little red badge of courage on his wrist. He hadn't noticed it earlier when he had slipped outside on his bike. The fall didn't even cause tears. But the small reddish scratch now so apparent to him was suddenly big enough to be an urgent matter of prayer.
So, we prayed. "Dear Jesus, heal my scratch so it feels better soon. Amen."
After, he smiled and nodded, gave me hug and moved on to play with his train set. Of course, not without a kiss to the wounded wrist first to seal the prayer.
I could have missed this moment, a chance to water the seeds we had already been planting in his heart. I almost did.
I also could have dismissed him. The truth is he had been misbehaving when he slipped on his bike outside. He had defied direct orders not to go to the side of the house where ice made conditions dangerous for already unsteady little hands and feet.
I could have missed it all. But by God's grace, I didn't.
By God's grace, I let my son's concerns interrupt my mindlessness.
By God's grace, I let the consequence of his disobedience not even be a factor in our prayer.
By God's grace, I connected with my son at his most urgent need: for me to pay attention, to love him in spite of himself, and to bring all his urgent matters before the Lord.
By God's grace, I get to be his mama.
And that's a pretty big deal.
