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Dear Flint,

We've had a bit of a rough go of it the past few days, you and I, haven't we? I've even delayed writing your birthday letter because of it, though I knew I shouldn't.

Nearly 3 years now we've been together, little man. I think it's safe to say that we've both been deeply challenged. You, learning to be my boy, and me learning to be your mommy. Though we spend most moments in the presence of one another, we've found it difficult to get to know each other. Figuring out how to communicate so that we can understand one another has proven to be a rocky, tumultuous path. We've encountered more road blocks than I can count.

I'd like to say we're past all that. That you and I, mother and son, have moved on beyond our struggles. That you feel safely mine, and I protectively yours. That freely we speak openly to each other, baring souls when necessary (to the extent that a young boy does!), sufficiently bonding, knitting hearts together.  But weeks like this one remind me that's not quite the case. Not just yet.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about your Ethiopian mommy. I heard a woman who had been in a tragic accident and crossed over to heaven, only to come back to earth again, speaking on tv about the people greeting her as she arrived. They were filled with love and affection for her. Though I was running on the treadmill at the time, I couldn't stop the tears from flooding my eyes, then streaming down my face. I thought of your mother in heaven, waiting. For you, for me. I pray that I meet her first. When I arrive, how will she greet me? Have I earned any measure of gratitude from her whatsoever? Have I treated her son as she would? Have I claimed him as my very own, to the depth of my being? Will she be glad to see me? Or will she find fault. This idea haunts me.

Oh, Flint. How I want to make your mommy proud, pleased. Lord, let me do right by her. I've been granted such a lofty gift. The weight of it sometimes bears down on me. Despite the obstacles that stand between us, the immense work that is required, let me be up to the task. I pray for perseverance to press forward, reaching for you. That you will feel, accept, know, envelope my love. Without question. That I pour it out without reserve.

I want to make you glad, that of all places, you arrived here.

You are a beautiful child. Your smile lights up a room. Your big, dark eyes, they truly sparkle. You are a fantastic speller, an artist, a colorer extraordinaire. Your laugh is infectious. You have a kindness about you that is rare. The way you play and engage with your siblings, especially your little sister melts my heart. Your willingness to jump in to help not only her but anyone, at all times, no matter how or when they ask is exceptional. Clover truly loves you, Flint. So much. And I do too. You are rich in mercy, patient with me as I grow. May I be the same to you.

Your first seven years of life have been far from easy. I'm sorry for all you've been through, more than any child should be asked endure. I will do all I can to fill the next seven with security and joy.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.

God bless you.

May the Lord answer you when you are in distress;
may the name of the God of Jacob protect you.
May he send you help from the sanctuary
and grant you support from Zion.
May he remember all your sacrifices
and accept your burnt offerings.
May he give you the desire of your heart
and make all your plans succeed.
May we shout for joy over your victory
and lift up our banners in the name of our God.
May the Lord grant all your requests.
Psalm 20:1-5