I'm sitting here in my craft room, making out my wish list for Close to My Heart. I don't have a comprehensive list and am sure I need one.
A little bit ago, my son came in the house and asked for permission to ride his bike to the gas station downtown for some jerky. This is a momentous thing for an eleven year old. A couple of his buddies were going and even though his dad said there's too much traffic, I felt that he was ready for the responsibility.
I gave him a couple of dollars so he could buy a bottle of water at the store: I knew he'd be thirsty. It's still about 90 degrees, and it's 8 PM here.
He kissed me goodbye and was off with his buddies before I could see them ride away.
I sent him a text telling him to let me know when they got there and when they were on their way back. I heard nothing from him, but wasn't worried. I usually reach panic mode, but wasn't there yet.
Then a bit of red caught my eye out the window. It was his two buddies riding up the incline on the sidewalk that leads to our drive way. And I don't see George anywhere. I watch the boys. One looks behind him, but the other doesn't even look. They are on a mission. Heading home, or to the first boys' house, which they are known to do.
And 30 seconds later, I see my son.
Riding along at his own pace.
And I say a small prayer:
"God, please don't let him feel like I feel for him."
Like he was left behind.