Today I was reading an prayer book from my library and found a note from my now 30-year-old son from probably his 8th or 9th year. I had placed it there as a bookmark. He wrote it to me one Fall when he and his two sisters and my incredible wife were traveling to West Virginia to help great-grandma move from the farmhouse to grandma’s house for the winter. I was going to be alone for two weeks and the kids wrote notes to encourage me.
I treasure these notes. They are dotted across the shelves of my library, in books that I return to over and over where they greet me anew as I find them waiting for me like waterfalls of joy. I never grow tired of them. I always rejoice in them. And they always produce new prayers from my heart to the throne of grace that God would protect and draw my children into a more passionate pursuit of Him who died and rose for them.
I love finding these surprises almost as much as a new phone call or a new letter, email, or text from my son or daughters. One of those notes makes my day. But they also make me regret that I didn’t send more of these kinds of notes to my own parents when I had the opportunity.
I don’t have a direction or point to this post, just a sense of joy in a son’s boyhood love for his father coupled with my own adult regret at having given so little to my parents before they moved their address to heaven. Two contrasting emotions living side by side in a heart.