It's her beauty mark.  Just to the right of the center of her nose and an inch below viridian pool.   

7826fee463a011e1b9f1123138140926_7She chooses the color of her eyes (just one of her super powers), flashing from smokey steel to azure dagger to silent sea.  They dance cheerful, radiate kindness and hold mystery both tight and loose.  They ask questions, genuine and curious, they hide and tell.  Beryl…sapphire…tourmaline… emerald–they're precious gem.

But it's the beauty mark I always notice.  A spot of would-be-but-not-quite imperfection that sets her apart, that brands unique, that many don't see at all.  I tell her she'll know her husband when he notices it, cherishes it, and tells her he loves it. 

It's the details that speak love.

feet in the grassAnd for him, it's chin resting on my head, the obscenity that tells me he'll fly soon, the thing I love and hate.  His presence fills the room, not with breadth or stature–his metabolism is still faster than calories can stick (curse/blessing of youth)–but with his Very Being.  His laugh scatters sunbeams and his pout roars thunder.  He's in control of the weather ~ one of his super powers ~ and we adore and despise it.  His charm makes my heart butter and he wills me to laugh on a whim.  Because he can.

And because he knows sometimes that's just what I need.

6797707436_f0cc6f5d86-1The third is chatter and touch.  He gets two – baby's honor – though he's 5,000 days from babyDamn his time. 

Dawn to dark he fills space with stories, and there's no discrimination, either; mundane or magnificent are worthy for telling.  His words are beads threaded for Mardi Gras, colorful celebration of life.  Simple things others are quick to miss that send him on prattle's way. 

And when I'm near I always listen…

and sometimes I even hear.

He speaks love by touch.  It doesn't have to be skin-to-skin (though that's my favorite and I suspect his, too); sometimes touch is ministered by presence.  Then, it is soul-to-soul connection and as real as Velveteen.  He likes to share your space. 

And play–he gets three (mama's prerogative now).  He makes sport of everything; that might be his best super power.  This kid delights in a well formed stick, and he can make a toy out of a wad of paper and a rubber band.  Anyone can buy magnificent play things but only the rare invent new ways of doing.  Juggling on a Rip-Stik?  A skill to be mastered.

Three gifts sometime mistaken for nuisance, but as his 15th approaches I find myself praying that the best parts of each remain with him for now and always.

* * * * *

…and the familiar refrain of a very adult child's book runs on endless loop–

“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be…”


* * * * *

It's a beautiful mid 50°s day in Bavaria, a far cry from the 6°that greeted us when we deboarded the plane four weeks ago.  I walked outside without a coat for the first time since arriving, and not only that, I dug bare feet into German soil, another first.  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a weathered stony heart, silent under shy brush stripped bare.  Beneath cerulean sky and spirit-warming sun, I missed my children so much I bled 500 words.  



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