A few days ago, my 13 yo son, Lincoln, was worried about one of his rabbits. She had been wounded, her eye oozing blood from a predator attempting to get into her cage. After much debate, we finally decided to leave her alone, hoping she would heal on her own. Lincoln felt helpless. He could find no peace, couldn’t focus on school, his thoughts unsettled. I held his hand and prayed with him, encouraging him to “take his thoughts captive.”
A little later, he came down the stairs with a smile on his face. “I was having a hard time,” he said. “I went to your blog and read your latest post and it calmed me down.”
My blog . . . . .I’ve always disliked that word . . . . . . this place where I write — it is my psalm.
For years, it has been my refrain —– an intentional, repeated focus on what is good, true, and praiseworthy.
And also an expression of hope and trust that there will be more joy on the morrow.
At first, it struck me as a novel, and encouraging, thought that perhaps my own psalm could function as my son’s psalm too. Though further thought proved less surprising — my stories are his stories. They belong to him too.
Maybe one day, when he is older and our paths diverge, he will write his own stories, his own psalms.