Boogs and Bean

--Barbershop--
Monday morning. Rise and shine. Boogs climbs down from bed and I know immediately that he has slept well. The evidence is on his head. I couldn’t possibly describe the craziness of this guy’s bed head. It’s out of control. When did it get that long? Didn’t I just cut it? I make a mental note that I must squeeze in haircuts and soon.
I learned to cut hair 13 years ago when my husband and I were newlyweds. He could never understand how the barber was able to give his undivided attention to the haircut while carrying on so much small talk, so he insisted I learn to cut his hair while avoiding needless chatter. I was reluctantly won over by the practicality of all the saved time and money. Over the years my new found skill expanded to include my two boys and my granddad.
I prop my oldest son up in the “haircutting” chair and place him in front of the TV to keep the wiggling and head bobbing to a minimum, and I set to work. He has this adorable little swirl right on the back of his head. I love it. His hair is so thick, just like his daddy’s used to be when I first started cutting it. (Don’t tell his daddy I said that.) Up next is my youngest. I smirk at the cowlick in the front, just like his uncle, and the way his hair forms a “C” around both ears just like his great-granddad. Isn’t that the way it goes? When a baby is born the debate begins as to which facial feature looks like which family member. But it doesn’t stop with the face. His reactions, temperaments, expressions often mirror that of one of his parents. When my son pushes all my buttons and sends me over the edge, I only need to find the nearest mirror to catch a glimpse of where that behavior originated.
I run my fingers through his hair, and my mind wanders. Do people look at me and see evidence of my heritage? Do my mannerisms point to my heavenly Father? Do my actions remind people of His love? Bean can entertain himself for hours. Whenever my mother-in-law is around she gets a gleam in her eye and reminisces, “He is just like his dad was at that age.” Boogs requires constant attention, and I have no choice but to grin and say, “He gets that from me.” I try to picture God looking at me, His child, and with warm fuzzies in His heart proclaiming, “See that love? She gets that from Me. See how she just showed that guy compassion? It reminds Me of My Son when He was on earth.” Can you imagine? I was made to glorify my Father, and I long to be worthy of His calling.4
I focus back in on the haircut. It’s time to trim around the ears. I must be careful because this is where the most evident mistakes are made. I push his ear forward and know that I will see a freckle. I move around front to trim a little more. I see an old scar and run my finger over it, my mind uncontrollably reliving the day it happened. I know all his freckles and scars. I know the birthmark on his leg that is so faint it is often mistaken for a spot that needs a second scrubbing in the bathtub. I know each crazy toenail; which one grows up, another down, and which one will always chip off between clippings. I know his cough, his laugh, his cry, and could pick his out in a crowded room of kids doing the same thing.
I am not Supermom. Any mom reading this could claim the same thing. It’s just part of being a parent. With this in the forefront of my mind, I ponder Psalm 139. I am speechless and awed by the intimacy. If this is how I feel about my son, how much more will my Father, the creator of this relationship, feel about me? Instead of fighting it or denying it, I bask in it. My children aren’t perfect, and yet I adore them. What makes me think that God would feel any differently?
Verse 2: You know when I sit and when I rise.
Boogs wakes at 6:20 am: rain, shine, weekday, weekend, early to bed or late night.
Verse 4: Before a word is on my tongue you, LORD, know it completely.
Bean may take two minutes to get the words out to ask me for something, but I usually know what he wants by the second word.
Verse 7: Where can I flee from your presence?
My mom always told me that she had a little birdie that followed me around and then came back and told her everything. This proved to be true enough times that I quit testing it. I’ll never forget the first time my son gawked at me and asked, “How did you know that?” Maybe I should give him a heads up about the birdie.
The chapter goes on to beautifully describe how God knit David together in his mother’s womb, there are no secrets, and how God saw his unformed body. I am reminded of my son’s tiny ultrasound picture, the sound of his heart beating, his little foot pressed against the inside of my abdomen and how he always seemed to get the hiccups about the time I was trying to go to sleep. I know this bond I have with my sons, but to think that the God of the universe feels that way about me is too wonderful for words.
I pick some loose hair off his cheek and perform one last inspection making sure I didn’t miss a spot. I send up a prayer of thanksgiving to my Father who knows all my freckles. He sees the scars, including the ones on my heart, and He remembers the moment I was hurt and how He was there each time to pick me up and give me whatever would be the equivalent of a Ninja Turtle Band-Aid.
My son hops down and runs to the bathtub, oblivious to his mom’s musings. Praise God that He loves me as His child even when I’m oblivious. Praise be to the God who knows the number of hairs on each one of His children’s heads.5