God’s Man

Dear CJ,

Time marches on and so do you.

At 2 ½, you march about in your Crocs, your sneakers, your rain boots.

When Papa and I ventured to the park with you last weekend, we packed your balance bike in the truck bed. We arrived and you marched across the parking lot and in a flash, hopped on your bike and cruised down the sidewalk and off-road–a graveled path curling through the woods.

Your Papa and I laughed, jogging to keep up, and in that moment the burdens of life lifted and floated away. I glanced at your grandfather and remembered the two of us a quarter of a century ago, so young, vibrant, with two little boys of our own.

Time is a trick, a mist, a vapor.

Poof.

Gone.

The cold air whipped and spun, brushing our faces to life as we entered a small clearing. A moment later we landed the jackpot– a wooden bridge arching over a stream.

Oh! You said, dropping your bike and crouching low, as toddlers do.

There was serious work to accomplish, the job of rock collecting. We heard you counting the tiny stones: One, two, three.

Let’s throw them in the stream, CJ, and hear them splash! I proposed and you turned, eyes dancing at this happy invitation.

Running to the bridge, you hurled the rocks with all of your might, watching as they careened into the air, dropping heavy and plunking beneath the water’s surface, sending rippled waves outward. Papa praised your efforts which spurred you to poke around for more things to pitch into that lazy stream.

I knelt down, helping you stockpile more rocks, and you even squirreled a few away, safe in your zippered fleece pocket. We gathered tiny twigs and crunchy leaves, which, once airborne, yielded vastly different results than the splash of stones.

Papa and I once had three little boys who played with rocks. Our firstborn, your Daddy, collected many, scooping them into his lifted t-shirt. These stones became football players–lined up in perfect formation. As he shuffled them down the backyard field of grass the running back scored, the commentator shouted, and the crowd roared.

Our secondborn, your Uncle Jacob, discovered a rock that whispered his name, and it became his friendly pet. He carried it in his pocket, buckled it in the car, and gentled it on his dresser come nightfall, as the moon rose high. The same full moon that you, Papa, and I studied on our ride home last weekend.

God made the moon, you said, breaking the momentary silence, and we cheered while you kicked your legs in delight, warming up for more pronouncements.

God made the sun, God made the trees, God made the road, you added for good measure, producing another grand ovation.

We are your biggest fans.

And our third little boy, your Uncle Marcus, was your age when he plucked handfuls of white garden rocks, rehoming them from the back garden to the front perennial flower beds. Occasionally, his little arm would hurl one onto the driveway, just for fun.

Good throw! I said. He smiled shyly, humming as he kept on working.

At night, when I gathered up his muddy t-shirt and overalls to baptize by way of washing machine, my hands scoured the small pockets and were rewarded with treasures aplenty: rocks, sticks, leaves.

My little boys are now tall, strong, men. Men who love God.

Remember, they were once little boys, collecting stones.

Just like you.

Every time you visit, we romp outdoors, prompting you to work up a gigantic appetite that is met with plump grilled cheese sandwiches, cut into triangles, and rounded off with a bowl of applesauce. You clasp and fold your hands, squeezing shut your eyes as Papa prays, just as your parents have trained you to do. Your Mommy and Daddy have also been teaching you please and thank you and you offer these words to us, proudly. Our affirmation of such politeness sends your fine manners soaring to skyscraper heights.

Following your nap, I prepare another snack, (I’m hungry, Nonnie, you say, upon waking, this blissful, familiar, and ancient melody causing my heart to swell and sing) as you and Papa play, sprawling across the living room floor, designing roads from blocks and driving cars and trucks and fire engines across them. Papa makes the best vehicle sounds and you are mesmerized.

The glory of a simple life.

CJ, I say from the kitchen. Are you strong like Daddy and Papa?

Yes! you answer, flexing your little bicep and Papa flexes his arm too, and then you prove your powers, huffing and puffing as you carry a block or two back to the basket to begin the task of cleaning up. Soon you grow distracted with a puzzle and Papa reminds: CJ big boys clean up and always finish the job.

Together, you do.

After snack time we sing songs and recite Bible verses and read books.

To my utter delight, you are a wordsmith, the two of us playing little rhyming games. I say fellow-yellow or true-blue or muffin-puffin and you echo, tumbling the phrases around for size, growing your vast repertoire, one word at a time.

Last weekend? Your favorite word was impossible.

You spoke it boldly, frequently, indiscriminately. Sprinkling it over sentences willy-nilly.

I study your profile, so familiar to my own four children, and think my heart might burst outside of my ribcage, exploding like Super Bowl confetti, and falling lovely. Everywhere.

Such outsized affection seems impossible.

As a grandmother, I hear the steady drumbeat of time, behind me, beside me, pulsing. This is why I gather the golden hours, stardust sands, and hold them heavenward with outstretched hands, praying, asking God to show me how to best love you, little man.

May I love you wildly and purposefully, painting both broad and fine brushstrokes, coloring the mural of your childhood with beauty and belonging. I toss the stardust high and the sands sparkle, shimmering earthbound, landing softly in our hair as you hug my neck tight and giggle as I spin you around and around and around.

May you never once doubt my devotion.

Little boys must learn to become men long before they actually are.

This is the Bible verse I pray for you, CJ:

Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong. Let all that you do be done in love.

(1 Corinthians 16:13)

It will be many years before you are old enough to read these words. But I bank on this holy truth: God’s Word never returns void.

So I will teach you such wisdom on repeat from Apostle Paul, speaking his words often before you are fully able to understand them. God desires all Christian men, regardless of personality or disposition or appearance, to be watchful, standing firm in faith, acting manly and strong, and full of love.

The opposite of 1 Corinthians 16:13 is the grave sin of cowardice. (Revelation 21:8) It is running rampant today, decimating churches as throngs of grown men shirk their duty, ducking and running for cover, whimpering, hiding in caves rather than standing strong upon the firm authority of Scripture, valiantly protecting the bride of Christ, trusting fully in God, come what may.

God’s man is to be tender and kind towards his wife and children, governing wisely and serving humbly. He is Chief Guardian, Protector, Provider, Defender. A willing bondservant of Jesus Christ, tethered to the Bible, rising courageously against all evil, steadfast until the end.

Ever watchful, God’s man perceives the spiritual battle in any room and speaks truth born from biblical conviction.

Again, I am speaking of spiritual matters, CJ.

It takes a brave man to identify a physical threat and then rise to protect others, but only a discerning, God-fearing man will detect a spiritual toxin, and rise valiantly to defend the Bride of Christ.

Such a man feasts on prayer and Scripture, growing increasingly bold over time, denouncing people-pleasing ways, while protecting family and church.

Such men honor God.

Be one.

Throwing stones in the water and watching them sink and spawn rings is important work for you. Actions have consequences, and you are learning, CJ. You are observing your father and your Papa and your uncles, continually intuiting from them what it means to be a man. These men are pursuing holiness. They are God’s men.

David gathered stones too, didn’t he? He believed God, and such faith made him fearless in the face of the wicked enemy, Goliath. What a man believes in his heart will, in time, be evidenced in his actions.

Always, and forever, in spades.

David did not run, hide, or cower. He was bold, valiant, brave, fearless, steadfast, and courageous as he slung stones at Goliath. Why? God was his Shield and his Defender.

And the evil giant was destroyed.

That’s how it’s done.

Be God’s man, my strong, handsome grandson.

All of my Love,

Nonnie