Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Eight is great...


I love this picture of you. 

It makes me just want to squeeze ya and kiss every one of those cute little freckles on your face.

And maybe tickle you till you burst.

I see the joy you bring to our lives with that smile.

I also see a sharpening of your cheeks and jawline that hints of time going by, of the inevitable transition  you'll be making from boy-child to a man.


You weren't supposed to grow this fast, you know.

You are a zany little fireball with Rain Man like abilities to recall sports stats, a wicked sense of humor, and the kindest, most compassionate heart. I often pray that you'll stay just that way. Always.

From birth, you had an intuitiveness your brother and sister didn't. I mean, you all three could sense my moods and be affected by them yourselves. But you? You knew when to shoot me a look, brow cocked as if to say, "You ok?" and cuddle up hard, burrowing deeper into my embrace, only to inhale deep and admiringly tell me either, "Mama, you 'mell goooooood," or, "When I was with God, you know, before I was born, I told Him I wanted you to be my mama." The latter of which made me wonder at His ways.

Those knowing eyes. And dirty face.
You're 3 here.
You've come so far from the days of delayed, incomprehensible speech, chattering incessantly now about sports stats, things you are learning at school, what your dreams for next Christmas are in February, and more. You're a natural smartie, even though you try to make it look like it takes you longer to figure it out. I know that trick - straight out of the Heather Meyer playbook - downplay your brightness so that others may shine. This is fine, but I'll tell you a secret: it's ok to shine brightly in the you-ness God made just for Christopher Joel Meyer.


video




Your energy astounds me. I remember when you started walking around...and how when you got good enough to run, you would race hurriedly back and forth from our front door to the kitchen door for hours between dinner and bedtime. You still do that during football season - we'll be cozied and comfy after church on the couch, watching the Broncos and here's Christopher zipping back and forth the room, playing an imaginary scrimmage. Soon, you'll be too big a size to do this comfortably in our small space. You seem to know this and are perfectly content to play basketball or lacrosse outside [most of the time - the video games sometimes hold more allure].


Your heart is precious to me. You are tender and sweet towards the left out kids at school, and I've watched you on the playground, mentally weighing out the costs and benefits of letting the slower, behaviorally challenged kids play a game of baseball with you at recess. Right now, you are still seeing compassion more important than competition. Please hang on to this mindset, it's a Jesus-pleaser and will mean much to those in your life who benefit from it.

Lest you get the impression that I think you're perfect, let me assure you, I know you're not. Nor do I expect you to be. 

You're the baby of the family and boy, do you play that one. 

I'll just make a ridiculously cute face so that she won't get mad about me getting into the fruit
and taking just one bite out of all the apples and bananas. I'm her "silly clown," and the baby after all!
Add to it that one year, as it was approaching your birthday and the anniversary of Pneumogedden, I shared with you that having you with me those 2 weeks I was in the hospital helped save my life because I had a constant reminder that I needed to get well because my children needed me. All of my children, not just you. And yet, you now frequently claim special privileges because, "Oh yeah? Well I saved Mom's life!" 

You are one special little dude, Chris.

You made our family complete.

And we love you oh so very much.

Happy Birthday, Duder. 

Can't wait to see what 8 brings for you.

Love,

Mama

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