Like My Son

I used to think love had a rank.
That my son stood at the top like a flag on a hill I’d die on.
And I would—no hesitation, no negotiation.
But then God whispered:

“What if you saw them like you see him?”
Not to lower the crown from your son’s brow,
But to lift your hands when you see it on another.

‘Cause love ain’t supposed to be scarce.
It’s supposed to be scary powerful.
Enough to make you break bread with a stranger
Like you’d pack lunch for your boy.

What if I spoke to every soul like they were five years old,
Still learning how to walk in truth,
Still asking questions like,
“Do I matter?”
“Will you stay?”

What if I taught with the tenderness
I reserve for the one I named,
Nurtured, and wept over in silence?

I’m not just raising my son anymore.
I’m raising the way I love.

So no—
I won’t hold him in less esteem.
But I’ll raise the world to meet that frequency.

Like my son.
Because in God’s eyes,
That’s what they are.

Location: Dallas, TX, USA

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