That Time He Didn't See Me
For a moment today, I became invisible.
Josie and I were standing next to each other, chatting. I love that my son's marriage has given me a new daughter. I love getting to know her. I enjoy her company and love all that she brings into our family. She laughs often and has a sense of adventure. She loves deeply and fiercely. She is loyal. I adore the way she loves my son.
Nick walked toward us today as we were chatting.
I raised this man. I carried him inside me and nursed him and kissed his scraped knees and made sure we had a steady supply of band-aids on hand. I made him cookies and packed his lunch. The endless things a mom does for her sweet boy.
As he walked toward us, I could tell there was something on his mind, something interesting he wanted to share. And I was right.
He did have something to say. There was something on his mind. There was the look on his face that said something had just happened that he found funny. An amused look settled on his face that I have seen a thousand times.
He walked toward us. But he didn't talk to US. At the moment he didn't know I was there. He leaned in and whispered something.
To his wife.
And it was right.
And it stung.
I know it's dramatic and terribly out of context, but what crossed my mind was something John the Baptist said in John 3:30. "He must become greater, and I must become less."
I must become less.
I must choose that.
John embraced his role. His job was to pave the way for Jesus.
In raising this man, I have paved the way for Josie.
And it is good.
And it is right.
And I wouldn't change it.
But for a moment it stings.