Children Are an Heritage of the Lord...

A recent post over at Segullah spoke of sons and aging and how quickly time passes, and it got me thinking of my own son (specifically, the eldest one) and an experience several years ago when I realized in a visceral way that he had become a man...emotionally, as well as physically. Until that moment, I had never understood that having a grown man for a son could bring me, as a mother, the kind of comfort and support that I'd previously received only from my husband. Nor had it ever occurred to me that I might need it.

It was a time of turmoil for my family, and I had flown in to stay with my son and his wife while I wrestled with some really scary problems another of my children was having. My husband was not able to accompany me that week, and I was trying to be strong with every piece of resilience I could muster. One evening, though, I returned from a particularly difficult session and couldn't keep a lid on my feelings. It was late at night, and as I was sharing the day's events, my fear and concern spilled over into tears. Immediately, my son moved to comfort me, the first time any of my children had ever done so––not that they hadn't brought me comfort just by being themselves, saying the right thing, or giving me a child's hug––but this was different. My son was offering support as an adult; he was giving me a shoulder to lean on in much the same way his father occasionally does.

The thing is, I'm a pretty stalwart and independent person, so I tend not to attract this sort of support from the world at large. But my husband understands, after all these years, that sometimes I do need it. And on that day, my son understood too. I felt his love and was grateful and surprised to realize that one of my own, a child I was accustomed to nurturing, could return the favor. In spades.

It was this feeling and realization that inspired the following poem, which happens to be one of my favorites that I have ever written, probably because its simple words hold such deep meaning for me. I wrote it in reaction to a photograph, taken by Anita Schiller, of a mother and her son in a market place in Italy. (Unfortunately, his silhouette does not show up in the depiction below, so you'll have to use your imagination.) For some reason, this man's obvious care and concern for his mom took me back to that evening in Southern California, reminding me of my own son and his unconditional love for me, demonstrated with such naturally expressed compassion. I knew that his kindness (and that of my other grown children, of course) would be one of the blessings of my old age. And I felt safe. And grateful. And oh, so blessed.

Market Day

©2003 by Susan Noyes Anderson, His Children, Vantage Point Press

(Photograph ©2003 by Anita Schiller)

Oh for a son

when my head is bowed

and years have lined my face––

A stalwart son

with a gentle heart,

where I still hold

a mother’s place.

Oh, for a son

when eyes grow dim

and memories recede––

A spirited son,

a steadfast son,

who sees but does not

fear my need.

"Children are an heritage of the Lord, and the fruit of the womb is His reward" Psalms 127:3.