He stands in front of me on the bed, shirt-tail sticking out, bed head spiky and matted, a little sleep in the corner of his eye. I lean in to pull him close and say goodbye before leaving for work, feeling his small arms wrap around my shoulders as far as they can reach.
“You are a son of God,” I whisper. “He has called you his child, and wherever you go, his thoughts toward you are precious.”
He pats my shoulder once, and I can feel him smile. “I know, Daddy,” he says matter-of-factly. “I know that.”
We pull away, and he beams at me. I believe him when he says he knows; in fact, he’s never really doubted it. Praise God for that! I pray that after all the spelling tests and math quizzes, recess games of wall ball and bedtime stories, after the lamp is switched off, he carries these words with him like a smooth stone in his pocket on which is written his true name, the one written in the eternal world, where the truth about him is shining and visible.
But what about me?