Paint my boy a Sabbath sunrise, Father – one filled with the color of hope, not the cover of despair.
Take the pain that’s been smeared onto his canvas at night and replace it with splashes of your morning grace.
What she has taken from him, replace it with what you have given to him. A hope. A future. A plan that includes something best, not something less.
His are deep wounds, bleeding red, hot, and furious. Stop the hemorrhaging with your hands—the very ones that bled and shed red for our sin and our pain.
I can no longer cradle him in my arms. My lullabies sing harshly, and I have few words to fix the ache within. Only scattered thoughts to fill the awkward pause in between his despair and his healing.
So Father, would you paint him a Sabbath sunrise? Would you paint me one as well?
How we need the color. The warmth. The reminder that all has not been lost in the night.
Your sun still rises. This is gain. This is resurrection. This is Sabbath.
Give us eyes to see it, minds to conceive it, and hearts to believe that you painted it just for us—your perfect peace in the midst of a perfect storm.
For him, my boy with a broken heart. For me, his mom whose heart breaks alongside.