It didn't seem all that long ago that I was stuffing the squirming toddler Houdin, a Hot Wheels car tightly gripped in his fist, into a miniature black suit so that he could saunter down the aisle at my sister-in-law's wedding and wiggle his little-boy dances at the reception. That's been about fourteen years ago, and now that little boy, who had to have his diaper changed right before the ceremony, has grown into some guy I barely recognize, a guy who bangs out Ben Folds and The Beatles on the piano, sings songs I sang when I was his age, and dances whenever the mood strikes, and today, he is wearing a glossy size 13 dress shoe and snazzy black tuxedo. In a few minutes, Bo and I will climb into the car and journey with our soon-t0-be eighteen-year-old spiffed-up, showered, shaved and shined son to his girlfriend's house, almost two hours away, and he'll go to his first prom.We've had a rough time of it, Houdin and I. He's so much like I was at that age, and probably still am today--stubborn, opinionated, indignant and mouthy. But I can't even begin to tell you how much love fills to overflowing in this heart of mine when I see what a young man he has become. In the end, it doesn't really matter if he keeps his room clean, or if he passes algebra, or if he wears white dress shirts and khaki pants. What matters is that we have a relationship, that he knows I love him so deeply that I would give my very life for him.
I'm not proud of all of the mistakes I've made in raising a son. I wish I would have been less critical, less impatient, less demanding. I wish I would have known more, read more, prayed more, loved more. I'm so grateful for a God who can heal brokenness, can turn our mourning into dancing.
But, Houdin, I'm proud of who you are. I'm proud of who you're going to be. I'm proud of who you've been.
Now, get out there and dance.
