My grandson turned 3 on the 19th. I've been reflecting on the occasion of his arrival. The following journal entry I made, and shared with some, just after that event:
7lbs. 5oz., thick hair, the color of a lump of coal and cheeks softer than breath. His mouth looks like a rose petal, one of those blushing red-pink-peach hybrids. His nose is perfect and his fingers and toes long and strong for playing piano and guitar and for climbing.
He has seldom cried in my experience, and his occasional whimpers sound like a puppy trying to get out of his box. His eyes are deep (as infants' usually are) though there is a glint of starlight in each and he has the intense gaze of a scholar or a philosopher/poet.
Watching his father the day of his arrival; a man dazed and awed by an event and blessing only the most calloused could take lightly, I remembered. The woman who bore this celebrated man-child, I watched (just hours ago) break into the light and into my heart. Now she is no child. She is confidant, commanding and radiant. Her child, new born, is the center of this new family- their world.
All the hope he carries, all the hope that surrounds him, and the vision that will call to him; too large for those tinny shoulders. He will grow, he will increase, and he will always have loving eyes watching, as he rises, sometimes falls and rises again. Looking forward, with delight, to see him play and learn. Listening to his revelations- thanking The One who made him and will lead him to Him self.
His journey will be the stuff of heroes. He is already a legend. He is the son of Clayton and Meagan. He is my grandson. He is Robert Logan Blackstone.
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