My husband grew up (literally) on an island.
A tiny island that only his own family lived on, miles and miles away from the next batch of humanity. It’s still 60-miles away from the nearest town, though a village has since been planted closer.
There is no church, of course.
Jay was home schooled, and remembers being gathered with his brothers to listen to The Children’s Bible Hour on the radio every week for Sunday School.
More than many mothers, his was directly responsible for the information that shaped her sons’ minds and character.
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After I finished writing it, I brought it to Jay and asked his opinion.
“She’ll like it,” he said, shrugging. “She’ll cry, and hug you.”
“Does it bother you,” I asked, “for me to gve her so much credit? Do you feel belittled to have me place so much emphasis on her work?”
I was trying to feel out the source of an unnameable something I felt when he handed the card back to me.
“Then what’s wrong?”
He was quiet for just a moment, then said, “I guess I was reminded how important I am to you.”
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And I guess that’s why I wanted to post this today: because it’s my husband’s 31st birthday, and he is so much of my world.
And he wouldn’t be who he is today if it wasn’t for a faithful mother.