The scratchy recording flickers on the screen
But I can clearly see the faces of my children.
There is your three-year old face, bracketed by the collar of your Sunday shirt and so solemn. You gaze over the audience facing you and you press your back into your Daddy’s legs behind you.
There is your baby sister. She is sleeping through the ceremony of dedication, so unaware of her centrality; uncomprehending and unmoved.
There in your small body is your adult self; there are the faces of your children yet unimagined; there are the hands with the tenderness of a father and the strength of a carpenter.
There is the face of the man you will be.
And there am I. Promising to raise you and your sister in the “fear and admonition of the Lord”. How young I am. How little I knew. And yet your Father’s grace was poured out on me and your Dad.
When we were helpless, He was our Help; when we were clueless, He was our Wisdom; when we failed, He was merciful.
And He will be so for you, my son; for you and your sister; for you and your children,
Bound in the bundle of the living.