Tonight, Sawyer and Terry picked me up from work and on the way home, Sawyer said, "Mama. I love me." It was sweet, genuine and a matter-of-fact.
And then he said it two more times when we got home. And I thought, of course, he loves me and he loves him and he loves you. He is a love machine and he is not old enough to have that sense of lovelessness.
And I love him too but what about me? How often do we really think or feel love toward our own self? Probably not as often as we should. And I wonder if we really loved ourselves more, if that love wouldn't transfer out into the world.
And without getting too sappy what's wrong then, when our love continues after death. When that love sometimes makes us incapable of doing anything else. Sometimes, still, I am frozen by my love of Grace. Not very often any more; mostly it's love that creates movement but sometimes, every once in a while, it freezes me, it stops me, it takes my breath away and I have to compose myself again. I am awed by the power of this love. I am in wonder. "Mama. I love me."