All I did was go to his Amazon wish list and click. It doesn't feel like much of a gesture compared to some of the birthday parties we cooked up over the years. When Lukas was nine we had a Ninja Turtle party with hand stenciled bags, masks for his friends, and a watermelon decorated like Raphael. John rose to the challenge by becoming a magician, charming flocks of children with his prestidigitation. 

What is an appropriate way to celebrate someone's arrival into your life? I of course replay the story in my mind of that humid Floridian day. I can see the white dress I wore, and picture the tiny embroidered t shirts my sister sent. He was born at home with a granny midwife named Celeste. I suppose you always favor a soft spot for the people who shepherd you through epic moments. She laid Lukas in my arms and it began. I was a mother. 

That I was obsessed for the next two years until he had a sister to split my devotions with would be an understatement. I have an album with nothing but pictures of Lukas, and that was back when you paid for developing. Including double prints. The sad part is that I was a terrible photographer. But I was saturated with living life and had little time to record it adequately. 

Looking at photos of those intense years has been cathartic as I ease out of cutting peanut butter sandwiches into triangles, and turning on story tapes in the car. These days the kids make their own lunches. The majority buy their own bread. 

My Aunt Louise gave a talk once about the invisibility of love. She compared it to electricity, magnetism and gravity. Those forces cannot be seen but their effects are indisputable. There is a hunger in my heart to see proof that I mothered my children well. But the macaroni is gone. The flowered dresses have been passed on. The stacks of books lay unread.  

My prayer is that we loved our brood in such a way that they could feel lit up about their contributions to the world. Pulled toward integrity and kindness. Grounded by trust in God.