You Don't Know Jack

We visited a mountain today. We swam under its waterfall, I took pictures, and I discovered, while making a piddling hike, how out-of-shape I am. (My mirror says, a bit wryly for my taste, "I showed you so." My scale, he just lies low, fearing to draw my attention.)
     I huffed my way back up from the falls - pushing Gigantor uphill in a stroller over rocks and through sand, with the stroller skiing as often as rolling. Gigantor, by the way, is precious little sweet Jack Henry. Here he is - his three-year-old brother is holding him, or being held down by him, depending on where you're sitting, I suppose.
     Jack's Charminy soft. Squeezably so. When he wakes up in the morning and I hold his warm body against my chest, I am exorcised. Something restrictive, stressful, sick leaves me. It is similar to what writing does for me. But Jack makes it easy. He just has to be. I catch him staring at me from his car seat, his head is craned up and backward to see me driving, to see me. He sees me see him and he smiles. And, with a smile, something oppressive, something wrong peels away from me. There are so very many instruments of God's grace.