Precious Child, Precious Life

We lost my nephew this past week. We are shocked and saddened, but most of all, we are reminded of how precious this life is. 

I tried to write a Facebook post with the news. I debated posting it at all. A Facebook post seemed so trivial. But wise Hubby said, "It will get them prayers," and the debate was over. I searched for the word. Sweet? Not enough. Beautiful? Yes, but not it. Precious. Yes. In every way. Johnathon was precious.

In making the most horrific preparations a parent could ever make, his mom (my sister . . . "in law," if you must) called to see if we could put a song on disc for the funeral service. "It's called 'Precious Child,'" she told me. Yes, precious child.

A former teacher, Ms. Jones, at the visitation told me, "He was just a precious child." Yes. Yes, he was.

But it's not only Johnathon. It's all of them. 

The one beating her fists on the floor for an audience of glaring eyes at Kroger. Precious.

The one sitting at the table for an hour refusing to eat his broccoli. Precious.

The one who kept you up all night projectile vomiting. Precious.

The one who yelled, "I hate you!" and slammed the door. Precious.

The one who totaled your car. Precious.

"Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him." (Psalm 127:3 NLT)  I have no doubt that this was written because we parents would need the reminder. But there are no conditions on this statement. Each and every child is indeed a gift. A reward. A precious, fragile thing. If this past week--no, this past month of graduations and a wedding and one, heartbreaking funeral have taught me anything, it is Psalm 127:3. Your child, my child, every single child is a gift from the Lord. 

Love them well. Treasure them tenderly. They fly away much too soon.

Johnathon, in the back, with his arm around the principal.

During the funeral service, Johnathon's principal read a list of Johnathon's future plans that he had written. Within the first few, John had listed, "Impact the world," "Make the world a better place," "Find a way to make the world better." 

So I'm asking you this, for Johnathon, for me, for the world here and now and the world yet to come: treat your child, every child, every human, like the precious gift he is--even when they don't seem so precious, even when they don't deserve it, even and especially when they need it most. 

Then together, we can make Johnathon's future plans come true. With the lesson he taught us by leaving us, we can simply and profoundly "make the world a better place."