He said he didn't want it anymore.
That blackened empty book that his Grandma gave him, miles away from home, that showed up in one of her boxes awhile back and that lay untouched until he recently rediscovered it in the past month.
Since then, he's huddled over the blank book, markers in hand, each morning and afternoon and evening filling up page after page with drawings and short stories, his heart alive.
It was unlike anything ever seen.
He tossed it in the trash and walked over to me full of gloom and we Mom's we can see it.
Maybe he couldn't believe it that he could fill every one of those blank pages, all 121 of them, up with his own imaginings and pen.
That's the thing with children with adhd they have these wild, articulate ideas and such a zest for the task at hand, but halfway through to completion they stop and never pick it up again.
I've seen it before in the Carpenter, cut from the same cloth, but with a coax and a few years gone by, slowly but surely the plans come around.
Empty pages are the blank spaces in our lives just waiting to be filled up abundant with Life.
He took it out of the trash, walked over and gave it to me, repeating the words he didn't want it anymore and I told him just because somethings hard doesn't mean we should just walk away from it all because you can never see the end or don't believe in yourself that you can do it.
I've been hard most of my life.
Hard and calloused and God he's just been waiting for me to fill up all the blank spaces of my life with His thoughts.
There's been too many hours left empty and wasted blank.
Choices have been made wrong on how to spend time, when what we keep looking for to become fully alive is not less of Christ but more.
So awake knowing that every empty moment, every idle instance, every silent space is a chance to fill up the bones with the beauty of God's being.
I take the black book, place it on the counter next to His school books and start the sudsing of the dishes before dinner and I feel it, a gently looping of the arms around the waist and a head sighing in the back, "Mom, where did you put my book?"
He goes over to it and puts it back on the dinner table along with his other mounds of papers and skips away, waiting for his heart to come alive to the pen.