A few weeks ago I stayed home from church with a sickly Sophia. That morning while the rest of the family bustled around, preparing to leave, I sat on the couch in my jammies. Raphael walked past, dressed and ready and looking to interrupt any progress. I reached out and pulled him onto my lap, because the simple fact is that Raphael, left to his own devices, will cause problems these days.
He squirmed to get away, but I hugged him close. He relented, but sat within the cage of my arms like a soldier, rigid with a petulant sort of rage. His great grandfather died, and then his grandfather died and his dad is sad and oh that's right, his biological dad left him when he was just a baby, and Raphael still can't figure out why, and all of that is really pissing him off, and he would like to punch someone now please.
He doesn't say any of that, but he has a way of making it clear.
I hooked my chin over his taut shoulder and sang softly in his ear,
"Here comes the sun," and he stilled to listen, "here comes the sun. I say...it's all right."
He sat up again, and looked out the window, then back at me, his expression making it clear that I was wrong and sort of stupid. Indeed, the sky was a lead gray, and a few snowflakes sifted past the window.
"Little darlin', it's been a long, cold, lonely winter." I blinked back how true that is. "Little darlin', it feels like years since it's been here." He leaned against me, and as I continued to whisper-sing, I felt him relax. For a moment his muscles loosed their hold, and he let me carry his weight against my chest. "Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun. I say...it's all right."
Add that to my resume. I also believe in the sun, on behalf of my family, when it cannot be seen.