Four Bucks to Wound a Soul.

I don't often get to go grocery shopping alone with my oldest little man.

"What's your favourite treat Mom? Those cherries covered in chocolate?"

"Oh, I dunno. My very favourite? I dunno." And put it outta my mind. He's obsessed with treats on a daily basis.

I cruised near the boxed chocolate display, but he had beat me there, and was already holding a smallish box of chocolate and wearing a not-so-small grin.

"No Brendan." I said as my sight flashed on a sign that read $8.19. Robbery.

I quickened my pace, leaving him to drool at the sugar-laden stand. (For you big-city folk, this is a small town--the kind where kids really do take candy from strangers. He was safe.) Two more times he would hold it up as I rounded the ends of the aisles. And two more times I said, "No!"

As I mechanically unburdened my armload of groceries onto the conveyer belt, he showed up, that same prized box in his hand. Still, a hopeful grin on his face.

"I said no Brendan, we're not getting the chocolate." emphasizing the negative. The grin diminished.

"But I want to get it for Dad."

"Nooooah. We don't have money for that. It's expensive." I tried to reason, gritting my teeth. I turned to double-check things as she dragged the food across the scanner.

The total came up on the screen, and I wondered what the last item was...I didn't recognize it. I looked on the counter and there was the chocolate box. The sneak! I think my voice held some sharpness when I told the clerk I didn't want it. I was adamant. At that moment I saw the 50% off price on the screen. Oh maaaan.

That's when he started to cry. The heartbreak cry. That age-old dilemma stared me down. If I admit the price was okay and bought it, I'd be giving in to his begging and antics. If I didn't buy it.... So we left the store with it in a bag. But he still cried.

The short drive home found me peppering him--albeit more gently now--with questions and trying to get him to understand that we don't always have money for these little extras. And I bought it today, but don't get used to it.

"I wanna wrap it up when we get home, but how do I get it in without him seeing?" he asked, hope building as he saw my softening spirit. He knew where the paper was, and the scissors and tape.

So I parked, rearranged the groceries so he could have his own bag, and went inside, leaving him to his craft.

The paper wasn't where it should have been, so he asked me for help to find some, and a marker please. I obliged--hardness dissipating from my spirit as I watched his loving delight.

After lunch he set Dad and I upon a treasure hunt. I piddled around the room, wanting Dad to find his gift. He did, read the inscription, and passed it on to me.

Puzzled, I looked at my son. From Brendan, for Mom.

"I got Dad a treat when he took me out last time. This one was for you."

Heel. That's how I felt. And pride. In him. This was my firstborn, who has always had a tender spirit. And I had wounded it. For four bucks. It's been a while since I felt that rotten about myself. He's not a kissy-type, but he sure got a head-full that afternoon.

Lord, slow me down. Help me see the heart behind the requests. Forgive me for wounding my son. And thank You for him. Thank You. Thank You.