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  • Sonya Leigh Anderson

One Flesh


Our Maisy-girl will be a big sister in March! kianagrantphotography.com

“You are not one flesh with him.”


These words, clear as a bell, rang in my morning thoughts. And I knew. Exactly. What this was about. A handful of times I’ve heard the Spirit’s voice with such precision, and I knew I’d better pay attention.


It was one of my boys. I’d been fretting, I guess. Dreaming, maybe, head spinning most of the night. One of my five, and it doesn’t really matter which one and why. Three in college, two married, and I’ve heard it said more than once. Parenting young adults is hard for moms. You wouldn’t think it, but now I see why.


It’s crazy, really. To carry a human being in your womb, so near your heart. Shared blood. DNA. If ever there was one you could claim as flesh of your own. And then to realize. Strange turn of events. You can’t, and he isn’t.


Even adoption. Making vows, not unlike marriage. And then…


Man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh. (Genesis 2:24)


Two of my sons, grown and married. Their own lives—their own wives. The gals they’ve chosen—or God choosing for them—perfection. Not perfect, of course, as in flawless, but crazy amazing how each of my daughters-through-marriage suits my guys in remarkable ways.


I picture a baby, tethered by cord. Little life of a new baby grandchild, curled up warm in his mama’s belly. Or hers. We’ll wait until spring to find out which.


This cord, clipped on arrival, and I hear the Spirit’s word to me, seeing this picture. You are not one flesh with him. This cutting of cord, and letting him go.


And for the first time, maybe ever, the irony strikes me. Because I am one flesh with someone—that someone being my husband, man with whom I share no blood, but man with whom I’ve shared my life. Thirty years, come December, which is to say, a good long time.


There are times the Spirit says loud and clear, just the thing you’re needing, and it’s almost always some kind of surrender. Opening hands, cutting the cord, giving it back.


And then receiving. Receiving the real gift. Grace already given.


Earlier this week, I’m sitting shotgun in my husband’s new-to-him pickup, and out of the blue he says it. “I like doing life with my best friend beside me.” Just like that. And I laugh out loud, in full agreement.


Not blood of my blood, but flesh of my flesh.

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