"I'm tired of this." "I wish this didn't happen." Very simple statements from my son this morning, but I understand. To borrow Seder language, "If only he had cracked a couple ribs, dayenu [that would have been enough]." "If only he had cracked a couple ribs and a thumb, dayenu." "If only he had cracked a couple ribs, a thumb, and a vertebrae, dayenu." "If only he had cracked a couple ribs, a thumb, a vertebrae, and a skull (slight fracture at base of skull), dayenu." But to go with all that is a sore butt and a headache. The "bone guy" (translation: pediatric orthopedic surgeon) said that after three months, he ought to be brand new. But three months to a twelve year old boy in the middle of his basketball season and right before baseball begins is like a decade to me. When we first saw him in the E. R. at Hendrick here in Abilene (before he was flown to Cook's), he was hardly recognizable. He had been beaten horribly. When he heard our voices, he began crying uncontrollably. I leaned over and whispered in his ear the words I've said to him at bedtime a thousand times: Love that boy. Like a rabbit loves to run, I said I love that boy. Like a rabbit loves to run. Love to see him in the morning. Love to say, "Good mornin', son." Then, for the moment, he calmed down. My prayers for the previous hour had been fairly simple: "Please, God. Please, God. Please, God. Please, God." I think you'd expect more from a 48-year-old minister. But that's about all that would come. As I leaned over him, not knowing yet how serious his internal injuries were, nothing profound came. So I prayed the same words I say over every baby born at Highland: "May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be on you always." Sometimes familiar words fit the best.