I hadn't seen the photograph in years. The one of Joe as a baby in my arms, cradled by pine trees in Aspen. My hair was blonde, his cheeks were full, our eyes were wide. I didn't know much at that time- but one thing I knew- I was holding a little piece of God.

I was going through today's Facebook tag-approvals. One popped up from a friend. She had tagged me in a picture of young girl she knew who was holding her dog that was lost. I approved the tag. Then the next image popped up to be approved. It was from my son. He is now 16. It was that photograph. My breath sunk into my chest, my hands flung to my eyes and fingers pressed into my rising tears. - I write about tears a lot. But there are so many kinds of tears to write about. - This time, my tears came from a place so deep inside my heart, only God must know where it is.

I asked Joe where he recovered this precious photograph. I hadn't seen it in so long. I thought he had found it somewhere in an album and was inspired to write me a caption that brought my hands to my eyes. But it was never lost at all. His mirror had been cradling it in the nook of its frame for years.

It was Mother's Day.

He captioned the photo with gratitude for being his mom. He thanked me for being so strong - when he knew how broken I really was. When all I ever wanted was for him to see me as I was. In that photograph. But now I know that all this time he did. Because he saw it every single day. In a little photo, from that day in Aspen, when I held in my arms a little piece of God.