Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Landon
Landon has come, and with him another opportunity to feel "that way" again. Once more. What a beautiful boy! And infinitely kissable. Holding Landon is like holding each of my children again for the first time. Looking at him, I ponder the enormity of my blessings. Of who I am, who I was and the space between. How I love my family--every one of them! How grateful I am for each day I get to spend with them on this earth.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Cheeks flapping
An image I'll hold onto: Gavin and Dallin atop the gravel driveway on their balance bikes. Gavin pushes off first, rolls confidently down and past. He throws in a few wiggles for style--this is old hat to him. Now it's Dalli's turn. "Watch me, daddy," he sings, then down he comes, legs thrust forward, lips pursed and cherubic cheeks bouncing and jiggling with every gravelly bump. He aims straight for me, with full faith that I'll step aside at the last moment. I do, smiling.
Friday, May 25, 2012
My treasure
I just got back from the funeral of a baby who died just weeks before he would have been born. Funerals aren't something you like, but they are occasionally something you need. You're confronted with unimaginable thoughts, impossible to face, that if they occur at all on a normal day are quickly pushed aside.
I can't even begin to take in the enormity of loosing one of my beautiful children. My beautiful little ones are so much of my life that I honestly don't think I could continue to exist without them. And yet life goes on, and so do we all, until it's our time.
Life gets in the way of what's truly important so often that it's appalling. A funeral like this allows you to step back and see so much of life for what it really is--an overly busy, second class distraction.
I love to go into Sahara and Gavin or Dallin's room after they've gone to sleep at night. I'll do it once or twice to check on them and once again on my way to bed. Often I'll kneel by their beds and just watch. I'll hold their hand or run my fingers through their hair as the lie peacefully. Who they are is laid bare then. No masks, no pretenses, no distractions. They are who they are, and they're wholly beautiful. In those moments I'm truly me, in the moment, uninstructed by the rest of the universe. And tell them each time the truest and most important things I know: That I love them, that they are good, and that they are mine.
In time mistakes will be made in each of their lives the may cause them to question these three truths. But I promise you Sahara, Gavin, Dallin and whatever other children may come, I do love you. Always will. Always have. You cannot know now the depth of what I feel for you, it's permanence or unshakable certainty. You cannot yet imagine they immeasurable joy this love brings me. But some day you will.
I promise you that you are good. You are divine, children of God. I see it in you so often and it strengthens my testimony. Whatever missteps may come, you are inherently good, and that I will always see the goodness in you is one the many gifts from God to a father.
I promise you that you are mine, and I am yours. Always. This is no coincidence, and even if it were, it is no longer because I choose you. On your worst day, in your darkest hour, when the rest of humanity has turned their backs, I choose you. You and I belong to an eternal family. That's the plan. And that's the desire of my heart. Any thought that I can't be good enough to merit the highest eternal reward is dispelled in a moment at the very thought of you. If i can but remain focused on what's truly important in this life, I'll gladly do what it takes. The Savior's atonement is no ethereal concept here--it's the very core of my religion because it is the doorway through which I can and must pass to be with you forever.
I can't even begin to take in the enormity of loosing one of my beautiful children. My beautiful little ones are so much of my life that I honestly don't think I could continue to exist without them. And yet life goes on, and so do we all, until it's our time.
Life gets in the way of what's truly important so often that it's appalling. A funeral like this allows you to step back and see so much of life for what it really is--an overly busy, second class distraction.
I love to go into Sahara and Gavin or Dallin's room after they've gone to sleep at night. I'll do it once or twice to check on them and once again on my way to bed. Often I'll kneel by their beds and just watch. I'll hold their hand or run my fingers through their hair as the lie peacefully. Who they are is laid bare then. No masks, no pretenses, no distractions. They are who they are, and they're wholly beautiful. In those moments I'm truly me, in the moment, uninstructed by the rest of the universe. And tell them each time the truest and most important things I know: That I love them, that they are good, and that they are mine.
In time mistakes will be made in each of their lives the may cause them to question these three truths. But I promise you Sahara, Gavin, Dallin and whatever other children may come, I do love you. Always will. Always have. You cannot know now the depth of what I feel for you, it's permanence or unshakable certainty. You cannot yet imagine they immeasurable joy this love brings me. But some day you will.
I promise you that you are good. You are divine, children of God. I see it in you so often and it strengthens my testimony. Whatever missteps may come, you are inherently good, and that I will always see the goodness in you is one the many gifts from God to a father.
I promise you that you are mine, and I am yours. Always. This is no coincidence, and even if it were, it is no longer because I choose you. On your worst day, in your darkest hour, when the rest of humanity has turned their backs, I choose you. You and I belong to an eternal family. That's the plan. And that's the desire of my heart. Any thought that I can't be good enough to merit the highest eternal reward is dispelled in a moment at the very thought of you. If i can but remain focused on what's truly important in this life, I'll gladly do what it takes. The Savior's atonement is no ethereal concept here--it's the very core of my religion because it is the doorway through which I can and must pass to be with you forever.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Watching Dallin
Yesterday evening as I came upstairs to check on Dallin. We had him sleeping in our bed, which he prefers to his crib. It was quiet in the room and Dallin was resting peacefully with his head turned towards me. I kneeled down by the bed to get closer to my little boy and just watched him. Watched his little chest rise and fall and listened to him breath. Admired his handsome little face and perfect little features. He was so beautiful there in the half-light of the room. I didn't dare touch him--though I wanted to--for fear of breaking the spell and allowing the cares of the day to rush in and ruin the moment. Dallin has a hard time napping and is fussy and needy during the day. It's hard work taking care of him, and I know Amy gets frustrated, as does Sahara who continually get's robbed of attention in favor of the baby. Other imperfect days filled with imperfect circumstance and choices lie ahead, but as I watched my little boy lying there, he was wholly good and perfect. And I knew that I loved him perfectly.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Flying
I have a business trip today--I hate flying, but especially fyling away from my family. Dying crosses my mind on every flight--it has been so for many years now, despite my hundreds of flights. I can't bear the thought of leaving Amy alone to raise the kids without my help. And I can't bear the thought of my beautiful, good children growing up without a daddy. Even leaving them for a few days is hard. I sit here on the plane now and my heart longs for them; my every thought is of them. I love my family.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Cliches
Time flies. They grow up so fast. Seems like just yesterday.
It's a strange business realizing that all the old cliches that your parents used so frequently that you tuned them out are in fact true. Not just true in an abstract sense, but true as in their truthfulness is suddenly being played out in my life day by day, moment by moment.
It's like Africa. I knew it existed. But I never gave it much thought--it wasn't part of MY existence. Then I went there, and everything about it changed. It was real in its extremities, visceral. It had smells, tastes, weather, people with names and real lives that suddenly were part of my real life. I relished every trip to Africa for many reasons, not the least of which is that I knew it wouldn't last long--that I had a ticket with a return date on it.
That's about as good a comparison as I can make I guess. As a husband and father, time is flying. Too fast. I'm not so caught up in the moment that I can't see what's happening and where all this is going. I don't know what the date is on the return ticket, but there's a date.
Last night I put Sahara down to sleep. We said her prayers and I looked at her and had one of those moments that come so often when things calm down at the end of the day. I realized how absolutely in love I am with my little girl and how fast she's growing--slipping away from me. The little girl that I see today will be, in a very real sense, transformed and changed a year from now. And there will be some things, some aspects of the way she is now, that I'll miss deeply.
As she lay there, I told Sahara the story of when she was born. About how the nurses took her out of the room to clean here up and how I went with her. She was so tiny, laying there in that little cart under the heat lamp. I reached out my pinky finger and she took it with her little hand and held on as she looked at me. That's a memory that I'll treasure forever. But the moment is gone, and I miss it. I miss those first sleep-deprived weeks as a brand new father looking at his first born child in wonder.
But days turn into weeks turn into months turn into years. Time flies and they grow up so fast.
It's a strange business realizing that all the old cliches that your parents used so frequently that you tuned them out are in fact true. Not just true in an abstract sense, but true as in their truthfulness is suddenly being played out in my life day by day, moment by moment.
It's like Africa. I knew it existed. But I never gave it much thought--it wasn't part of MY existence. Then I went there, and everything about it changed. It was real in its extremities, visceral. It had smells, tastes, weather, people with names and real lives that suddenly were part of my real life. I relished every trip to Africa for many reasons, not the least of which is that I knew it wouldn't last long--that I had a ticket with a return date on it.
That's about as good a comparison as I can make I guess. As a husband and father, time is flying. Too fast. I'm not so caught up in the moment that I can't see what's happening and where all this is going. I don't know what the date is on the return ticket, but there's a date.
Last night I put Sahara down to sleep. We said her prayers and I looked at her and had one of those moments that come so often when things calm down at the end of the day. I realized how absolutely in love I am with my little girl and how fast she's growing--slipping away from me. The little girl that I see today will be, in a very real sense, transformed and changed a year from now. And there will be some things, some aspects of the way she is now, that I'll miss deeply.
As she lay there, I told Sahara the story of when she was born. About how the nurses took her out of the room to clean here up and how I went with her. She was so tiny, laying there in that little cart under the heat lamp. I reached out my pinky finger and she took it with her little hand and held on as she looked at me. That's a memory that I'll treasure forever. But the moment is gone, and I miss it. I miss those first sleep-deprived weeks as a brand new father looking at his first born child in wonder.
But days turn into weeks turn into months turn into years. Time flies and they grow up so fast.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Rocking Gavin
This evening I read Gavin his books, then turned out the lights and rocked him in the glider. He doesn't go to sleep in my arms like he used to, but I still love that time together at the end of his day. I tell him how much I love him and kiss his still-chubby face, then hold him close while he relaxes.
Sometimes I'll talk softly to him for a minute or so. I tell him that I love him and that he's a good little man. I tell him that I hope he'll be a good big man; that it won't be easy, and the road to get there is long, but that I promise to do everything I can to help. To be a good example and a good father.
That's what love is--that commitment. It's not the kiss, it's the undying yet effortless commitment and it's from the soul. You'd think that commitment--that love--began when Gavin was born. But if it had a beginning less than two years ago, I'd remember it. And I don't. I don't believe it has a beginning, and I know it has no end.
Sometimes I'll talk softly to him for a minute or so. I tell him that I love him and that he's a good little man. I tell him that I hope he'll be a good big man; that it won't be easy, and the road to get there is long, but that I promise to do everything I can to help. To be a good example and a good father.
That's what love is--that commitment. It's not the kiss, it's the undying yet effortless commitment and it's from the soul. You'd think that commitment--that love--began when Gavin was born. But if it had a beginning less than two years ago, I'd remember it. And I don't. I don't believe it has a beginning, and I know it has no end.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)