On the Day You Were Born

Dear Mason,


They told me that I couldn't understand love until I had a child of my own which is a catchy little life lesson that, after learning, I fully agree with. But it's also not entirely accurate.

What they neglected to tell me is that prior to experiencing the joy of parenthood, prior to gripping my wife's hand as a human being encoded with our collective DNA drew oxygen into its lungs for the first time, prior to looking into two beautiful little eyes and catching a glimpse of myself...I didn't know a lot of things.

For example, on the day you were born, I cried for the first time. Obviously, I'd "cried" before, but before you came along, crying was just a physical response to extreme sorrow or extreme happiness.

Then, I watched your little chest heaving during those first minutes of life and lost it, all physical control gone. Every fiber of every muscle in my body leapt in response to your presence. My nose was running all over the place like it always does, but for the first time, my heart ran. It ran from my body and wrapped itself around that little, squishy boy and clung to him and hasn't let go since.

I felt fear for the first time too, not because you were in danger, not because your mom was in danger, not because I was in danger. I felt fear because time had become my enemy. We had studied and prayed and saved and prepared for your arrival, but we weren't even close to ready. We prepared for the rigid, textbook event of birth. We were ready for a physical, methodical step into being classified as parents. What we weren't ready for was for God to hand-deliver us a child that was so wonderful, mere seconds were like coveted treasure, a treasure that time was now hopelessly robbing us of.

Moments spent with you meant and continue to mean something so much bigger than myself or your mom. Our words, our actions, our inactions...everyday is a chance to steer you towards Jesus, towards kindness, towards the man we pray every night you will grow to be. Financial struggles aren't scary. School projects and work assignments aren't scary. Knowing that you are the single-most influential force in the life of another person? Now that is scary.

And yes, admittedly, I truly fell in love for the first time that day. But don't get too cocky (or roll your eyes, since you'll probably be all angsty by the time you can read this) because you may have taught me love, but on the day you were born, you weren't the only one I fell in love with.

No, on the day you were born, I fell in love with an impossibly gracious Creator who, in His infinite power chose, at 7:42pm on August 24, 2015, to entrust us with you. I fell in love with the amazing, out of my league woman that I have the greatest pleasure and honor of calling my wife (who brought you into this world and will take you out, hear me?).

And I fell in love with the summation of both of those relationships in the form of an almost-nine-pound, brown-eyed little boy.

You don't know it yet, but there's this cool movie we'll watch every Christmas about a green dude called the Grinch. He's a jerk for most of the movie, but there's a part near the end when he stops being a jerk and his heart literally grows three sizes (which, in real life, is bad and you need to go to the hospital immediately), but I like to think that's what happened to me that day.

Love didn't just grow in me. It multiplied and thrived and took on a life of its own. I had never been so head over heels for your mom before, I had never appreciated grace or mercy so much, I had never praised God like I did when you were born.

So yeah, when they tell you one day that you don't know love until you have a child, they're right. But just know that love they're talking about, when you know it for real, will change everything.



To the moon and back,

Dad

Year One.

Growing up, no one in my life has used the word "love" quite as often as my grandmother.

Granted, it's generally in reference to food (she is her own favorite cook), but the way she so freely identifies the things that she loves has always been something I've admired.

I think I find it inspiring because most people seem to harbor an unpronounced fear of showing love or vulnerability of any kind. We're quick to take a stance against things, forming hate-based agendas preceded by innumerable "anti" adjectives.

We jump on bandwagons of boycotting and shaming, but love? That's an unsettling premise that we won't address directly, and when we do, we dilute the expression through humor or some other means of "playing it off."

Tomorrow marks a year since I married my beautiful, precious wife, Molly. And I can wholeheartedly attest to the fact that, in 364 days, I've come to understand love more than the previous 22 years of my life.

But as is with most life experiences, the more I know, the more I realize I don't know. For prosperity's sake, though, here's what this past year of being married has taught me:

1. When it comes to our relationship, three opinions matter: mine, my wife's, and God's.

Regardless of how long they've been married or in a relationship, people are relentless when offering their two-cents worth whether it's warranted, welcome, or none of the above. I've learned to take each new bit of advice with a grain of salt, even from the people closest to me.

Marriage isn't formulaic in nature. There aren't "10 easy steps" to follow, nor are there his and hers guidebooks on making it work. Marriage is an organism that needs to be catered to just like any other living thing. You feed it with communication, you train it with time spent together, and you grow it with love.

2. We fight on a regular basis, and it's a beautiful thing.

I've mentioned in the past how Molly and I maintain our relationship by (verbally) duking it out. This isn't some crazy, masochistic lifestyle we've adopted because we're weird and into stuff like that. Fighting with each other genuinely improves the quality of our relationship.

At the risk of sounding like a marriage counselor, I've come to truly live by the thought that "marriage is a bond between two independent individuals." My personal feelings can, and frequently do, contradict Molly's. Very rarely do we go more than 24 hours without arguing about something. From where we should buy car insurance to which Star Wars movie is the best, our opposing views don't, in any way, degrade the strength of our love for one another.

3. I've come to truly cherish the "little things" about her.

A few days ago, Molly went on a brief trip to visit her grandmother out of state. Although it was only for one day, that night I actually felt the absence of her presence in bed. Everything down to the smell of her hair after she finishes her nightly shower is something I've grown to appreciate and love about her.

I love the way she sets her jaw crooked when she's focusing hard on something, and I can't help but smile at the way she crinkles her nose so gently when she laughs. When I have to get up early in the morning, the steady sound of her breathing is literally one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard. With each new day brings new things that I grow to appreciate about her, things I would have previously never even dedicated a passing thought.

4. Marriage isn't a means to an end.

There's a growing stigma within our age group that seems to have everyone thinking marriage is some kind of end game, but that couldn't be further from the truth.

Exchanging vows and rings doesn't initiate a secret plot to turn your life into an episode of Malcom in the Middle. I promise, the moment you're announced husband and wife, you won't suddenly be teleported to a house in the suburbs with three kids and a dog waiting inside.

Marriage, if anything, is the beginning. It's the beginning of one of the coolest adventures you could ever embark on. When you say "I do" to your best friend, you're saying "I do" to every new experience, every hardship, and every joyful moment the two of you will share for the rest of your lives.

5. You're not ready to get married.

Marriage is very, very hard. It truly is. And being married at our age? That's not just hard. It's crazy.

I've come to accept that no one will ever really be "ready" to get married. No matter how much you know or think you know about each other, no matter how much you pray about it, no matter how much counseling you go through, how many Dr. James Dobson books you read...you're not ready to get married. We've gone through some tough stuff, things that we never saw coming, but we did it together.

And that unpreparedness, that crazy scary uncertainty that rests solely on the trust you have in one another? THAT is what is so incredibly beautiful about marriage. THAT is what is so incredibly beautiful about love.

From the moment we tied the knot until today, 364 days later, Molly and I have been consistent. We're just two kids who don't know much other than that we love the heck out of each other.

See what I mean? It's crazy, absolutely crazy. But I don't regret it for a second.

"I'm fine."

Recently, I shared a post on Facebook that appeared on a page I follow. The post was a series of simple, yet clever comic panes depicting how depression can affect an individual.

As someone who has been diagnosed with depression, I honestly thought nothing of it until I received a few, for lack of a softer word, shocking messages from friends reacting to the post. The consensus was that something must have happened, that something was wrong with me.

Although I cherish the concern, the truth is that I am perfectly fine. I am perfectly fine, and I am struggling with depression.

Yes, the "and" was intentional.

I guess, since I've dealt with it for so long, understanding how depression works is something I take for granted. It's human nature to seek the source of our problems with the hopes of solving them, and therein lies the fundamental issue with the concept.

As hard as it may be to grasp, chronic depression doesn't derive from tragedy. Nothing has to "happen" for it to take over.

That's not to say there aren't triggers that can be the cause. But, in general, searching for causation is a dead end, and I think that's what frustrates people who don't commonly struggle with it. Unfortunately, depression is just as difficult to explain as it is to comprehend, which is why the instinctive response it to hide it.

Depression is like an ache that creeps into our bones and roots itself in the marrow. It resides in the hollow places within us that we can't explain. It echoes in our heads like white noise drowning out logic. Depression is physical and it's mental. It can last seconds, or it can last days. The hardest part about depression is that even those of us who have it really don't understand it.

"What's wrong?" is a vastly intimidating question to someone with depression because, while we are well aware that "I don't know" isn't a socially acceptable response, it is, in most cases, all we have to offer.

As a Christian, things become further complicated for me when trying to get others to understand. "You just need to give it to God" is a favorite response followed closely by "Have you tried praying about it?" Yes, I have tried praying (quite a bit) about it, and after beating myself up over it for a long time, I've come to the conclusion that my depression has no correlation whatsoever to my faith or lack thereof.

In other words, Christians who struggle with depression are not any less of a child of God than those who don't, and if someone tells you otherwise, punch them in the face. Don't really do that...well, only if you want to.

But in all seriousness, that theology is twisted and baseless and set me back quite a bit in my personal struggles. 1 Peter 5:6-7 says, "Humble yourselves, therefore, under God's mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him, for he cares for you."

I must've missed the part where God said, "Humble yourselves, therefore, that ye may be without sadness, anxiety, fear, and/or any combination of the three forever and ever. Amen."

I don't know what scripture everyone else is reading, but "Your anxiety" sounds a lot like God is acknowledging that you will struggle. He didn't intend for depression to be exclusive to non-believers, and He certainly didn't promise immunity from the hardships of life. Don't get me wrong; there is, indeed, power in prayer, and I have, without question, felt the relief and peace of spirit because of that.

However, to insinuate that something as overarching and common as depression is an indication of a lack of faith in God is simply ignorant.

As difficult as that is to believe for those of us who frequently experience it, there's no shame in seeking help. The best medicine is, truthfully, just talking it out, whether that's with God in prayer or with a doctor or friends and family.

There is no pot of gold at the end of a monochromatic rainbow awaiting discovery, no cure in a laboratory somewhere. We're simply wired to be sad sometimes. And as weird as it is, that's okay.

Just realize that there's not something inherently wrong with you, and if you're lucky enough to never have experienced depression, understand that being there for someone who is struggling is the absolute greatest thing you can do for them.

For such a complicated thing like depression, the solution is beautifully simple.

We just need love.

Dear Dad

I remember growing up: the Saturday projects, going to "shoot one" on the old N64, camping out on Douglas Lake, and through it all, hearing you say, time and again, how much you loved us.

I remember the weekends we spent building a deck on that old Blackhawk house. I hated carrying those heavy planks and making 784 trips to Lowe's because there was always something else we needed. I remember being annoyed with how we had to measure twice and sometimes even three times before each little step of progress could be made, and I remember being horrified at the sound of the skill saw spinning up to make the next cut.

With age, though, I've come to realize that you don't remember that. You don't remember the events of my childhood at all.

At least, you don't remember them how I do.

You remember that deck on that old house, that old house that had an awesome backyard for your kids to play in but was pretty dated and needed quite a bit of maintenance. You remember those weekends, those weekends spent adding sweat equity to your home and, further, giving you the chance to spend time with your boys and teach them the value of hard work. Those trips to Lowe's are still in recall too, along with each and every dollar spent, money that you busted your tail throughout the week to earn. You remember the dread that Monday would bring when you had to go back to earning, but that was nothing compared to the sense of accomplishment and pride looking at your beautiful deck that you built with your own two hands.

I didn't get it back then. Heck, I didn't understand how you saw the world for the first 22 years of my life. But I think, just maybe, I get it now.

I understand how it feels to look at another person and, without a shadow of a doubt, know you love her more than yourself or your family or anything else. I used gag and groan when you would gush about mom and how she was your "greatest treasure" but now, after finding my own treasure, I'm endlessly thankful for it.

I understand the two-edged sword of family, how lonely and scary it is to have the weight of that treasure resting on your shoulders but how grateful to God you are to have the privilege to support them. We were blissfully unaware of the strength it took to walk through your own door every night. The ability to bottle up anxiety and mask the worry in hugs and kisses and smiles was something you perfected over the years. Whether a blessing or a curse, I've adopted those abilities, acquired that strength, and as I said, even if only a little bit, I understand.

I understand how it is to look at the echo of a human being and think to yourself, "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

And shortly after asking, "God, how am I gonna do this?"

We don't remember my childhood the same way, and Lord willing, Mason and I won't remember his the same either. I can only pray that, one day, he looks back in one epiphanic moment and understands, just as his dad did, what a sacrifice, what a joy, and what a privilege it is to be a father.

Thanks, dad, for everything.

Grownup

When I was younger, my brother and I shared a bunk bed. Rather than a place for sleeping, the bed usually served as a jungle gym, a rocket ship, or one of many other scenarios that we imaginatively created.

Despite mom and dad's constant warnings against playing on the top bunk, the thought of climbing that bright red metal ladder was, more often than not, too tempting to resist. The top offered so many exciting experiences like pretending to "walk" on the ceiling, dangling our action figures perilously over the edge of the "cliff," and, of course, jumping to the floor below.

Nevertheless, our parents insisted that we were to never play on the top bunk "unless an adult was in the room."

One evening, when my Aunt Stephanie was visiting, my brother and I seized the opportunity to lure her into our room and begin playing on the top bunk. Her presence, we assumed, made playing up top fair game. Before long, my mom came in, hand on hip and eyebrows raised, "What are you two doing?"

"Aunt Steffy's a dote!" I responded in our defense.

If only it were that simple. If only my childlike definition of adulthood were the whole picture. If only adulthood were marked simply by the fact that you surpassed a certain age threshold.

But adulthood is far more complicated and difficult and unlike anything I've ever had to do.

Being an adult is working full-time and taking night classes and laughing when people say things like "when you have free time." Being an adult is going to Walmart at two in the morning to get your wife cough medicine. It's sitting up with her into the early hours of the morning laughing and crying and discussing the future as unsettling as it may be.

Being an adult is missing your best friend's birthday party because you have to work and you can't afford to lose the hours. It's having a panic attack in the driveway because you're so overwhelmed with stress that you can't bring yourself to go inside.

Being an adult is saying "I'm doing well" when people ask how you are, although it couldn't be further from the truth.

Being an adult is finding out that you're going to be a father, that you're going to have a child when you secretly still feel like a child yourself.

I wish it could be as simple as I once imagined it to be. I wish my childhood perception of being an "a dote" aligned with what I now have come to understand as true adulthood, but it's not.

Growing up, I was told in school, at church, at home...everywhere that I was bring prepped to make that headstrong leap into adulthood. Looking back, I realize how misguided that notion is.

Adulthood isn't a state of mind or a chronological place in your timeline. It's a choice to set difficult goals and achieve them, to swallow the stress and the anger and the sadness and grow more than you ever thought you could, work harder than you ever thought you could, and become more than you ever thought you could be.

Growing up is hard, hard stuff. But it's worth it.

An Open Letter to the World

Sometimes, an apology is the only, albeit difficult solution. That being said, I am sorry, truly and deeply sorry.

I'm sorry that we've allowed stereotypes to shape our views in ways we always said we wouldn't. I'm sorry we have become a people synonymous with "judgmental," with "hypocritical," with "hateful."

I'm sorry that we've embraced a tainted culture and that our congregations distort scripture under the guidance of flawed leaders. I'm sorry that we have become an inward-focused, sycophantic clique under those very same leaders who are more concerned with their social status than the well-being of their fellow man.

I'm sorry that we don't practice what we preach, that we knowingly go against our own doctrine. I'm sorry that we've discounted and undermined the message of our Savior to the point where no one wants it anymore, to where you don't want it anymore. I'm sorry that we've allowed the unthinkable to happen; we've allowed a life-giving Hope to become something undesirable to those who need it most.

I'm not going to make excuses for our actions or lean against the cosmic crutch of "human nature" to absolve our people of the guilt we should feel for our actions. If darkness is the absence of light, then we have succumbed to that void, embraced its chill, and fallen silent and still to its power. The light that should shine through us has been dimmed and dulled to a grain-sized glimmer of a reflection of a spark beneath layers of inexcusable behavior.

We have created a religious autocracy to replace our community of prayer, and in doing so, we've dripped poison into the remedy we were created to be. Worse, we've put the poison in an attractive glass, filled it to the brim, and tipped it against the lips of your children, our children, our future.

We're more focused on trying to make sin a quantifiable equation to be multiplied and added and ranked than we are introducing people to the One who takes sin away, the eternal minus sign. We've become sin-seeking missiles trained on sexuality and abortion and whatever hot button the conservative agenda is currently pushing. We're trained to obliterate our targets rather than to love them.

We've perpetuated a sickness in the Middle East with the wrongful damnation of a people as a whole rather than the radicals that besmirch their existence, enforcing their doctrine through violence and a deep, unrelenting hatred of their own. We've neglected to aid a hurting people, we've neglected to mourn their dead, and our knees have yet to hit the floor in prayer for their relief.

We've aided in the erection of walls segregating faces of our brothers and sisters based on their complexion. These walls stretch higher everyday, the mortar thickening at the expense of unborn children whose tiny, undeveloped ears have already been exposed to gunshots echoing off the walls of their mothers' wombs, echoes of an unfounded hatred.

And it runs deeper than black versus white, east versus west, "religious" versus secular. There is an infection, a curse, an evil in the lifeblood of our people that has left us vulnerable to the petrification of our hearts. Where believers once met the world with unyielding love and a message of unprejudiced hope, they now cling to cold, bitter stone.

As sad as it is, rarely do Christians represent the former half of their title. So, for what it's worth, I am truly and deeply sorry.

If you don't take anything else away from this apology, please don't look to us. We will only fail you.

Look to Him.