hope (another letter to my son)

Dear Elias,

You turned two months old last Friday. Already, you’re wide-eyed and curious about the world around you. I’m convinced you notice and become wowed by things that I don’t see. Or perhaps I’ve just become too busy or jaded to find beauty and wander in simple things. But you haven’t.

For instance, I have no idea why you spend so much time gazing up at the ceiling fan. I’d love to know what you find so interesting about five brown panels whirling around in circular motion. Do you just like the way it moves? Are you frightened by it? Or do you see the power of God spinning round and round above you in our living room?

Your mother loves taking pictures of you. That’s one of the ways I know she loves you so much; nothing brings her more joy than when she’s busy capturing and documenting every one of your facial expressions. And I think you might have a million of them! Of course, I don’t recognize all of them like your mother does. Sometimes she’ll say to me, “I just love when he puts his lips together like this,” and then she’ll do her very best impression of the shape of your mouth. That usually causes us to break out into laughter, and then both of us sit and watch you, waiting, hoping, and doing our best to coax you to do that face again. (Though this time your mother is looking at you through the lens of her camera, determined to catch in picture when you make your lips look like a duckbilled platypus’s.)

Sadly, you’re not very cooperative. But you make up for your non-cooperation by doing an entirely new facial expression that is just as interesting to us. I could stare at you for hours, Elias. Sometimes I do. You and I get to spend Thursdays and Fridays together. You make it difficult to get any work done. That’s not because you’re overly demanding, but because I find so much hope when I look at you. And even more when you look at me with your big brown eyes. When your eyes follow me around the living room, I feel like superman. But my favorite is when you fall asleep on my chest. There are few things that make me happier than when your heartbeat is resting against mine. I experience so much hope in those moments.

Hope is an odd thing, Elias. It’s hard to explain most of the time. You’ll learn about this eventually. But sometimes hope is just a feeling or a thought or a moment that comes to you in a flash. It can feel like a burst of energy or a strange peace or a long comforting hug from a dear friend. It doesn’t always remedy all of the pain or questions or fear that might be grieving you in the present, but it often gives you the ability to push through the hard parts of life. That’s what you do for me. Looking at you makes me feel like I can conquer almost anything, though I’m very human and broken. Your face reminds me that God is with me. You don’t answer all of my questions or calm all of my fears or make the pain I’m feeling in a given moment go away, but you do offer me energy, peace, and hugs to help me walk through those tough moments. Thank you for that. Hopefully someday I can return the favor.

Love,

Daddy (I’m the one who uses the bottles to feed you.)

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