I don’t know where the line originates. Maybe it comes from one of my children, who spoke to another of my children because they miss each other as they live their lives in Seattle, Germany, and soon, Rwanda. Wherever it comes from, it found its way into this little exchange between two of them, and is at the core of an element in their intertwined lives that brings me great joy.
“Why are you so far away?” writes one.
“Because the world is wide and cold,” writes the other. “Alas.”
“That is sad…”
As Father’s Day approaches, I’ve much to boast about, in my opinion (and I’m not prone to boasting). I love my three children fiercely, and have good relationships with each of them. They’re all different, all beautiful, each displaying different facets of character – unique in their loves, joys, ways of living. I’m proud of them and as this particular Father’s Day approaches, for reasons I can’t understand, I’m celebrating their lives and am mindful of the great privilege I’ve had to share my life with them for the past 26, 25, 21 years respectively.
But the dialogue that opened this piece is no doubt the matter in which I take perhaps the greatest pride, and joy because it tells me something very significant: My children love each other; love each other enough that they long to be with each other, so much so that separation creates a hole. It’s not tolerance, admiration, respect… it’s love. And this brings me great joy.
I wish I could explain how this happened, wish their were a formula pass on to dads everywhere, but there’s not. The best I can do is look back retrospectively for markers that, only now, stand out as significant:
1. Live instead of watch. We didn’t do much TV when the children were small, living as we did, out of range of any signal at all. There were forts in the forest, and books by the fire, and picnics by the river. But we were never able to get in Seinfeld until we watched the series as reruns, in Seattle. I’m convinced that, by accident, we stumbled on to something valuable, for our kids didn’t know much about what they were supposed to wear, or see, or experience. They didn’t get that sense of inadequacy that is invariably nurtured by advertising because they were too busy actually living life. This, I think, has helped.
3. It’s their world AND yours. Yes, it’s important to go to Suzuki violin concerts and listen to all the young children play delightfully out of tune. After all, the trip ‘downriver’ for lessons was a cumulative 120 miles – I’d better hear the recital! I’d better coach the little league team. I’d better go to the musical, whether I’m into musicals or not. These, after all, are their worlds, what gives their lives joy and meaning.
I ought, though, to have a world of my own that I delight to share with them. “Tennis anyone?” led to volleys, and conversations, with my son. The climbing wall on the side of the house led being roped together with each child, in more ways than one. Mountains, stars, snow, campfires – I want to share my loves with my children. That many of my joys are now theirs is deeply satisfying. Having children, after all, is not the end of yourself; it’s a new companion with whom to share yourself.
I’ve reserved a climbing date with Noah at the end of July. I’ll put Holly on a plane to Rwanda for the summer in a few days. One week from today I’ll fly to Germany with my wife to visit Kristi. That each of them love us, and each other is…
This week, I’m happy to share some guest posts on my blog, from these very children – I know you’ll enjoy them!