My wife, Sarah, wrote this beautiful letter to our soon to be born son. May it inspire you to live your life w/ the purpose, promise, and potential we all started out with. And to remind you of the great, good, God who penned each of our stories.
Dear Asher:
We live in a beautiful part of the country. And you are
arriving in a beautiful time of year. I have seen twenty-eight autumns. I don’t
remember all of them. I hardly remember anything about them. But every time
this season comes around it feels fresh and familiar, inviting and transient,
comfortable and fleeting, all at once.
Driving home from work yesterday I was struck by the
lighting. And maybe it wouldn’t have been all that impressive if the lighting
weren’t coupled with the drama that is Fall. But for some reason, the angle of
the sun, the texture of the colors, the glow in the sky—it was breathtaking. It
was like seeing the meandering creeks, the decades old trees, the aged barns
and the leaning fences I drive past countless times every week for the first
time.
So I rolled the windows down, as if doing that allowed the
presence of Fall to permeate my car, maybe even seep into my skin, trying to
get close to the magic outside my window.
And subconsciously, unintentionally, I found my hand drawn
to my belly, rubbing it, trying to find and name the ambiguous lumps and bumps
that the knobs of angles and bones make up. I wanted you to share in what I was
seeing. I wanted you to witness the enchantment that I saw, that I live in the
midst of, that you have never experienced before. There is a world, a literal
world waiting with baited breath for your arrival that is new and unknown and
mysterious. And in a matter of weeks, it will be yours.
I couldn’t help but note to myself, I think you are going to
like this place. This world. Sure. It will be different from the dark
comfortable quarters you have grown accustomed to in the last eight months.
Yes, it will be a bit cooler here—but once you know what it means to feel a
breeze, to breathe in crisp coolness, to be enveloped in a soft wind, I don’t
think you will mind it. Yes, it may be overwhelming—the sights a little more
complex and extensive than you may be used to. But once you see the trees, once
you smell and feel the colors, once you notice the sun and how its subtly
changing arc shades a shifting landscape, I think you may actually prefer it.
You haven’t seen anything. Right now, you will just have to
trust me. Count on me. Believe me when I say, this world, this beautifully
changing and transforming world is going to capture your heart. You will find
there are moments of extravagant wonder—windows into a different world, a world
you may be intimately familiar with having just come from there yourself. But
before you arrive, before you are thrust into this strange and different and
evolving world, there is something you should know. You should know that it
isn’t all beautiful, all the time. And I don’t just mean the seasons and the
colors.
Sometimes, the world grows dim. Sometimes, it is hard to
remember a more beautiful place and more loving God exists—when the color
fades, when what is left of the yellows, reds and oranges is a brown, and bare
landscape, with sparse evidence of life. Sometimes, this world does not make a
lot of sense. Sometimes it is cruel. Sometimes it is harsh. Sometimes it seems
void of all that is beautiful and right and good. Sometimes you see more
brokenness than you do restoration. Sometimes you see more pain than you do
healing. Sometimes you ask more questions than you get answers. Sometimes the
world stays just this way for just too long, and you start to wonder where you
fit in the midst of it all.
But I want to tell you something, baby boy. You fit. In the
moments when there is more confusion than you know what to do with, when there
is more hurt than you know how to handle, when there is more uncertainty than
you know how to process, you fit. These moments don’t last forever. That is
when you have to draw on the moments of wonder. Recall the moments when the
colors are bright and vibrant, the light soft and magical, the air scented and
saturated. You have to remember to look, to dig, to search out the evidences of
God—and be diligent in your search. He is always there—there with you now in
the dark places of my womb, and there with you later in the dark places of your
soul. And if you aren’t sure you can find Him, be assured He will find you.
The thing is, I won’t always be here Asher. And your dad
won’t be either. And I think I have become more aware of that now than I have
at any other time in my life, because I feel this burden as your impending
birth comes closer and closer. I want to make sure that the time we have with
you, however long or however short it is, is soaked through with significance,
intentionality and meaning. And what I want you to get, starting now, before
you have even seen my face, now, when all you know of me is the steady rhythm
of my heart, and all you know of your dad is his soothing voice and calming rub
on your body, I want you to know, that you belong in this world. In the
loveliness and the horror, in the meaning and the senselessness, in the
evidences of God and the seeming lack of His presence. You belong in His world.
And it will break you, and it will fix you. It will
challenge you and it will comfort you. It will push you and it will hold you.
And when I am no longer here, when your dad is no longer here, when all you
have left of us is the legacy we have tried so hard to leave in tact for you, I
hope you will remember simply this. You belong. You fit. In this family, in
this world…in God. You exist to be a part of this family, to make it better, to
be a part of this world, to make it better, to be a part of God’s story—that
makes you better.
It took my ordinary drive home, transformed into an
extraordinary display of divine extravagance for me to realize how blank your
slate really is. How much there is out here for you to see and hear, taste and
touch, feel and experience. There are things I still don’t understand about
this place, about how it all works, but I suspect the questions are what keeps
us young, keeps us searching, keeps us seeking out the One who put it all
together.
In a few weeks you will be here—sooner than I think am ready
for if I had to guess. But when you get here, I want you to know we are going
to set out on this journey together. I am not going to pretend to have it all
figured out. Your dad won’t either. We will be honest in our uncertainty, and
determined in our certainty. And we will invite you to be a part of it all,
guiding your vision, directing your gaze to the One who loves you more than we
ever could, who understands more than we could ever hope to, whose narrative
involves us more than we ever deserve.
I slowed down yesterday. Long enough to imagine what your
first encounter with this crazy world might look like. And I realized I don’t
slow down enough. Maybe I will when you arrive. Maybe I will start to see it
all through your eyes. Maybe we will teach each other. Maybe, in effort to
determine and solidify our own legacy, you will begin to leave yours. And maybe
as we try to write into your story, you will write into ours. And maybe as we
try to show you God and the mystery of His character and the lavishness of His
love, He will actually be showing Himself to us in ways we never imagined. And
maybe, with your arrival, there will be a richness to our lives we have never
known before. Maybe, that is what yesterday meant for me to do. To better
understand this place you have never seen before, and to better understand me
and how little I know too. You, me, dad and the God who put this tiny little
family together—we are going to work at it. We are going to embrace it. We are
going to live it. And we will do it as a family of three guided by a God who is
One.
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