There is a whole lot of confusion out in the world about the nature of women. In fact, I would submit that the vast majority of messages we receive from the world about a woman's role, value, and purpose are flat out wrong.
For example, there have long been widespread false beliefs that a woman is somehow inferior or subservient to a man. These beliefs have perpetuated unspeakable abuses and indignities throughout much of the world's history.
A particularly damning manifestation of this kind of disrespect is found in today's popular media, which more often than not portrays women as little more than creatures who exist merely to be sensually appealing to men. Far worse yet is the dehumanizing impact of pornography. These gross distortions not only deemphasize a woman's tremendous intrinsic value, but reduce her to a non-person--an object whose primary (or sole) purpose is for the gratification of the opposite sex.
Equally erroneous to these male-centric, chauvinistic views is the notion that a woman is superior to a man, that she doesn't want or need him, and that her highest potential is reached in spite of him.
A common aspect of this mistaken line of reasoning is the widely held belief that a woman's value is primarily derived from her degree of success in academic or professional pursuits--that these kind of worldly achievements somehow validate her true worth and that choosing a life as a full-time mother is a lesser accomplishment.
Then there are those women who have been so disappointed, disillusioned, disenfranchised, or distraught by the repeated abuses of men that they come to believe that their road to happiness involves avoiding men altogether.
As a father of four daughters, all of this concerns me deeply. I want for each of my daughters, more than anything, to understand her divine nature and reach her full potential. This goal and the means for achieving it are not to be found in the teachings of mankind. They are only found in the revealed words of God.
The prophet Joseph Smith once said, "If men [and women] do not comprehend the character of God, they do not comprehend themselves" (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, sel. Joseph Fielding Smith, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1938, p. 343).
Today's world is full of women (and men) who chase a mere illusion of happiness when the true prize is 180 degrees in the opposite direction. These problems are largely caused by a lack of understanding about the nature of God, and the resulting confusion about ourselves.
Our Father in Heaven is, first and foremost, our father. He fathered our spirits, that immortal portion of our selves that thinks and gives personality and life to our mortal bodies. We are literal spiritual offspring of God as the apostle Paul repeatedly taught in New Testament times (Acts 17:28-29, Hebrews 12:9, Romans 8:16-17). In these latter days, God revealed this truth anew to the prophet Joseph Smith when He declared that we are, all of us, "begotten sons and daughters unto God" (D&C 76:24).
The magnitude of the implications of this eternal truth are staggering! If my precious daughters could learn just this one truth--that they are royal daughters, literally descended from a Heavenly King who loves them unconditionally--their lives will forever be on a different and vastly superior course than the women they see celebrated in the world.
For their true course and destiny does not lie in a misguided path into the mires of mortality and the pleasures of the world, but rather is a starry trail onward and upward towards celestial heights where their Father lives.
And He is not alone there.
One of the most critical truths for my daughters--and every woman and girl in this world--to learn is that our literal Father in Heaven holds that title and honor in equal partnership with a Woman. Yes, we have a Mother there--a divine, celestial Being who is the very embodiment of perfect virtue, purity, and love, who is in every way the Equal, Partner, and Divine Compliment to our Eternal Father. There never was a father without a mother. And indeed, He would not be who He is without Her.
Just as our sacred bodies are fashioned in their--our Heavenly Parents'--own image, male and female (see Genesis 1:26), so are our spirits. Within each of us is a spark of divinity with the potential to grow in brightness until it is perfected and we become--quite literally--just like our Heavenly Parents (see D&C 50:24, Matthew 5:48). The only course nature knows is for offspring to strive to grow to be like their parents, and in the divine nature of a daughter of Deity, this holds true.
Again, once these truths about the nature of God--and hence our own divine nature as God's offspring--sink in, our lives are changed forever.
There is no more confusion about where a woman's worth is found; it is derived from the fact that we are what the prophet Spencer W. Kimball called "gods in embryo" ("The Miracle of Forgiveness", page 286).
There is no more confusion about standards of dress or modesty, or the gravity of the sin of pornography; our bodies, created in God's own image, are not tools or toys for our own selfish use; they are sacred and hold the very key to our becoming like Him.
There is no more confusion about the vital importance of sexual purity before marriage and complete fidelity within marriage; a companionship meant to be eternal should be entered into with complete respect and preserved with complete trust.
There is no more confusion about the purpose of sex; it is not for selfish gratification, but rather for the creation of life and the forging and strengthening of eternal bonds of love between husband and wife. It is the procreative power that plays a vital part in the highest and holiest roles of celestial beings.
There is no more confusion about the importance or nature of marriage; it is an essential institution which only has meaning between man and woman, and which every man and woman should seek with their whole hearts--for without it we cannot become as our Heavenly Parents. Truly one of the most important decisions we will ever make is to marry the right person in the right place by the right authority. It just may determine our eternal happiness.
There is no more confusion about the proper place of parenting among the priorities of life; if our Heavenly Father defines Himself by his role as the Father of humanity, and His divine parental position is only attainable through His partnership with our Mother, then the role of father and mother should be placed above all other earthly roles except the foundational spousal roles upon which they rest. No learning, career, fame, or fortune can or should replace the sacred roles of parenting; these all amount to short-lived vanity that will vanish away when our lives end. Our highest calling in this life and the next is to emulate our Heavenly Parents.
There is no question about how a man should treat his wife (and by extension, all other women); he should honor her as a daughter of God, a sacred companion, an equal partner, and the very key to his eternal progression and happiness, without whom he would be doomed to an eternity of a static life without posterity or meaningful progression. He should be anxious for her happiness and foster the development of her abilities--especially those divine attributes found in marriage and motherhood.
There is no question about how a woman should treat her husband (and by extension, all other men); she should honor him as a son of God and help cultivate in him--and expect from him--the very highest of behaviors and noblest of attributes befitting one who has joined with her in a divine partnership. She should help him remember that his highest, most important roles are with her, in their home, where they share equal responsibility as partners and parents.
There is no more confusion about the vital importance of virtue, honesty, integrity, industry, chastity, and every other godlike attribute we seek to attain; every one of these is an attribute of the Father and Mother we aspire to imitate.
There is no more confusion about the need for a Savior; if He calls us to perfection, and indeed He does, then we are doomed to failure without His atoning blood to redeem us from our sins, to raise our bodies from death, and to ultimately transform us into the sons and daughters of God we are meant to be. Only men and women who understand the true nature of the heights He aspires to raise them to can truly appreciate the depths of his condescension and the magnitude of what He has done for us. His grace is eternal and infinite. We can spend our entire lives in His service and never even come close to giving to Him what is His due as the Savior of our souls. We owe Him everything.
These are just a few of the things I hope--with all my heart--that my daughters discover in their journey to know God and thus comprehend themselves. The world provides a laboratory for our learning, but the source of eternal truth is above this world. That is where a true woman discovers her worth and inspiration.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Wife Rule #147: Celebrate the Miracles
Our world abounds in miracles, and I had cause to enumerate just a few of them during the birth of our newest child.
She was born into a world of artificial light, artificial climate control, and a thousand other "non-natural" inventions that make our modern lives so comfortable. Everything--from the lights and the sounds of beeping monitors to the softness of the machine-woven sheets, to the I.V. tube supplying mother and baby with supplementary hydration, to the very air we were breathing--seemed to be filtered and shaped and molded by the miracles of modern technology, optimally suited for bringing a new life into the world.
This carefully crafted world of sheet-rock and paint, of smooth, shiny, tile floors, of tightly woven carpeting, indoor plumbing, and hand sanitizer dispensers attached to the walls, was the environment that welcomed our baby. She entered a man-made world propped up by electrical grids, fiber optics, silicon circuits, plumbing systems, and fossil fuels. It would be several days before she would first fill her little lungs with fresh, natural air.
Of course, when it comes to birthing, I wouldn't trade places with anyone in anytime of the world's history. I'm all for making the grand entrance of a new child as comfortable and safe as possible, and I am most grateful for all those who contributed to the environment and expertise we enjoy today.
Yet the biggest miracle of the whole process was not due to any of these hand-crafted solutions born of mankind's collective knowledge. When you strip away all the inventions of our hands, and reduce the Great Miracle to its most fundamental, raw form, it is found embedded in our marvelous bodies--bodies that are created in God's own image and carry His divine stamp of workmanship. This primeval, natural "technology" is as old as the human race, Adam and Eve being the first of our family to utilize it in bringing life into the world.
It began as microscopic processes worked at the molecular level to jump start the development of our new child. This amazing, invisible, incredibly complex, self-perpetuating machine was deliberately planted in a perfectly suited habitat within my wife's womb. Week after week, month after month, subtle yet significant changes occurred as the developing fetus took on the form of her father and mother, growing into "our own image" one cell division at a time.
When the time was right, my wife's amazing body turned on a switch that began a series of programmed steps which have been encoded into her DNA for just a few, critical uses during her lifetime. These involuntary impulses are uniquely suited to move along the process of birth, as the distended muscles around her abdomen contract sharply: pushing, pushing, pushing. Conscious control helps the process along in a remarkable harmony of voluntary and involuntary exertion.
At the point when the labor pains reach a fevered pitch and the cry of travail is high in the air, the artificial world around us dissolves and for a few critical moments all that exists are my wife, and the baby, and me, the observer. I witness this moment as some sacred, invisible boundary is crossed: the edges of Heaven and Earth stretch and extend until they momentarily touch, and then are pierced by the entrance of another soul into mortality.
As for the baby, in just a few seconds the amazing body she inhabits performs nearly simultaneous, once-in-a-lifetime changes designed to transform her from a being wholly dependent on another, into a self-sustaining system. Heart valves close and open, taking control of and rerouting the circulatory system; lungs fill with terrestrial air for the first time; a previously unneeded digestive tract begins churning, bringing powerful sensations that will be the main driving force of her behavior for months to come; eyes receive their first rays of unobstructed light and color; ears are taken from their environment of comfortable, rhythmic, underwater roaring into an alien and relatively quiet world of artificial humming and beeping mixed with new sounds of human life; lips and tongue search frantically for the source of nourishment that will keep this marvelous machine running at top performance; and vocal chords erupt for the first time in that characteristic but fleeting, tell-tale squall of new and vibrant life.
I am quickly brought back into our modern world as clamps are applied and I am handed a scissor to cut the child forever loose. Then she is whisked away for a few moments to be measured and wiped and poked and prodded and measured some more. The exact program they follow evolves as the years pass and technology advances and human knowledge increases.
But that most significant part of childbirth--the part signified by blood and water and spirit, and which takes place out of reach of human hands, solely within the realm of the bodies of mother and child, and which is governed alone by our Great Creator--is as old as eternity, and is still by far the most glorious part of the process. Whether in a primitive shelter thousands of years ago, or a modern sterilized hospital, that most sublime and wondrous miracle--the miracle of Human Life--marches on in splendor and majesty every time a mother descends into the valley of the shadow of death in order to bring a new life into the world.
I observe it--and celebrate it--in awe.
She was born into a world of artificial light, artificial climate control, and a thousand other "non-natural" inventions that make our modern lives so comfortable. Everything--from the lights and the sounds of beeping monitors to the softness of the machine-woven sheets, to the I.V. tube supplying mother and baby with supplementary hydration, to the very air we were breathing--seemed to be filtered and shaped and molded by the miracles of modern technology, optimally suited for bringing a new life into the world.
This carefully crafted world of sheet-rock and paint, of smooth, shiny, tile floors, of tightly woven carpeting, indoor plumbing, and hand sanitizer dispensers attached to the walls, was the environment that welcomed our baby. She entered a man-made world propped up by electrical grids, fiber optics, silicon circuits, plumbing systems, and fossil fuels. It would be several days before she would first fill her little lungs with fresh, natural air.
Of course, when it comes to birthing, I wouldn't trade places with anyone in anytime of the world's history. I'm all for making the grand entrance of a new child as comfortable and safe as possible, and I am most grateful for all those who contributed to the environment and expertise we enjoy today.
Yet the biggest miracle of the whole process was not due to any of these hand-crafted solutions born of mankind's collective knowledge. When you strip away all the inventions of our hands, and reduce the Great Miracle to its most fundamental, raw form, it is found embedded in our marvelous bodies--bodies that are created in God's own image and carry His divine stamp of workmanship. This primeval, natural "technology" is as old as the human race, Adam and Eve being the first of our family to utilize it in bringing life into the world.
It began as microscopic processes worked at the molecular level to jump start the development of our new child. This amazing, invisible, incredibly complex, self-perpetuating machine was deliberately planted in a perfectly suited habitat within my wife's womb. Week after week, month after month, subtle yet significant changes occurred as the developing fetus took on the form of her father and mother, growing into "our own image" one cell division at a time.
When the time was right, my wife's amazing body turned on a switch that began a series of programmed steps which have been encoded into her DNA for just a few, critical uses during her lifetime. These involuntary impulses are uniquely suited to move along the process of birth, as the distended muscles around her abdomen contract sharply: pushing, pushing, pushing. Conscious control helps the process along in a remarkable harmony of voluntary and involuntary exertion.
At the point when the labor pains reach a fevered pitch and the cry of travail is high in the air, the artificial world around us dissolves and for a few critical moments all that exists are my wife, and the baby, and me, the observer. I witness this moment as some sacred, invisible boundary is crossed: the edges of Heaven and Earth stretch and extend until they momentarily touch, and then are pierced by the entrance of another soul into mortality.
As for the baby, in just a few seconds the amazing body she inhabits performs nearly simultaneous, once-in-a-lifetime changes designed to transform her from a being wholly dependent on another, into a self-sustaining system. Heart valves close and open, taking control of and rerouting the circulatory system; lungs fill with terrestrial air for the first time; a previously unneeded digestive tract begins churning, bringing powerful sensations that will be the main driving force of her behavior for months to come; eyes receive their first rays of unobstructed light and color; ears are taken from their environment of comfortable, rhythmic, underwater roaring into an alien and relatively quiet world of artificial humming and beeping mixed with new sounds of human life; lips and tongue search frantically for the source of nourishment that will keep this marvelous machine running at top performance; and vocal chords erupt for the first time in that characteristic but fleeting, tell-tale squall of new and vibrant life.
I am quickly brought back into our modern world as clamps are applied and I am handed a scissor to cut the child forever loose. Then she is whisked away for a few moments to be measured and wiped and poked and prodded and measured some more. The exact program they follow evolves as the years pass and technology advances and human knowledge increases.
But that most significant part of childbirth--the part signified by blood and water and spirit, and which takes place out of reach of human hands, solely within the realm of the bodies of mother and child, and which is governed alone by our Great Creator--is as old as eternity, and is still by far the most glorious part of the process. Whether in a primitive shelter thousands of years ago, or a modern sterilized hospital, that most sublime and wondrous miracle--the miracle of Human Life--marches on in splendor and majesty every time a mother descends into the valley of the shadow of death in order to bring a new life into the world.
I observe it--and celebrate it--in awe.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Wife Rule #146: It's Summer-time (and I am Tired)
I am tired.
Our little baby girl, Summer, seems to be a permanently attached fixture to my wife.
That means that she's busy all day, and up much of the night.
Except when she pleads with me and I stumble out to take the occasional turn for an hour or so, typically around four o'clock AM.
I've been back to work for a month now. The three oldest kids are back in school. Andrew started preschool. Charity started a playgroup. We have two piano players and three soccer players. Routines and schedules must be followed. Including early-morning schedules. Sleeping in is not an option, and I'm trying to exercise again.
Wonderful friends and family brought in a lot of meals after the birth, but even the leftovers are only a fond memory now. That means the family has been enduring repeat selections from Dad's "instant meal" repertoire: the kind I can scrap together with whatever food I thought to buy on the way home from work, the last time I thought to stop.
Because my wife is always feeding the baby.
Which means we're eating later. And cleaning up later. And going to bed later.
And I am tired.
The laundry is piling up. The house is getting messier, and I don't have energy to clean, or to get the kids to clean. My wife wants to clean, but spends nearly all of her time captive and immobilized.
She is often totally wiped out.
A few weeks ago I fell asleep during church choir practice. The sofa I was sitting on was a tad too comfy. They still laugh about it.
The lawn is growing. The weeds are happy.
But it's all okay. My wife and I are happy too. We have a healthy, beautiful baby girl.
And Summer smiled at me again tonight.
Our little baby girl, Summer, seems to be a permanently attached fixture to my wife.
That means that she's busy all day, and up much of the night.
Except when she pleads with me and I stumble out to take the occasional turn for an hour or so, typically around four o'clock AM.
I've been back to work for a month now. The three oldest kids are back in school. Andrew started preschool. Charity started a playgroup. We have two piano players and three soccer players. Routines and schedules must be followed. Including early-morning schedules. Sleeping in is not an option, and I'm trying to exercise again.
Wonderful friends and family brought in a lot of meals after the birth, but even the leftovers are only a fond memory now. That means the family has been enduring repeat selections from Dad's "instant meal" repertoire: the kind I can scrap together with whatever food I thought to buy on the way home from work, the last time I thought to stop.
Because my wife is always feeding the baby.
Which means we're eating later. And cleaning up later. And going to bed later.
And I am tired.
The laundry is piling up. The house is getting messier, and I don't have energy to clean, or to get the kids to clean. My wife wants to clean, but spends nearly all of her time captive and immobilized.
She is often totally wiped out.
A few weeks ago I fell asleep during church choir practice. The sofa I was sitting on was a tad too comfy. They still laugh about it.
The lawn is growing. The weeds are happy.
But it's all okay. My wife and I are happy too. We have a healthy, beautiful baby girl.
And Summer smiled at me again tonight.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Wife Rule #145: Sometimes One Is Enough
One of the great things about marriage is that there are two of you accomplishing what couldn't be done by one alone. Some things, like babies, are impossible to accomplish alone. Another great benefit, however, is the reverse: sometimes there are things that one person can accomplish for two. Husbands and wives thus fulfill complimentary roles, sort of filling in each others' gaps, enriching both partners.
I had such an experience the night I wrote the previous Wife Rule, the one where I waxed super-sentimental about my wife and newborn daughter. As I was sitting there, rocking my child in her sleep, feeling so full of love, my wife looked up from her reading.
"You're feeling all sentimental," she observed by a quick look into my beaming face. Then she continued, "I'm sorry I can't join you right now. I'd love to, but I'm reading about zombies."
Sometimes one of us is enough.
I had such an experience the night I wrote the previous Wife Rule, the one where I waxed super-sentimental about my wife and newborn daughter. As I was sitting there, rocking my child in her sleep, feeling so full of love, my wife looked up from her reading.
"You're feeling all sentimental," she observed by a quick look into my beaming face. Then she continued, "I'm sorry I can't join you right now. I'd love to, but I'm reading about zombies."
Sometimes one of us is enough.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Wife Rule #144: It's a Grand Night for Singing
I got an early start this morning and had fed the kids breakfast and begun the process of draining the kiddie pool out back (so I could move it again and kill a new spot of grass) before it was even nine o'clock. I got the kids started on their morning chores, mowed the lawn, tightened up the badminton net, trimmed the roses, pulled a weed or two, and enlisted the kids' help in washing the algae out of the pool before beginning the refill.
By 10:30 we were on our way to the new public splash pad, where I enjoyed a full hour of wading in the current and taking snapshots of the kids as they splashed in the various fountains and taunted each other. Charity was startled by the first gush of spray as the system turned on shortly after our arrival and never entered the water again, but still managed to have fun playing on the grass. She was just as cute in her pink tutu swimming suit (with ruffly skirt!) out of the water as she would have been in.
Afterwards we stopped at the shaved ice shack and ordered six small cups (including one in a pink flavor called "Barbie" for you-know-who, which ended up fully spilled into her car seat by the time we arrived home). We also stopped at the hardware store to pick up a few items for a bathroom counter repair I've needed to make for several months now. We even got the mail.
Lunch was a snap though it took me a while to get it ready, and afterwards I started on the counter project until it was time to put Charity down for a nap. Then the four older kids and I walked over to the park and played the 18-hole Frisbee golf course (9 separate posts, played once in each direction).
By the time we got home it was too late to finish the counter, but early enough to shower (finally) and snag a fifteen minute nap before the preparations began for dinner. A few unexpected phone calls later and the day was spent. Of course, that didn't mean work was over. Dinner, clean up, and our traditional Monday family night, followed by a chapter aloud in the novel we have been reading together, and then the routine teeth-brushing, prayer-saying, storybooks, and tucking-in fully exhausted the rest of the day.
I never made it into the office. I am on paternity leave.
(insert cheers and congratulations here)
It's a welcome chance to catch up and keep the kids occupied and occasionally away so that my wife can catch a little rest and quiet time with the new wee one.
Now it's dark outside and the chaos and bustle of the day is over. I finally find myself with the opportunity to hold our new arrival, who has been freshly fed and changed and is actually still awake. And for once there's not even any competition or complaining about turns or fairness from the other kids, who normally inundate the poor little thing with a suffocating amount of love and attention, but who are all currently in their respective beds.
So I sit down with my new daughter in the rocker for a little one-on-one Daddy Time. She is dressed in a fuzzy sleeper with a pastel pattern of something cute and babyish. Her eyes are wide open, and she seems to have an unusual interest in the male half of her parentage. It's a good thing too, since I did contribute to the effort of getting her here, at least a little bit.
I begin to rock and sing to her (for what else is a Daddy to do?). The first tune that comes to mind is one I have sung as a lullaby for years now, I'm trying to be like Jesus. While I softly deliver the melody in a baritone key, she looks intently into my eyes.
She has the deepest blue eyes--I would say almost black, but her pupils are still distinct, surrounded by midnight blue. Her long, dark-brown hair falls in subtle curls on her forehead. It's well over an inch long and still has the pink miniature bow glued into it that the nurses at the hospital nursery put in after her first bath. They loved having a baby there whose hair they could style, and though they never actually said it, I could tell they thought she was the cutest baby they'd seen in a long time.
She seems to enjoy the first song, so I start into another: I am a Child of God. As I repeat the well-loved lyrics "I am a child of God and He has sent me here; has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear," I almost discern a slight smile on her lips. She has the same pleasant, little rosebud mouth with a full lower lip as her big sister Charity--which means that she can make that same irresistible pouty face and receive big-lipped kisses from Daddy (I've already tried that out. Several times).
And speaking of kissing, we can't overlook the beautiful, flushed cheeks that grace her mouth on either side, of such perfect proportion as to cast her little round face to the aspect of a cherub. Many times I have bestowed my gentlest kiss on those cheeks, and in special rare instances (subject to availability, limited time offer, can change without notice, etc.), when she rears back her head for a stretch I have buried my lips in the super-soft creases of the skin in her tiny neck.
As I study her face, it does seemed imbued with a heavenly glow--of innocence, of freshness, and of complete trust and dependence. Her eyes, still fixed intently on mine as I rock her and sing, seem to see through me, penetrating to the very depths of my soul, and communicate a clear message: Love me. Protect Me. Shelter Me. Teach me.
These thoughts mesh perfectly with the lullaby as I finish the last chorus: "Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do to live with Him someday."
There is a soft smile in her eyes and they begin to close as I start into the next number, O My Father. The words of that hymn so perfectly describe the journey this precious little soul has just made, traveling from "a more exalted sphere" into this simple, happy life with her mother and me (and her five noisy siblings). I sing all four verses to her, leaning in close, expelling just enough breath to produce the notes. By the end her eyes are closed. She never looked away; she drifted into pleasant slumber still fully engaged with me.
I look down at this babe in my arms. My hand is stretched across hers, completely covering most of her arms and chest. She startles a bit as I move it, and wrap her fingers around one of mine. I study the marvelous detail in her baby hands--such perfect little fingers with their infinitesimal joints and nails. Her body is truly a gift--a glorious creation from a loving God.
She is asleep, but I finish my serenade with the classic song Stardust, for its outstanding melody and the pure joy of singing.
When the last hum has died away, I continue rocking her in the silence. I cannot tear my eyes away from her. I study her perfect little body again, offering a silent prayer of thanks to the loving Father who brought her here safe and whole. I marvel that He would share this sacred experience--fatherhood--with me, and lend me one of His pure, choice children for a few precious years here on earth.
She lets out the slightest sigh, and brings me back to this room. I look over and see my wife reading on the couch, her beautiful, soft face illuminated by warm, yellow lamp light. Suddenly I sense the overwhelming fullness--the atmosphere seems thick with the pure, celestial joy that must surely be a shadow of the sweetest glories our Heavenly Parents enjoy. I thank her--my wife--for giving me this chance. For giving me a chance at all.
I sit there, mesmerized and completely entranced: my daughter in my arms, my wife a few feet away, and my heart full to the point of spilling over. I am lost again, drifting away somewhere between a dream and a poem. A pleasant, sublime heat rises in my chest and swells up to my face. I stare at the perfect, glorious child nestled within my arms and a single tear wells up in the corner my eye and is released, tickling my cheek as it descends towards this pure, celestial being.
I am a father. Again, for the sixth time now, I am a father!
By 10:30 we were on our way to the new public splash pad, where I enjoyed a full hour of wading in the current and taking snapshots of the kids as they splashed in the various fountains and taunted each other. Charity was startled by the first gush of spray as the system turned on shortly after our arrival and never entered the water again, but still managed to have fun playing on the grass. She was just as cute in her pink tutu swimming suit (with ruffly skirt!) out of the water as she would have been in.
Afterwards we stopped at the shaved ice shack and ordered six small cups (including one in a pink flavor called "Barbie" for you-know-who, which ended up fully spilled into her car seat by the time we arrived home). We also stopped at the hardware store to pick up a few items for a bathroom counter repair I've needed to make for several months now. We even got the mail.
Lunch was a snap though it took me a while to get it ready, and afterwards I started on the counter project until it was time to put Charity down for a nap. Then the four older kids and I walked over to the park and played the 18-hole Frisbee golf course (9 separate posts, played once in each direction).
By the time we got home it was too late to finish the counter, but early enough to shower (finally) and snag a fifteen minute nap before the preparations began for dinner. A few unexpected phone calls later and the day was spent. Of course, that didn't mean work was over. Dinner, clean up, and our traditional Monday family night, followed by a chapter aloud in the novel we have been reading together, and then the routine teeth-brushing, prayer-saying, storybooks, and tucking-in fully exhausted the rest of the day.
I never made it into the office. I am on paternity leave.
(insert cheers and congratulations here)
It's a welcome chance to catch up and keep the kids occupied and occasionally away so that my wife can catch a little rest and quiet time with the new wee one.
Now it's dark outside and the chaos and bustle of the day is over. I finally find myself with the opportunity to hold our new arrival, who has been freshly fed and changed and is actually still awake. And for once there's not even any competition or complaining about turns or fairness from the other kids, who normally inundate the poor little thing with a suffocating amount of love and attention, but who are all currently in their respective beds.
So I sit down with my new daughter in the rocker for a little one-on-one Daddy Time. She is dressed in a fuzzy sleeper with a pastel pattern of something cute and babyish. Her eyes are wide open, and she seems to have an unusual interest in the male half of her parentage. It's a good thing too, since I did contribute to the effort of getting her here, at least a little bit.
I begin to rock and sing to her (for what else is a Daddy to do?). The first tune that comes to mind is one I have sung as a lullaby for years now, I'm trying to be like Jesus. While I softly deliver the melody in a baritone key, she looks intently into my eyes.
She has the deepest blue eyes--I would say almost black, but her pupils are still distinct, surrounded by midnight blue. Her long, dark-brown hair falls in subtle curls on her forehead. It's well over an inch long and still has the pink miniature bow glued into it that the nurses at the hospital nursery put in after her first bath. They loved having a baby there whose hair they could style, and though they never actually said it, I could tell they thought she was the cutest baby they'd seen in a long time.
She seems to enjoy the first song, so I start into another: I am a Child of God. As I repeat the well-loved lyrics "I am a child of God and He has sent me here; has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear," I almost discern a slight smile on her lips. She has the same pleasant, little rosebud mouth with a full lower lip as her big sister Charity--which means that she can make that same irresistible pouty face and receive big-lipped kisses from Daddy (I've already tried that out. Several times).
And speaking of kissing, we can't overlook the beautiful, flushed cheeks that grace her mouth on either side, of such perfect proportion as to cast her little round face to the aspect of a cherub. Many times I have bestowed my gentlest kiss on those cheeks, and in special rare instances (subject to availability, limited time offer, can change without notice, etc.), when she rears back her head for a stretch I have buried my lips in the super-soft creases of the skin in her tiny neck.
As I study her face, it does seemed imbued with a heavenly glow--of innocence, of freshness, and of complete trust and dependence. Her eyes, still fixed intently on mine as I rock her and sing, seem to see through me, penetrating to the very depths of my soul, and communicate a clear message: Love me. Protect Me. Shelter Me. Teach me.
These thoughts mesh perfectly with the lullaby as I finish the last chorus: "Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do to live with Him someday."
There is a soft smile in her eyes and they begin to close as I start into the next number, O My Father. The words of that hymn so perfectly describe the journey this precious little soul has just made, traveling from "a more exalted sphere" into this simple, happy life with her mother and me (and her five noisy siblings). I sing all four verses to her, leaning in close, expelling just enough breath to produce the notes. By the end her eyes are closed. She never looked away; she drifted into pleasant slumber still fully engaged with me.
I look down at this babe in my arms. My hand is stretched across hers, completely covering most of her arms and chest. She startles a bit as I move it, and wrap her fingers around one of mine. I study the marvelous detail in her baby hands--such perfect little fingers with their infinitesimal joints and nails. Her body is truly a gift--a glorious creation from a loving God.
She is asleep, but I finish my serenade with the classic song Stardust, for its outstanding melody and the pure joy of singing.
When the last hum has died away, I continue rocking her in the silence. I cannot tear my eyes away from her. I study her perfect little body again, offering a silent prayer of thanks to the loving Father who brought her here safe and whole. I marvel that He would share this sacred experience--fatherhood--with me, and lend me one of His pure, choice children for a few precious years here on earth.
She lets out the slightest sigh, and brings me back to this room. I look over and see my wife reading on the couch, her beautiful, soft face illuminated by warm, yellow lamp light. Suddenly I sense the overwhelming fullness--the atmosphere seems thick with the pure, celestial joy that must surely be a shadow of the sweetest glories our Heavenly Parents enjoy. I thank her--my wife--for giving me this chance. For giving me a chance at all.
I sit there, mesmerized and completely entranced: my daughter in my arms, my wife a few feet away, and my heart full to the point of spilling over. I am lost again, drifting away somewhere between a dream and a poem. A pleasant, sublime heat rises in my chest and swells up to my face. I stare at the perfect, glorious child nestled within my arms and a single tear wells up in the corner my eye and is released, tickling my cheek as it descends towards this pure, celestial being.
I am a father. Again, for the sixth time now, I am a father!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Wife Rule #143: We're Just Normal Folks
Despite the way I sometimes gush over the many virtues of my wife on this blog (and they are real), to be totally honest, my wife and I are both pretty regular folks. I don't mean to belittle her in any way by saying that. It's just that there will always be many--probably millions--of people who are smarter, more talented, better looking, more wealthy, more influential, more admired, and so forth and so on, than us. And at the end of the day, I recognize that our time on this globe will come and go and only a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the people in this world will even have known we were here.
I'm okay with that.
I was talking with an old friend last week who, during the course of the last decade since we have had any contact, has lost his faith. He no longer believes in the same things I do. He claims he no longer believes in God. We were talking about life and goals just a little, and he spoke of "trying to leave his mark" on the world. I suppose that when you deny the reality of an afterlife, there's no purpose left in this brief life but to "leave your mark" here. You're born, and just a few years later, poof, you vanish forever. No wonder he clings to the notions of worldly honor and importance, no matter how short-lived.
I understand how he feels, just a bit. I have been there. In the ambitious vanity of youth I once thought I was really something, and must be destined for something really great. My wife caught just a little of that bug in her earlier years, too. We were both high achievers, and the thought of just being "normal" wasn't really in the cards as we each looked toward a future of limitless possibility.
But with our youth largely in the rear-view mirror now, we have something that usually--okay, often--all right, sometimes--drives such ambitious (and to be brutally honest, selfish) thoughts from our minds: we have each other. We have a common goal and through experience, a much deeper understanding of our Heavenly Father's plan for families. According to the knowledge in our heads and in our hearts, nothing else really matters.
And I mean that: nothing matters in this life except doing all that is necessary to get our family--our personal family first, followed by our extended family, and finally the worldwide family--back home to God.
So why, during even our brightest moments of eternal clarity, do the vain ambitions of this world still linger in the wings, waiting for their chance to take center stage again? Why the hunger for the temporal, when the eternal hangs in the balance?
Do you remember the story of Jacob and Esau? Though they were twins, only one could have the birthright and the accompanying blessings and responsibilities. Esau came out first, with Jacob only moments behind; but the birthright belonged to Esau. It was Jacob, however, that valued the birthright and what it truly meant as the one to take on his father's name and role and care for the family. So he devised a plan to assist Esau in forfeiting the birthright: he simply waited until Esau was hungry enough, and then offered to let Esau "sell" his birthright for a mess of pottage. And Esau took him up on his offer, giving away a priceless right and responsibility for a moment of temporal gratification (see Genesis 25:24-34).
A mess of pottage. A meal. A quarter-pounder with cheese.
But isn't that all that this earth life is? Even the most famous, the most influential, the most wealthy, and the most powerful people in this world die, usually within mere decades of the flowering of their personal empires. When they do, their earthly power and wealth vanish instantaneously as they take their last breath. It is, all of it, nothing more than a mess of pottage.
God created this world to be the place of testing and trying for His children, with the sole purpose of allowing us to exercise our agency to choose Him and His plans for us over all else. He sent us away from home, out into an enticing world of distractions and temptations, so that we could have the chance to truly "test our metal." His plan calls for the extension of family ties into eternity, that we may emulate Him in every respect, "grow up" to be like Him, and carry on His work forever. He knows what true joy is, and He knows that it can only be attained by living the kind of life He lives. Of course He wants to share that with His children. He wants to give us the birthright. Will we take it, or exchange it for nothing, for pottage?
So what if my wife and I are perfectly, remarkably, normal? It simply doesn't matter. The scope of our potential together--and the potential of every single husband and wife in God's plan--is infinite. Infinite! As infinite as the life of the soul is, so is the joy of those who attain the purposes God created them for. As infinite as the love of God is for His children, so will be the love that a single couple can attain to, and share, and shower upon their own eternal families, worlds without end.
And best of all, there isn't just one birthright. The blessings are there to claim for all who will. So in reality, there is no competition. There is no shortage of reward. There is no reason that every one of God's children cannot have what my wife and I are striving to obtain. Jesus paved the way for us all. The way is open and free for all.
So when we "get in our right minds," of course we are happy to be nothing more than normal, average folks. There is a spark of divinity in normal, average folks that given the right care, will fan into an all-consuming fire of purity and goodness and light and life that knows no bounds and never ends.
Eternal life--merely an extension of the best parts of family life we enjoy here on earth--was made for normal folks like us.
I'm okay with that.
I was talking with an old friend last week who, during the course of the last decade since we have had any contact, has lost his faith. He no longer believes in the same things I do. He claims he no longer believes in God. We were talking about life and goals just a little, and he spoke of "trying to leave his mark" on the world. I suppose that when you deny the reality of an afterlife, there's no purpose left in this brief life but to "leave your mark" here. You're born, and just a few years later, poof, you vanish forever. No wonder he clings to the notions of worldly honor and importance, no matter how short-lived.
I understand how he feels, just a bit. I have been there. In the ambitious vanity of youth I once thought I was really something, and must be destined for something really great. My wife caught just a little of that bug in her earlier years, too. We were both high achievers, and the thought of just being "normal" wasn't really in the cards as we each looked toward a future of limitless possibility.
But with our youth largely in the rear-view mirror now, we have something that usually--okay, often--all right, sometimes--drives such ambitious (and to be brutally honest, selfish) thoughts from our minds: we have each other. We have a common goal and through experience, a much deeper understanding of our Heavenly Father's plan for families. According to the knowledge in our heads and in our hearts, nothing else really matters.
And I mean that: nothing matters in this life except doing all that is necessary to get our family--our personal family first, followed by our extended family, and finally the worldwide family--back home to God.
So why, during even our brightest moments of eternal clarity, do the vain ambitions of this world still linger in the wings, waiting for their chance to take center stage again? Why the hunger for the temporal, when the eternal hangs in the balance?
Do you remember the story of Jacob and Esau? Though they were twins, only one could have the birthright and the accompanying blessings and responsibilities. Esau came out first, with Jacob only moments behind; but the birthright belonged to Esau. It was Jacob, however, that valued the birthright and what it truly meant as the one to take on his father's name and role and care for the family. So he devised a plan to assist Esau in forfeiting the birthright: he simply waited until Esau was hungry enough, and then offered to let Esau "sell" his birthright for a mess of pottage. And Esau took him up on his offer, giving away a priceless right and responsibility for a moment of temporal gratification (see Genesis 25:24-34).
A mess of pottage. A meal. A quarter-pounder with cheese.
But isn't that all that this earth life is? Even the most famous, the most influential, the most wealthy, and the most powerful people in this world die, usually within mere decades of the flowering of their personal empires. When they do, their earthly power and wealth vanish instantaneously as they take their last breath. It is, all of it, nothing more than a mess of pottage.
God created this world to be the place of testing and trying for His children, with the sole purpose of allowing us to exercise our agency to choose Him and His plans for us over all else. He sent us away from home, out into an enticing world of distractions and temptations, so that we could have the chance to truly "test our metal." His plan calls for the extension of family ties into eternity, that we may emulate Him in every respect, "grow up" to be like Him, and carry on His work forever. He knows what true joy is, and He knows that it can only be attained by living the kind of life He lives. Of course He wants to share that with His children. He wants to give us the birthright. Will we take it, or exchange it for nothing, for pottage?
So what if my wife and I are perfectly, remarkably, normal? It simply doesn't matter. The scope of our potential together--and the potential of every single husband and wife in God's plan--is infinite. Infinite! As infinite as the life of the soul is, so is the joy of those who attain the purposes God created them for. As infinite as the love of God is for His children, so will be the love that a single couple can attain to, and share, and shower upon their own eternal families, worlds without end.
And best of all, there isn't just one birthright. The blessings are there to claim for all who will. So in reality, there is no competition. There is no shortage of reward. There is no reason that every one of God's children cannot have what my wife and I are striving to obtain. Jesus paved the way for us all. The way is open and free for all.
So when we "get in our right minds," of course we are happy to be nothing more than normal, average folks. There is a spark of divinity in normal, average folks that given the right care, will fan into an all-consuming fire of purity and goodness and light and life that knows no bounds and never ends.
Eternal life--merely an extension of the best parts of family life we enjoy here on earth--was made for normal folks like us.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Wife Rule #142: Give It Up (Or, Rumination on Socks)
The Sock War is raging: the battle's begun,
The odds stacked against me, it's now six on one.
The front is our home; sock-mines litter the field.
Each stocking a stinking, curt weapon to wield
Against my poor saneness, forlorn and alone,
The casualties mounting, and no one has won, yes,
With casualties, no one has won.
Why bother with socks? Reason gives them no sway.
My cotton-clad feet stand aloof in display
Of sound sense and judgement, of propriety while
Their barefooted, bohemian, naked-foot style
Prevails in our household; itself not a crime
Were it not for the sodden, soiled socks left behind, yes,
The sodden, soiled socks left behind.
They cling to the couches, flung carelessly there.
They clump in the cracks of our best reading chair.
They litter the hallways, the closets, the stairs.
They migrate great distance, though never in pairs.
They pile up at doorways, for who could suppose
Wearing footwear outside? For that matter, why clothes? Yes,
For that matter, why-the-heck even clothes?
Look here, there's a stocking; another is there.
Look around and you'll see dirty socks everywhere.
(Except when we're rushing to leave, and we're late;
Then each stocking's mysteriously missing its mate.)
And the laundry rolls on in its regular round
But when folding and pairing, no pairs can be found, yes
When pairing no pairs can be found.
So the war rages on, with no allies for me;
Even my normally-sensible wife won't agree.
With her love of the breeze, her zest for aeration,
Her sympathies lie opposite my frustration.
So the foot cannons fire, fetid fumes fill the air,
And surrounding me lie littered socks everywhere, yes,
Surrounding me, socks everywhere.
I'm simply outnumbered. I've lost. I'm too few.
What's a sensible, sock-wearing man now to do?
So I'll lay down my weapons, emerge from my trench,
And remove my own stockings, unleashing my stench.
And to prove my good will, though they'll faint from the shock,
I'll run up the white flag:
My old, smelly sock.
Yes--
I'll give them my old,
Peeled-off, partially-rolled,
Dingy white, golden-toed,
Thinning, soil-stained, brown-soled,
Filled with stenches untold,
Chilling sight to behold,
Filthy squeamish,
And greenish,
And covered-with-mold
--yes,
Give it up for my old, smelly sock!
The odds stacked against me, it's now six on one.
The front is our home; sock-mines litter the field.
Each stocking a stinking, curt weapon to wield
Against my poor saneness, forlorn and alone,
The casualties mounting, and no one has won, yes,
With casualties, no one has won.
Why bother with socks? Reason gives them no sway.
My cotton-clad feet stand aloof in display
Of sound sense and judgement, of propriety while
Their barefooted, bohemian, naked-foot style
Prevails in our household; itself not a crime
Were it not for the sodden, soiled socks left behind, yes,
The sodden, soiled socks left behind.
They cling to the couches, flung carelessly there.
They clump in the cracks of our best reading chair.
They litter the hallways, the closets, the stairs.
They migrate great distance, though never in pairs.
They pile up at doorways, for who could suppose
Wearing footwear outside? For that matter, why clothes? Yes,
For that matter, why-the-heck even clothes?
Look here, there's a stocking; another is there.
Look around and you'll see dirty socks everywhere.
(Except when we're rushing to leave, and we're late;
Then each stocking's mysteriously missing its mate.)
And the laundry rolls on in its regular round
But when folding and pairing, no pairs can be found, yes
When pairing no pairs can be found.
So the war rages on, with no allies for me;
Even my normally-sensible wife won't agree.
With her love of the breeze, her zest for aeration,
Her sympathies lie opposite my frustration.
So the foot cannons fire, fetid fumes fill the air,
And surrounding me lie littered socks everywhere, yes,
Surrounding me, socks everywhere.
I'm simply outnumbered. I've lost. I'm too few.
What's a sensible, sock-wearing man now to do?
So I'll lay down my weapons, emerge from my trench,
And remove my own stockings, unleashing my stench.
And to prove my good will, though they'll faint from the shock,
I'll run up the white flag:
My old, smelly sock.
Yes--
I'll give them my old,
Peeled-off, partially-rolled,
Dingy white, golden-toed,
Thinning, soil-stained, brown-soled,
Filled with stenches untold,
Chilling sight to behold,
Filthy squeamish,
And greenish,
And covered-with-mold
--yes,
Give it up for my old, smelly sock!
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