Fathers and Sons, 33 of 40

So, here I am at 7:01 in the morning and I am currently writing this blog on my phone because Henry is asleep on my chest, and before you mention it, yes I know it is not good for him to sleep on me. I know this because some visiting nurse in our Pre-Natal (about to have a baby) class told us a cautionary tale about a friend who ha his daughter sleep on his chest and when he woke up she did not. But Henry had had more congestion and was uncomfortable sleeping in his car seat at 6 so I put him on my chest, sue me.

On the bright side his sleeping there has inspired this particular blog, because as he sleeps there, breathing deeply and raspy at the same time I am looking down at the little kid and find myself staring at his little hands. It's crazy to think that it has already been 4 months. On one hand it feels like Henry belongs here but on the other hand it feels like he just got here yesterday. Add to that the fact that it seems like every morning he has grown a little in his sleep, which I suppose very well may be true.

Right before my eyes my newborn turned into an infant and is now well in his way to being a toddler, it is amazing and scary at the exact same time. Soon he'll be crawling and walking and talking and asking to borrow the car do he can take his girlfriend to the movies, if there are still movie theaters in 16 years.

Anyway, I lay here looking at my big little guy (Or is it little big guy? I can't make up my mind) and his hands and I find myself wondering if my dad ever did the exact same thing with me. I imagine that if he did it would have been a different experience for him. After all I was the fourth child of his, following my half-sister, half-brother, and my full sister. I hope that there was a bit of wonder but I also find myself thinking that there might have been a bit of sadness too. You see my dad was diagnosed with his cancer about the same time I was born, so my dad knew I would be the last kid, and knew that he most likely wouldn't see me grow up, I can't imagine what that was like.

My mom tells me that he worried that I wouldn't really remember him, and to a large extent that is true. At this point I have more memories of memories than I do actual memories. By this I mean that remember remembering times with my dad. I remember the time when I could picture him in my mind. I remember remembering the time he kicked the basement door, putting a hole in it. I remember the time when I could see him in his bed at home when he wasn't doing well toward the end. I can almost picture him lifting me out of the snow when I was just a few years old, but with each year the image gets a little less clear a little less real, as if its that scene in Back to the Future when Marty's picture starts fading.

My grandfather died before I was born, my father died when I was 5 and one of my great fears in life has always been that I would not see my kid(s) grow up. Almost every time I look at Henry I pray that it won't happen to me, that I will see Henry as a young man and then as an older one before I move onto the next place, more than anything I think it helps me realize the importance of these moments when I can just start at his little hands and wonder what life has for him. I know he is going to be great, maybe not famous or rich or powerful, but great none-the-less, because I will pour as much love as possible for as long as possible into his life.

I will never know whether my dad would be proud of me today, so for as long as I have I will always tell Henry that I am proud of him, even if he can't understand the words I am saying yet.

Peace and love,
Pastor K