Note: I wrote this over a year ago (though it hasn’t been previously published). That’s why the ages are all wrong and I’m even balder now. Why haven’t I published it till now? Well, it’s more intimate and self-revelatory than I’m usually very comfortable with. (I am, as that one man once said, a man.) But, here goes. –Sam
Tonight, I made tacos with the kids. My poor wife is experiencing morning-afternoon-and-night sickness with our fourth child, so I have some extra opportunities to be with the other three. Our oldest is eight and she is a beauty. She grated cheese and the boys, five and two, cleaned up, got the table ready, and made sure Mommy had everything she needed. It was time together for us and, in some ways, it almost doesn’t matter what we’re doing. We’re together and I have a hard time not loving it. We’re all right.
It’s a gift. We might study the Bible, read The Hobbit, sword-fight, play Mario-Kart, play soccer, watch America’s Funniest Home Videos, or “fly around” on Google Earth. We make food and clean the house. We live. All together, now.
As long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a father. It’s one of those rare areas of life where I feel absolutely certain of my calling. I feel so happy to have received it and yet still overwhelmed by the task. Though it can be overwhelming, it’s been overwhelmingly wonderful. Nothing has humbled and exulted me so much.
I love being a father.
My two-year old son is just what you want in a baby: a snuggler. We took a nap together today after church, as we often do. He lays down beside me and reaches out his hand to rub my arms, my back, to squeeze and caress. He loves to “suggle” and “touch you ahmms.” He is a very loving little guy, which suits me fine. I’m a hugger. My kids get lots of hugs all day long, not just because they need it, but because I do.
When the snuggly two year-old is going to bed, or I’m leaving for work, I’ll take him in my arms and squeeze him. I tell him, “I need a kiss right here,” pointing to my cheek. He kisses there and so I turn the other cheek and say, “another one right there,” and he kisses that side. I keep going back and forth until he says, “Dat ‘nuff, dat ‘nuff.” It’s become a little game, him attempting to wiggle away when he deems I’ve had enough kisses and hugs. “That’s enough, Daddy.”
I’m a time-traveler. I’m one of those imaginative worriers who can feel the weight of potential loss, or future loss, really deeply, way before it even arrives. I don’t recommend it, but it creeps up on me sometimes. I may worry through a possible conversation I have to have later, feeling in advance the sadness and pain as if it were already happening. It’s an old habit of worry that has improved over time, but hasn’t been eradicated.
This is usually a simple lack of trust, a refusal to believe the promise of the Father and the direct command of Jesus to let tomorrow worry about itself. I really do struggle against it.
Sometimes this problem is attached to the future of my family. One particular future suffering that comes at me again and again is the eventual day of our kids leaving home. Even now, just writing that sentence makes my throat tighten, my eyes moisten, and a physical sorrow descend.
I hate that day, this day which has not come. I weep for it, this eventual sadness. I wish it were on a down-payment system. I wish I could lay up tears for that day and decrease my future sadness. But really, I don’t want that either. I want that day to feel as it ought, terrible with the weight of love. I can’t take the sting from that day, any more than I can take away the love I have for them now. It feels like the same thing.
Like all young parents, I hear the calls from older parents, parents whose children have grown and gone. “Enjoy this time. They’re gone before you know it.” I used to joke with them that my daughter and I had a deal, that she would stay three forever. But she’s eight and every mention that they’ll be gone soon feels like a stab.
She’s broken the deal. She’s eight. In ten years she’ll be…
The hair on my head is falling out and I saw the first gray hair in my beard this week. Wrinkles emerge around my eyes. Signs of the times –of the advance of time. But these are only warning shots fired across my bow. They are as nothing. When the children leave, it will be a direct hit. You sunk my battleship.
I don’t know how I’ll cope with it then. I can barely cope with it now and it’s years away. And this says nothing of the possibility of tragedy, terrible illness, of almost-unthinkable events that happen every day to some parents somewhere in the world. To ones I know and love.
I know I can rest in future grace. He’s got the whole wide world…in his hands. He’s got you and me, sister…in his hands. He’s got all the little children…
Oh God, grace for today and grace for tomorrow. Please. Help us to live now in the awareness that suffering of all kinds may be ahead and yet in spite of this –and because of this– let us live by faith in the promise of your future grace. Let us draw always from the endless well of your mercy. For what seems like it should be only natural, small concerns –like children leaving home– to greater sadnesses that we can’t keep them, or ourselves, from. We need mercy.
And thank you, Father. Thank you for giving us children and this intense and wonderful ache that is the unmistakeable wake of love. Thank you for opening our hearts to a thousand hurts by these beautiful, unbreakable, unseen links to our children. There is potential –inevitable– pain for everyone who loves. We would rather love and receive it as a gift. We hate loss and the broken heart of the fallen world. We long for the day when Jesus, with kingly authority, will say, “All right,” and, “All together now.”
When I leave for work tomorrow and point to my cheek, saying, “I need a kiss right here,” I’ll treasure every one. And when he says, after two, or three, “Dat ‘nuff, Daddy. Dat ‘nuff.” I’ll say, “Just a few more, son,” but I’ll be thinking something else.
It will never be enough.
- Make Believe Makes Believers - July 19, 2021
- The Archer’s Cup is Here - September 30, 2020
- It Is What It Is, But It Is Not What It Shall Be - March 30, 2020
Sam, I wonder how your father’s heart helps you relate to the father heart of God, how it shapes your perspective and response to his love.
As a parent who has experienced some Abraham/Isaac sacrificial moments with my son (and survived the excruciating pain), I can tell you there are many sweet, rewarding moments of deep, thoughtful love from a grown son who lives 400 miles away.
Those kisses and snuggles are sweet memories of a time gone by, but also a reminder of a day coming when all that goodness will return in the form of grandchildren! Woo Hoo!
Thank you, Brenda. That’s encouraging. I have, of course, thought about the connection and meditated on it. I do appreciate the challenges of God’s Fatherhood in relation to us in a deeper way than I did before, certainly. But boy it’s definitely a surface-scratcher only.
Thank you, Sam. Beautiful.
Thanks, Julie. Nice to come home after a looooooooong day to encouragement. 🙂
Magnificent, Sam.
Thanks, David. Thanks for the conversation the other day.
Sam – I’ve hardly loved a thing so much as I love this post. I am just like you with my future worries. I sob hard when I look at my children – 8 and 1 – and only see the day they’re grown and too big for my lap. I also hate the warnings to “Enjoy these moments.” I remind myself of their shelf life every day. I don’t need the outside reminder that actually makes it more difficult to enjoy these moments. My son is a boy, now. There’s no denying that he’s not a baby. He’s got all the makings of a defiant, know-it-all teenager already. I watch him playing with his cars, his Legos. I watch him get excited over his new Highlights magazine in the mail. I sigh when he asks to go look at the toys every time we step into a store. I wander at his evolution when I watch him maneuver his way around an iPhone to watch Nerf war videos on You Tube. It’s sad when he sees The Wonder Pets on the tv and he says, “I remember I used to like this show.” I remember he used to like that show, as well. It was woven into the very fabric of our daily routine. But now, it’s a used to. If I let it run away with me, it will carry me right into sorrow and panic. I pray often for comfort from the sadness of the passage of time. I lean on God’s wisdom in me to know how to make the most of what time is ours. Lyric is still a baby and yet, her circumstances crash in on us at times. She’s got this sickness and we don’t know a thing about it. I cried in a children’s clothing store the other day because I was picking out things at a good price that will fit her next winter. I held a piece up and asked Jason which he liked between two shirts. He just stared at it. A shadow cast down upon his face. Finally, he said, “Sometimes, I’m afraid to plan that far ahead for her. I’m afraid in jinxes us.” It’s heavy and I feel every ounce of it. So again, I lean on God’s comfort and His wisdom. I was talking with my own doctor about my grief. I told her I just wanted somebody to tell me that this mess won’t be fatal for my baby girl. And she said, “Yes, but nobody has the promise of tomorrow.” I know that doesn’t sound like it should be a comfort, but it was. As you said, God keeps us all in His hands. It’s all scary. Watching them grow. Preparing them to leave us. Dreading the day it happens, yet praying even more fervently that we all get the chance to see it happen. Wow, Sam. Just wow.
Good grief, Stacy. Seriously. I think that’s some good grief. I am so right here with you –and Jason’s reaction is my temptation too. I resonate with each of your little vignettes, every sad so-long and every reaction. Man, it is tough. Your trial with Lyric is just so real and hard. I have been praying for ya’ll, but this will be another good goad to keep on. Maybe Lyric’s song will be happy beyond imagination. I hope and pray so.
Praying for you guys now. Please let us know if there’s anything else we can do.
I got a good lump in the throat reading your words about Elijah.
God be with you, sister. And the whole Grubby lot of you.
Thanks for the prayers, Sam. They’re the only reason we can think of that Lyric has thrived as she has and why we’ve remained rational (for the most part) throughout everything. God has led us to what would’ve been very dark places in the absence of His light.
I really love the photo of you and kids together. It shows so much love and affection.
Fantastic article, Sam, showing the heart of a loving dad!
Thanks, my friend. I debated about including those, but Gina said I should. She’s got good instincts and I usually listen to her. She’s a good’ern.
Loved this post, Sam. Your honesty and transparency as a father takes me deep into your heart, and your skill as a writer makes that heart beat with words of living insight (more of that, please). All of my four have crossed the vale from home to life now. I miss the days of innocence that you brought back to life so well, but I have to admit that I love the mature relationships I now share with my grown children. New seasons, new reasons to enjoy God’s gift of children.
Clay, this is (and you in general are) so encouraging. It’s inspiring to think constructively about the new and beautiful things that will come as a result of losing this really special season.
I am always afraid to write (or share) things like this, but when I do, people seem to care a lot more. There’s a lesson there for me, but surely I can just ignore it. Thanks for being my friend and for speaking into my life, Clay. You are a gift.
Sam, this is good.
I, too, long for the sweet days of “all together, now” where our family will be bigger than we “ever dared to ask or imagine.” I can hardly even fathom our Father’s delight at that day.
Word up, homie.
Wait, is “homie” feminine? Where my editor? I’d like to make a keen comment channeling the early rap scene without undermining the world as God made it.
Best comment.
Thank you Sam for sharing this, because I resonated with what you said here: “I’m a time-traveler. I’m one of those imaginative worriers who can feel the weight of potential loss, or future loss, really deeply, way before it even arrives. I don’t recommend it, but it creeps up on me sometimes. I may worry through a possible conversation I have to have later, feeling in advance the sadness and pain as if it were already happening.” It just feels good to know I’m not the only one (and I’m not even married yet, much less have kids), and to be reminded to rest in the hands of the Father.
Thanks, Chris. I’m glad I’m not alone, too. We should form a gang. Or at least start to worry about what it would be like if we did.
I was good until the last paragraph…tears! Thanks for sharing your soul with us.
Thanks for sharing too, LeeAnn.
Hey, this is good. And I like you.
I like you back.
Thanks for writing this, Sam, and thank you for your honesty. I know from experience that it can be hard to share those personal parts of ourselves – our worries, fears, etc. but it’s such a blessing when we finally do. For ourselves and for others. I, too, am an advance worrier. It’s very draining, and I do find it a comfort to hand that anxiety to God and profess that while I cannot predict or control the future, He knows what will happen before it does, and if I am trusting in Him, I will not be given anything that I cannot handle.
Most importantly, this post has helped me get a peek into what my dad must be going through as I venture very far away from home. I had a missed call from him about an hour ago that I’d been putting off. “Too busy” was an excuse. I think I’ll go call him now.
Thanks again! 🙂
Thanks, Africa. Well said.
I love your name (I used to live there). Also, yes! Call your father!
Thank you for taking a risk and publishing this Sam! All beautiful honesty.
I wonder sometimes if the Lord uses our sensitivity to future worries not only as a way to grow our trust in Him, but also as a way for Him to get into our hearts, to a place that He wants to work ahead on… to prepare us for what He already knows will be hard for us later.
I remember weeping as a newlywed when I listened to a Christian woman’s song about miscarriage, as though it had happened to me. And then it did, over a year later. In what was an incredibly challenging circumstance for me, He had already had worked through a bit of the theology in my heart… what did it mean, why would the Lord let it happen and how to value that tiny, little piece of my baby’s life.
While we can certainly never be prepared for all of life in this way, maybe there is more redemption in some these moments of weakness than we can yet tell? Maybe He is preparing you to be the father who can love your kids freely & joyfully even when they go.
Julie, that is so insightful. Thank you. That makes more sense than anything I have heard, or thought of, certainly. Wonderful perspective. And thanks for sharing your own story of pain and letting us see God active in your life.
Sam, this is so good. I’m a “future worrier,” too. I hate change, and as much as I know God will be with me through each step, I still abhor it. And yet, I’ve realized the one change I don’t dread is my children growing older. Recently my kids got on a kick of watching old movies of themselves. We had a lot of good laughs at the memories, but at the same time it struck me how much I love them where they are now, and I don’t want to go back… There are so many other worries I fight regarding their futures: Will they learn to lean into Christ and not themselves? Will they be harmed by our crazy world? Will they live? So I guess all that is to say I’m in the same boat as you, just paddling on a different side.
Thanks, Loren. I think I’m naturally a “wholesale worrier.” Pressing on….
May you be blessed with the love of children’s children.
Thank you, Ellen. I’d wrestle for that blessing.
Weeping.
Really, this is so good, Sam. Reminds me of an AP post from ages ago…back on his Captains Corageous blog, which, apparently, no longer exists.
http://chasinglions.blogspot.com/2007/02/tick-of-clock.html
Thanks, Cherie.
Oh Sam, you are a kindred spirit! I do that whole weight-of-potential-loss thing really, really well, too. I think having kids ramped it up to a whole new level. Having twins sent it through the stratosphere. It’s a horrible habit, isn’t it?
But like you, I know the truth: that God’s grace is sufficient for today, and tomorrow (or in ten years), it will be sufficient for that day, but it ain’t sufficient for my trouble-borrowing–how can it be? Those troubles don’t exist yet. Still, knowing the truth and living the truth are two different things. I think maybe people like us just have to live with the ache and come to see it as a gift. A severe gift, but a gift nonetheless.
Thanks for this heartfelt piece. You spoke my heart, too.
Thank you, Kimberlee. You are right. Also, it’s an unbelievably poignant point at this very moment in my life, sister.
finally read this. been avoiding it. wept. better go “get some skin” from the boys… little men… men
I’m in a similar boat. My oldest baby is 13 though. I have been encouraged to see all the small ways I already let go of her. Things I never thought I would allow are suddenly ok, because she’s old enough. I trust her, she is Jesus’, and I want her to experience a great life. It makes me understand that future day won’t be so devastating since it does creep up slowly with little freedoms and trusts given. Thanks for sharing.