To My Henry
Dear, sweet Henry,
You are eight years old. This is the age I've always thought is most magical, most incredible, especially for little boys. This is the age of discovery and adventure, of getting lost in a good book (something you do well!), of running and playing and getting dirty. It's the age of trying out little bits of the adult world while holding on to your innocence and boyishness. It's the age of telling silly jokes and laughing from your belly, of climbing trees, of dreaming big. If I could freeze you anywhere, it might be here.
But I've said that so many times. I would have stopped you at two, or four, or six. We let three pass without too many tears shed, but even that stage was wonderful in its own way. You, first of my three children, are helping me discover what parenthood looks like in each stage. We peel back a new layer with each year you grow older. And each one has new wonders, new elements of sweetness, to discover.
You often look in the mirror and bemoan how much older you're getting. It makes me smile and cringe at the same time. I know I've done that to you. I know I've lamented in front of you that the years are passing and you are growing up. I'm sorry for that. Deeply sorry. The truth is, I look forward to watching you grow. I will miss parts of you in the past, but the future is still laid out before you. I wouldn't miss what comes next for anything in the world! I was thinking about all of this today and realized that life is a lot like food. When we really enjoy food, we hold it in our mouths just long enough to appreciate the fullness of its flavor, then we let it pass. If we hold it too long, it loses its taste. If we swallow it too quickly, we miss much of the goodness. Life is the same way. We need to hold on to it just long enough to appreciate its fullness. If we hold too tightly, we lose its beauty. If we let it roll past us too quickly, we miss a lot of its goodness. Savor life, Henry, just long enough to enjoy its fullness. Never cling to it, and never throw it away.
You are a man of machines. From the very first, you've understood mechanics and physics and all nature of things that I can't begin to wrap my mind around. You dream of being an inventor, and you have what it takes to be a great one. You study the inner workings of just about everything, and you often reach out and touch, move, manipulate things to understand how they work. How you can have such a logical, mathematical mind and yet be as wildly creative as you are is a mystery to me. It's one of the greatest qualities God has given you. I hope it's something you use to its fullest. And yet, this love of machinery translates into the way you live with other people, also. You have a growing gift of bringing everyone into the story, of giving them a voice and a place. And why wouldn't you? You, of all people, know the importance of each cog and wheel--you don't underestimate the place each person has in the workings of what God is doing in you and through you. I hope that is a quality that defines you.
You are a lover of books, and most days find you knee deep in some story. I often begin to complain about the stacks of books I find everywhere in our house, and then catch myself. I love that you love words. I love that you love stories. You and I are alike in that way. You have mastered the written language, Henry, and it's such a joy to you. But you hear me say often, "People before books." You must wonder, at eight, why I would discourage you from reading. The reason is simple: words are wonderful and powerful and useful for so many things. But words alone will never reach people fully. To connect with other people on a level that is deep and life-changing, you have to be with other people. You have to understand the parts of them that can't be expressed in words. You can have all the knowledge in the world about people, but until you really know the people themselves, you've missed them. Your passions and interests will often drive you to solitary places, and that's good for you. Yours is a soul that craves solitude at times. But you will stagnate there unless you can reach out and embrace other people. You do it well when you set out to relate to others. You love to laugh, love to talk, love to be with people. Never let your love of words--or mechanics, or any other pursuit--come at the expense of your love for people.
And your laugh... Henry, if I could capture your laughter in a bottle, it would lighten my heart for years. The sound of you laughing--really laughing, from your belly--is absolutely contagious. Your eyes twinkle and your lips curl upward and I can see it in your face. You can't contain it when you have something funny to share, and it's infectious. You're quick, and sharp, and your humor outreaches your eight years--sometimes. Sometimes the puns and little boy humor are part of the charm. For every piece of you that's serious and studious, there is an equally vibrant part that is funny and light. I hope you always keep your ability to laugh at the world around you, to see the irony and the humor in each little thing, and to share that contagious joy with other people. You were the happiest baby I had ever seen, and I said often when you were little that you had taught me more about joy in two months than I had learned in my lifetime. Keep that innocent joy, Henry. It's one of your best qualities.
Henry, as I look ahead to the coming months and years I'm filled with anticipation. I can't wait to discover so many things with you. I look forward to long games of Monopoly; to stories about the things that have happened at school; to hours of reading stories you've written, inspecting plans you've drawn up, hearing ideas for your latest invention; to jokes and laughter and tickle fights that dissolve into snuggles; to hikes and bug watching and hearing everything you know about every star in the sky; to whispered conversations just before you fall asleep, when you share your heart and your hopes; to every facet that makes you so uniquely you and so uniquely ours. You have made my life full. You, first, have given me the role I cherish most in the world. I am honored, challenged, overjoyed to hear you call me, "Mama."
Today is nothing special as far as the calendar can tell. But when I look out at you, fully eight years old, I couldn't let another day pass without telling you what I see in you. I love you, my sweet boy.
You are eight years old. This is the age I've always thought is most magical, most incredible, especially for little boys. This is the age of discovery and adventure, of getting lost in a good book (something you do well!), of running and playing and getting dirty. It's the age of trying out little bits of the adult world while holding on to your innocence and boyishness. It's the age of telling silly jokes and laughing from your belly, of climbing trees, of dreaming big. If I could freeze you anywhere, it might be here.
But I've said that so many times. I would have stopped you at two, or four, or six. We let three pass without too many tears shed, but even that stage was wonderful in its own way. You, first of my three children, are helping me discover what parenthood looks like in each stage. We peel back a new layer with each year you grow older. And each one has new wonders, new elements of sweetness, to discover.
You often look in the mirror and bemoan how much older you're getting. It makes me smile and cringe at the same time. I know I've done that to you. I know I've lamented in front of you that the years are passing and you are growing up. I'm sorry for that. Deeply sorry. The truth is, I look forward to watching you grow. I will miss parts of you in the past, but the future is still laid out before you. I wouldn't miss what comes next for anything in the world! I was thinking about all of this today and realized that life is a lot like food. When we really enjoy food, we hold it in our mouths just long enough to appreciate the fullness of its flavor, then we let it pass. If we hold it too long, it loses its taste. If we swallow it too quickly, we miss much of the goodness. Life is the same way. We need to hold on to it just long enough to appreciate its fullness. If we hold too tightly, we lose its beauty. If we let it roll past us too quickly, we miss a lot of its goodness. Savor life, Henry, just long enough to enjoy its fullness. Never cling to it, and never throw it away.
You are a man of machines. From the very first, you've understood mechanics and physics and all nature of things that I can't begin to wrap my mind around. You dream of being an inventor, and you have what it takes to be a great one. You study the inner workings of just about everything, and you often reach out and touch, move, manipulate things to understand how they work. How you can have such a logical, mathematical mind and yet be as wildly creative as you are is a mystery to me. It's one of the greatest qualities God has given you. I hope it's something you use to its fullest. And yet, this love of machinery translates into the way you live with other people, also. You have a growing gift of bringing everyone into the story, of giving them a voice and a place. And why wouldn't you? You, of all people, know the importance of each cog and wheel--you don't underestimate the place each person has in the workings of what God is doing in you and through you. I hope that is a quality that defines you.
You are a lover of books, and most days find you knee deep in some story. I often begin to complain about the stacks of books I find everywhere in our house, and then catch myself. I love that you love words. I love that you love stories. You and I are alike in that way. You have mastered the written language, Henry, and it's such a joy to you. But you hear me say often, "People before books." You must wonder, at eight, why I would discourage you from reading. The reason is simple: words are wonderful and powerful and useful for so many things. But words alone will never reach people fully. To connect with other people on a level that is deep and life-changing, you have to be with other people. You have to understand the parts of them that can't be expressed in words. You can have all the knowledge in the world about people, but until you really know the people themselves, you've missed them. Your passions and interests will often drive you to solitary places, and that's good for you. Yours is a soul that craves solitude at times. But you will stagnate there unless you can reach out and embrace other people. You do it well when you set out to relate to others. You love to laugh, love to talk, love to be with people. Never let your love of words--or mechanics, or any other pursuit--come at the expense of your love for people.
And your laugh... Henry, if I could capture your laughter in a bottle, it would lighten my heart for years. The sound of you laughing--really laughing, from your belly--is absolutely contagious. Your eyes twinkle and your lips curl upward and I can see it in your face. You can't contain it when you have something funny to share, and it's infectious. You're quick, and sharp, and your humor outreaches your eight years--sometimes. Sometimes the puns and little boy humor are part of the charm. For every piece of you that's serious and studious, there is an equally vibrant part that is funny and light. I hope you always keep your ability to laugh at the world around you, to see the irony and the humor in each little thing, and to share that contagious joy with other people. You were the happiest baby I had ever seen, and I said often when you were little that you had taught me more about joy in two months than I had learned in my lifetime. Keep that innocent joy, Henry. It's one of your best qualities.
Henry, as I look ahead to the coming months and years I'm filled with anticipation. I can't wait to discover so many things with you. I look forward to long games of Monopoly; to stories about the things that have happened at school; to hours of reading stories you've written, inspecting plans you've drawn up, hearing ideas for your latest invention; to jokes and laughter and tickle fights that dissolve into snuggles; to hikes and bug watching and hearing everything you know about every star in the sky; to whispered conversations just before you fall asleep, when you share your heart and your hopes; to every facet that makes you so uniquely you and so uniquely ours. You have made my life full. You, first, have given me the role I cherish most in the world. I am honored, challenged, overjoyed to hear you call me, "Mama."
Today is nothing special as far as the calendar can tell. But when I look out at you, fully eight years old, I couldn't let another day pass without telling you what I see in you. I love you, my sweet boy.
