To my readers. I want to share with you a letter I wrote to
my son on his fiftieth birthday. I want to share it, hoping it brings you
memories and thoughts of your children and what they mean to you. It seems odd
that people who are middle aged and have grown families of their own, are still
being referred to as kids; but they will always be our kids won’t they?
So, today my son is fifty years old. I remember so well the
night he was born, and how proud I was to have a son and to be a dad. I remember
the dreams I had for him as he grew up and went out into the world. My biggest
dream was not that he would be rich or famous, but that he would be a good man,
father and husband, and that he and I would always be close. Also, that I would
not be proud of him just that night, in that hospital, but all the days of my
life, and that he would always be there, as my son, until the day I died. Today
I say, “Job well done, my son, and you’ve only just begun.” I am sure that
somewhere in heaven, your mother is sharing my pride.
Somewhere, back in the dark recesses of my foggy mind, I
remember teaching you how to ride your bike without training wheels, and
praying you wouldn’t get hurt; how to throw a baseball—and yes, right through
the neighbor’s garage window; and that pinewood derby car we made together in
scouts, that came in last in the competition, and how disappointed you were.
That was the day I realized that coming in first wasn’t important, but building
that car together with you was. I hoped you would grow up to realize that, too.
I remember your baseball games, football games, and the
fishing trips we took; I remember your graduation from college and how proud I
was because you had made it; but sad because I knew it was time for you to go
out into the world; I foolishly didn’t want you to forget your mother and I. I
say “foolishly” because it wasn’t the end, but just another corner in life that
we turned. I remember how nice you looked in your first cop’s uniform, and
prayed you would be safe, but mostly, that you would just be a good officer and
never have to take a life, but rather, save a few. I remember your wedding and
the birth of each of your children. The home you built yourself, and how hard
you worked on it; forty some years of deer hunting together. I remember the day
your mom died and how you left that afternoon to be alone. I wanted to be with
you then, but knew you weren’t alone, and He and you were just sorting out the
details because you are a Christian man.
Yes, son, we’ve come a long way, and hopefully, we have a long
way to go. I no longer worry about what kind of a man you’re going to be
because you have proven, over and over again, what kind of a man you are and
nothing there needs to be changed. One thing has changed, however, and that’s
all the advice I used to give you, wanted or not. I now realize that we’ve made
a switch in this respect—and I am now going to you for advice. This isn’t just
a symbol of love, but a symbol of respect for a man who has nothing left to
prove to me. Happy Birthday, son!
No comments:
Post a Comment