MAKE US HUMAN

Dear Spike:

You cried off and on all morning long. But when it came time to say goodbye, you were very brave.

“I’ll miss you,” you said as we knelt together on the drop-off curb near Terminal 2. “But you will be home soon.”

“Yes,” I said. “I will be home soon.”

A bird flew past my luggage, landing on a bench nearby. “Can I chase it?” you asked.

“Not today,” I said. And with that your mother lifted you off the ground and hefted you into your car seat.

One more hug and a kiss — awkward as I leaned into the doorframe with my heavy rucksack on my back — and then I lumbered away. Heartsick.

I love and hate these trips.

The hate part is easy to explain. I hate leaving you.

The love part is tougher to put into words. This is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going to be a comfortable trip. It will take me six days of hard traveling to get to my destination in southern Ethiopia. Once there, we will camp outside of a tribal village and, over the next week, work to build trust with local villagers enough to get them to share with us a dark and disturbing secret. I don’t love the mosquitoes, the parasites, the burning hot African sun. I don’t love the prospect of dealing with layers upon layers of government officials who do not want me to share their shame with the world. I don’t hate those things, per se, but I don’t love them, either.

But I do love the prospect — however slight it might be — that my work might matter. It might change some lives. And, in this case, it might just save a few, too. That’s why I love this. That’s why I leave you.

It’s easy to love something. A person. A work of art. A job. A place.

And it’s easy to hate, too. (Far too easy, I’d say.)

But those things that make us feel both emotions at the same time — those things are what make us human, I think.

And I am feeling very human today. I’m anxious, excited, giddy and sad. I’m wary and tired and curious and proud.

I’m ready. And I’m not.

I will miss you, dear little one. And I will think about you every minute that I am away.

Love,
dad

P.S. — Dear Spike's friends: To learn more about out project, and what you can do to support it, visit mingistoryproject.blogspot.com

YES, THAT'S LOVE

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I were sitting with friends on the front porch, enjoying some wine and chocolates. You were asleep — or so were thought.

Suddenly, the drapes flew open. Your tiny cherub face emerged at the bottom of the window. And at once, I could read your every emotion.

First, you were scared: You'd been wandering the house looking for us and you were beginning to panic. Next, you were relieved: We had not left you all alone; we were near. And finally, you were betrayed: We were having a party, without you.

In a heartbeat, I read that all on your face.

That's love, I think — when you know someone in that way. When you understand them so much that all it takes is the briefest of glances and you are connected to their emotions. Yes, that's love.

It was heartbreaking to see all of that in you, on that night. But it was so reaffirming. I felt good that I know you in this way. I felt like a good father.

In two weeks, I will be leaving you and your mother to go back to Iraq. In the grand scheme of things it is not a long trip; I will be gone for about two weeks. But I am frightened by all the ways in which we will miss each other while I am away. I am saddened to think that you might feel scared, lonely and abandoned. And I know you won't quite understand why I have to go away or where I have gone.

Already, I am wondering what I will read on your face when I return. Will it be joy? Relief? Fear? What will I know — in the blink of an eye — about the way you are feeling in that moment? And sadly, I suspect you'll be feeling a bit betrayed.

That's the trouble with love. It gives us immediate and vivid access to things that we are not always prepared to see, hear and feel.

Because, I think, you are starting to know me in the way that I know you, I probably don't need to tell you that I am going to miss you. Terribly.

And already, I cannot wait for the day I return. I cannot wait to see your face — whatever it may bring.

Love,
dad

SORT OF WELCOME

Dear Spike:

It was hard to tell in the midnight shadows of your bedroom, but as I peeked over the side of your crib, it seemed as though you might have grown several inches and several pounds in the short time that I was away.

I reached down and gently stroked your leg. For a moment, I thought about waking you, hoping that you might look up at me and smile, but I thought better of it. I knew you were just as likely to scream as smile. And I don't think I could have taken that sort of welcome.

So I stood there, for a bit, and watched your chest heave up and down and up and down. I listened to you snore. I waited for your dreamy sigh. Then I slipped away.

God, how I missed you.

Love,
dad

OUR OWN FUTURE

SO WE WAIT

Dear Spike:

I’ll make camp tonight on a cliffside in the Uinta Mountains, overlooking a freeway on which a small army of reporters has surrounded the entrance to Crandall Canyon.

We’re all waiting for word on six men who were trapped when the coal mine they were in collapsed early this morning. It’s been more than 16 hours now with no word from the miners. The mine owner says it may be three days before rescuers can get to where the men are trapped.

And so we wait.

I’ve only just begun to understand how fathers feel about their children. Many of the men trapped in this mountain are fathers. All of them have fathers.

I cannot imagine the depth of their fear, longing and dread this evening.

I’ll miss you tonight. And I will think of you all night long.

Love,
dad