IT IS TIME

Dear Spike,

It is time.

Not just because you are now four and this is what four-year-olds do. You are. And it is. But you do not do things just because others do them. If you did, you would not be you.

But it is time.

Not just because I have taken a new job and, as such, will be unable to stay home with you. Indeed, my life is changing. And indeed, that will change yours. That is not the reason for this change.

But yes, it it time.

Not just because you have decided it is time. You have, of course, done just that. But you are, of course, only four. And four-year-olds — for all that they do — do not get to make decisions like this.

But yes, my dear and beautiful and brilliant daughter... my tiny little friend... my most important thing... it is time for you to go to school.

And why is it time? If not because you are four? If not because our lives have changed? If not because you really want to?

It is time, my child, because it is time. Because you are ready.

You are ready to learn things that your mother and I cannot teach you: How to make yourself heard above the din of a crowd. How to be yourself, even as you are surrounded by others who want and expect you to be like them. How to follow and how to lead.

These are not always easy lessons to learn. There will be some who do not like you, do not treat you well, do not value the things that you value. There will be some that you will follow, wrongly, into trouble — and you will be held accountable as though you did it all yourself. There will be some that will say and do things that make you angry — and you will be expected to show them kindness and compassion.

Yes, I expect much of you. Yes, I recognize that you are only four.

But you are the best parts of your mother and the best parts of me. And I don't mind saying that we're not half bad people, as people go.

In any case, the privileges you have in this world make you royalty. Much has been given to you; much is thus expected from you. No matter that some have more and do less. You are not those people.

You are you. And your mother and I have done everything we can do, to this point, to make you the best you possible.

Now, increasingly, it is up to you. And, of course, the rest of the world — for we do not learn and change and grow in a void.

I do not fear that influence. Yes, the world can be a very terrible place. But even before you arrived, we knew that we would love you more than anything in the world, and we would not have brought you into this world if we didn't believe that, in the great balance, there is always more good than bad.

There is always more hope than fear.

There is always more faith than doubt.

And there is always more love than hate.

For four years, we have been the ones who have led you to these lessons. Now, increasingly, the world will take your hand.

We are proud of you. We are excited for you. And we will always be here for you.

It is time.

Love,

dad

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

FROM THAT SPARK

Dear Spike:

I'm not sure how it escaped me — and I'm not sure how I finally remembered, either — but this evening as I was sitting with your mother, it suddenly occurred to me...

... we have been together for 10 years.

I first met your mom in the kitchen of an apartment I shared with two roommates, Adam and Joel, in Corvallis.

I don't have the best memory in the world, but I remember that moment vividly.

She was wearing a pink sweater and black pants. He shoulder-length brown hair was pulled into a single ponytail. And she had the most striking eyes — one significantly more green, the other significantly more blue — I'd ever seen.

Just one problem: She was dating Adam.

Over the next few weeks we got to know each other, usually while waiting for Adam to get ready for their dates. He always seemed to take a really long time. And I didn't mind that one bit.

While she waited, we chatted. And while we chatted, we might have even flirted a bit.

And why not? She was funny and sassy and confident and intelligent. Absolutely beautiful. And while it seemed that she and Adam were having a good time together, it never seemed that their relationship was destined to be more than a college romance.

I learned that she was a local girl – she lived in north town with her parents. She learned that I was a bit of a cad — after a long relationship had gone sour, I was... um... exploring my new-found freedom.

I was getting close to graduation. She was in her freshman year. We both needed to take an astronomy class — and we agreed to take it together. At least, we reasoned, we'd have something to talk about when she was waiting for Adam.

Then, one day, Adam came home and told me that they'd broken up. No big deal, he said. They just weren't meant for each other.

And I started counting the days until our astronomy class began.

It didn't take long for me to convince her to ditch class...

... first for lunch at the New Morning Bakery, where we sat next to one another and she glibly mocked my vegetarian diet ...

... next for a picnic at Avery Park, where we shared strawberries and a bottle of wine and watched the Marys River trickle by.

I liked her. She liked me. But I was, I admit, a little standoffish. She knew I'd recently been seeing several women — and I didn't want her to think that she was just another one of the bunch.

Then, one evening, we took a stroll through her neighborhood and wound up facing one another on a sliding platform in the playground at her old elementary school.

I leaned forward. She did too.

I've shared a lot of great kisses with your mother, but none so soft and tender as that one. Ten years it has been, and I can still feel the wetness of her lips. I can still hear her stuttering breath as I touched the back of her neck. I can still see her coy smile as we parted.

It was only a matter of weeks later that we were living together. And just a matter of months before we were engaged. We were married in your grandparent's backyard on a stunning August night.

Ten years, we've been together. And while things are not always perfect — nothing in life is perfect, you see — I wouldn't change a thing.

Because out of that first meeting, there was a spark.

And from that spark, there was a kiss.

And from that kiss, there grew love.

And in that love, a family began.

No, nothing in life is perfect. But I couldn't imagine how it could be any better, either.

Ten years it's been. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Love,
dad

AND JOYFUL NOISE

Dear Spike:

You laugh like a maniac. Like a mad viking sailing over the the end of the world. Like a mathematician who has woken up from a strange and colorful dream — only to find pi solved on a crumpled up napkin by her bedside.

It's frightening. And oh so beautiful.

Never stop laughing like that, OK? Whatever it is that you see in this world. Whatever it is that inspires that cackle, that guffaw, that whoop, that hoot. Whatever you feel, deep down inside when you're suddenly overwhelmed by that great and joyful noise.

Don't ever lose that.

I'm just guessing here — being long of this world, I suppose it's just hard for me to understand — but I think what I'm seeing is the hysterical manifestation of epiphany. You're at this beautiful point in your life in which you've begun to recognize things for what they are and for what you imagine them to be. All at once. You see and smell and taste and touch and develop ideas that belong to no one but yourself. You're creating irony and paradox all of your own making – and only of your own understanding.

Or maybe you're just laughing. What the hell do I know?

No, no — here's what I know: Something is happening in that tiny head of yours. Something miraculous. Something sweet. Something that I'm unlikely to ever understand. Something that, alas, you're unlikely to remember when you are as old as me.

But try. When you're alone, if you must (for yes, it's true, some people will not understand.) Try to laugh as you once did.

Like a frog who has found a princess' kiss. Like a mosquito zipping headlong into a flame. Like a wild beast in defiance of the brightest hunter's moon.

Laugh like a maniac. Laugh.

Love,
dad

ALL THE AWE

Dear Spike:

There it was, no bigger than a nickel. A thin, dark circle, barely raised against the surface of the rock. At first glance, it could have been a slice of obsidian — or even a raindrop upon the soft gray shale. And just like an ephemeral raindrop, it should have evaporated into the winds of time ...

... hundreds of millions of years ago.

Instead, this little bug left its tiny imprint on our Earth — disappearing into a sandy tomb long before the dinosaurs walked this land and reappearing, for the first time, as I drove a spike between two thin layers of shale.

"A trilobite!" you cried.

Indeed it was. But it was more than that. It was a tiny time machine. A window into prehistory. As old as the hills? No, that doesn't even scratch the surface. This was older. Much, much older.

I dropped my hammer, shook my head and ran my thumb over tiny, spiny fossil.

"Wow," I said.

That is all I could muster. Words simply failed me. And why should they not? Our ancestors began to communicate using language fewer than 100,000 years ago. This delicate little arthropod had been around for 500 million years. Maybe longer. And we had just unearthed it, waking it from its long slumber, robbing it from eternity.

We live just a few short hours from one of the most prolific trilobite quarries in the world. And as such, your mother and I had been meaning to do this for years. One thing or another kept getting in the way.

I'm so glad we finally did this. And I'm glad we got to do it with you. Because with all the awe I felt as we unearthed fossil after fossil after fossil, came an awe-inspiring reminder:

Our time here is short. Too short to leave undone what we dream of doing. Too short not to seek joy. Too short not to seek love. Too short not to care, deeply and passionately, for all of those around us. Too short not to be left speechless by a sunset, a snowflake, a little slice of shale.

Like the raindrops that danced on the soft gray rock as we reluctantly turned away from the quarry, we are both eternal and ephemeral.

And like the raindrops, we should dance.

Love,
dad

THE HISTORY BOOKS

Dear Spike:

I don't know if this is a Brown v. Board of Education moment. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's not.

When a federal judge struck down California's ban on same sex marriage, yesterday, an appeal was a foregone conclusion. Ultimately, this fight will go to the Supreme Court. And maybe then we'll have a ruling worthy of the history books.

But I don't want to discount what happened yesterday, either, because it's a good example of why, as frustrated as I often am with this country, I still believe in it.

Our founders took a pretty bold leap of faith when they decided to establish the United States as a democracy. In doing so, they put decisions about our collective welfare into the hands of the collective. They trusted people to do the right thing. And often we do.

So democracy can be a beautiful thing. But it can also be a terrible thing in which the rights of minorities are crushed by the democratic rule of the majority. And that's why we have a Constitution, which enumerates the basic rights and freedoms that no mob of a majority can simply take away.

And since our founders couldn't have anticipated all the ways in which our world would change, we have judges. They decide, based on an examination of the facts of a case, the weight of legal precedent and their interpretation of the Constitution as it applies to our modern world, what our rights are.

In this case, the judge in California concluded – correctly, I believe — that a majority of California voters could not take away the rights of a minority.

It's possible that, on appeal, the Supreme Court could decide that the California vote was right and proper. But although I would be disappointed in that verdict, it would not necessarily shake my confidence in our system.

That's because, just as our courts have the ability to act as a Constitutional check over our democracy, our democracy can act as a moral check over our courts.

Ultimately, I believe, an overwhelming majority of Americans will understand that love is an institution of consenting individuals (and, if they choose, of their God) — not of the government. And when that happens, the legal precedent that once allowed a state to ban non-traditional marriage, by democratic vote, will be the same standard which would allow us to change our minds.

Is that a long way to go to do what is right? Perhaps. But I suppose if it were any easier, then it wouldn't really be so historic, would it?

love,
dad

THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

Dear Spike:

I would like to allow you to choose your own path.

So if you love to dance, please dance.

And if you love math, by all means, solve the Goldbach Conjecture.

And if want to do Kung-Fu, go ahead and kick butt.

Likewise, if you don't like spinach, I'll only make you try it — I won't shove it down your throat.

And if you don't like baseball, I won't make you swing for the fences.

And if you don't like the snow, I won't make you ski.

And if you don't like soccer...

... I think we're going to have some issues.

I love the beautiful game. I love to play it. I love to watch it. I love to talk about it.

And, since the moment we learned you were coming, I've loved to dream about watching you play it.

Today, that dream came true. You had your very first soccer practice. And, if I do say so myself, you played like a champ.

With seven days to go before World Cup 2010 begins in South Africa, I'm afraid it might be a bit too late to make the U.S. team.

But with four years until the next cup, in Brazil, I think there's plenty of time.

No pressure.

Love,
dad

FOR VALENTINE'S DAY

Dear Spike:

Every year on Valentine's Day, I count myself among the luckiest schmucks in the world.

Take today, for instance: While other people were running around buying candy, picking up flowers, making dinner reservations and selecting risqué gifts for their significant other, I was spending the day snowboarding.

You see, your mother spent several years working at a Hallmark gift shop. After that, she's sort of lost her taste for Valentine's Day. So I help her celebrate, each year, by doing the least romantic things possible. For instance, today I took our only car and left her to care for you all by herself a while I sought to feed my adrenaline addiction in Big Cottonwood Canyon.

Wasn't that sweet of me?

Truth is, though, that I'm not an unromantic guy. I just choose to perform gratuitous acts of affection on days in which I have not been told to perform gratuitous acts of affection. After all, flowers aren't really all that romantic if it takes the annual celebration of the death of a mythical martyr to remind you to buy them. Follow me?

So I say to you, my child: Do not settle for false romance. When it comes time for you to fall in love, make sure you respect that love with kindness, selflessness and generosity on every day of the year.

And if you have to let your outward affection lapse for just one day, Feb. 14 ain't a bad date on the calendar to do just that.

Love,
dad

TO OUR LOVE

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I have been married for more than seven years now and although things aren't always perfect, I've never regretted my decision to commit myself to her. She is my hero and my best friend. And I cannot fathom what my life would be like without her.

So it might be strange for you to hear me say that, every now and again, I regret that we got married.

Let me explain.

Today, voters in Maine shot down a law that would have allowed gay couples to marry. In doing so, Maine became the 31st state where voters have decided that the right to marry should be limited to those who look like your mother and I do.

By the time you are old enough to be president, today's vote will be yet another sad footnote in our nation's history. Older Americans, who oppose gay marriage in great numbers, are taking their interpretations of Old Testament scripture to the grave. Younger Americans, those who will be voting for decades to come, simply do not care to mix religion and politics, particularly when it comes to depriving fellow citizens of their rights.

Like segregation and anti-suffrage, this too shall pass.

But today I am sickened. Heartbroken. Angry.

And I am left wondering: What good is marriage?

What good is marriage if it does not represent love?

What good is marriage if it does not represent commitment?

What good is marriage, if it does not represent the will of two people to stand by one another, for richer and for poorer, for better or for worse, forever and ever?

Of course, for most of us — heterosexual and homosexual alike — marriage represents all of those things. Marriage is love and commitment and the will to stand together, through all of life's challenges, because life is too damn hard to stand alone.

But the marriage certificate that your mother and I signed seven years ago? That little slip of paper filed away in a box somewhere in the basement of the Benton County Courthouse in Corvallis, Ore.? That legal testament to our love?

It is meaningless to me. Worthless to me. And perhaps it is fortunate that today we live so far away from the town where we were married, because I feel a burning compulsion to march into that courthouse, demand that piece of paper and tear it up, shred by tiny shred.

Yes, today I regret that we got married. I regret that we felt compelled to ask for a rubber stamp from a government that does not offer that same easy endorsement to anyone who loves the way your mother and I love. I regret that we felt the need to ask permission to love one another from this nation of the people, by the people and for all the jealous, greedy, judgmental people.

I do not regret the way I love your mother. Not one bit.

I do not regret the day I stood, holding her hands and looking into her eyes, and promised to love her, to cherish her, to honor her and to be there for her forever.

I do not regret the dance we danced or the cake we cut or the toasts we made.

Not one bit.

But I'd burn that marriage certificate. By God, I would.

Love,
dad

OOH-KAY OBAMA

Dear Spike:

Here's the entirety of a "conversation" you just had on the phone with our nation's chief executive:

"It's ringing!"

...

"Hi Obama!"

...

"Good. Good!"

...

"Dancing? Dancing!"

...

"Ooh-kay! Dancing!"

...

"Ooh-kay Obama. Good bye!"

...

"Bye bye!"

When I asked you what you and Obama had been talking about, you just smiled a wagged your finger at me.

"No daddy," you said. "Not daddy's phone call."

I think you have a crush on the president.

Love,
dad

MAGIC AND MAJESTY

Dear Spike:

I often wonder what Jesus Christ would think if he were to meet his modern followers. I suspect he wouldn’t be particularly proud of some of them.

In his name they judge and they hate. Sometimes they kill.

They spend millions of dollars trying to ban abortion. They pass laws to ensure homosexuals can’t marry. They even fight to make sure that the 10 Commandments get a prominent place in city parks and to protect “Merry Christmas” from being supplanted by more secular holiday salutations.

I certainly cannot tell you that those Christians who are battling to promote their evangelical agenda are wrong. Just the same, they can’t tell you they are right.

So what would Jesus do? Truth is, most of us are just guessing. As to most of the issues of our modern world, more than two millennia after Christ’s birth, there really is no clear answer.

Save this one:

Time and again, Jesus commanded his followers to love their fellow disciples, their neighbors and even their enemies.

Even if you decide not to believe in the magic and majesty of Christianity, when it comes time to choose a guidebook for your life, the words Christ spoke aren’t a bad option.

But instead of parsing his parables, seeking guidance on complicated modern issues in a 2,000-year-old book, I suggest you start with the simplest commandment he gave.

Love your neighbor.

Start with the person next door. Then move onto every person on your block. Then move onto every person in this world.

A lot of things that we overcomplicate get worked out when love is our guiding force.

For me, Christmastime is a good time to think about how well I’ve been following the Golden Rule — and to recognize that, until I get that right, I’ve got no business whatsoever trying to press my moral agenda on anyone else.

Love,
dad

I AM THANKFUL

Dear Spike:

Your mother just went into your room to rock you down to sleep. It's been a lovely Thanksgiving Day, but now I think we're all ready to nestle into our beds and give in to the tryptophan. I think it might snow tonight and I'm likely to have a pretty light day at work tomorrow, so perhaps we can all go for an icy romp through the park and then come home for a cup of hot cocoa.

Your grandparents left before we even had the turkey in the oven, but it was fun to share part of our Thanksgiving week with them. They're really quite smitten with you and you love spending time with them, too. We're lucky to have such a wonderful family, and on this day that is something I am very thankful for.

Because we live so far away from much of our family, we don't get to see everyone all that often. But earlier this month you and your mother got to visit your grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins in Oregon, and next month we'll be going to see your aunt and uncles in Southern California, and the month after that we'll be going to see the rest of our family in Northern California. We are very lucky in this way — and that is another thing that I am thankful for.

And, as long as I'm at it, here are a few other things I am thankful for today (and every day.)

For our old drafty home and for our big, furry cat, who keeps my feet warm on winter nights. For our chickens and the delicious eggs they give us. For your mother's job, which is so close to our home and which gives her a chance to change the world, every day. For my job, which provides me the ability to stay at home with you on most days.

For the Mighty Fighting Beavers football team of Oregon State University, which is one win away from going to the Rose Bowl for the first time since 1965.

For our new president and for the president he is replacing. God knows I've got high hopes for the former and great sympathy for the latter, for these are difficult times and history is not apt to be very kind.

For our friends — especially those whom you probably won't be able to distinguish from our family — for they have made our lives feel rich and our hearts feel big.

And, of course, for you and your mother. You are my best friends.

Love,
dad

MELT MY HEART

Dear Spike:

I came home from work yesterday to find you and your mother curled up together in bed.

You both melt my heart.

Love,
dad

FEELS LIKE HOME

Dear Spike:

You're back from your big Oregon adventure — and at this moment sleeping between your mother and me.

Home feels like home again.

Love,
dad

BIG OLD HOUSE

Dear Spike:

You and your mother are visiting our family in Oregon this weekend, so I'm all alone in this big old house. Funny, it doesn't seem so big when we're all here together. And it doesn't seem so lonely, either.

I woke up last night expecting to hear your sweet little snores over the baby monitor. It took me a few moments to remember why it was so very quiet. I tossed and turned and finally fell back asleep, only to wake up an hour later when I rolled over to hold your mother and got nothing but an armful of pillows.

Your mom called me twice today to tell me about how much fun you're having with your Aunt Molly, Uncle Matt and cousins Jay and Brett. Today you went to the Portland Children's Museum, where you played in the Bob The Builder exhibit. (I can only imagine your excitement at "meeting" the characters of which you've grown so fond. Tomorrow you'll head down to your grandparents house, where you'll be meeting up with more aunts, uncles and cousins. And then on Monday, you'll be visiting your Godmother and her new baby, Aaron.

I miss you, but I'm excited for your adventures and happy you're getting to spend time with people who love you. And I'll keep this big old house warm for your return.

Love,
dad

HAVE YOUR EVER?

Dear Spike:

Sometimes you'll look at your partner and swim with feelings of love.

Sometimes you'll feel something else...


Spike's mom: Have you ever felt like smothering me?

Spike's dad: Um, no.

Spike's mom: Oh, that's good.


There's an obvious follow-up question I could have asked her. But I didn't. I'd rather not know.

Love,
dad

LOVE LIKE WINE

Dear Spike:

It's close to harvest time in our small backyard vineyard. Soon you'll be knee-deep in bright purple grapes, stomping and sloshing away, adding a bit of your soul to our wine.

Most of our wine finds its way to those we love, often in the form of a birthday, wedding or anniversary gift. This week we delivered a bottle of last year's vintage to our friends, Chris and Ashley, to celebrate their wedding.

Here's what I wrote in the card that we slipped into the bag with the bottle...

Love, like wine,

Is best between friends.

Shared in full reminiscence 

Of the sun,

And the dirt,

And the rain,

From which it was born.

You're going to learn a lot from your mother and me. And you're going to learn a lot from your teachers in school. And from your grandparents and from your aunts and uncles and from your friends and from your neighbors. 

 

But some of life's best lessons come in unexpected places. 

Never underestimate what you can learn from a bottle of wine. Or from taking apart a car engine. Or from a sunrise hike in the mountains.

Never underestimate life's capacity for unexpected joy.

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

FEW SMALL THINGS

BE HOME SOON

Dear Spike:

I'm off this morning, bright and early. My plane leaves Salt Lake City at 7 a.m. By early afternoon, I'll be in Mexico. By midnight I'll be in Havana, Cuba. And if all goes well, within 24 hours of arriving in Cuba, I'll be on the easternmost part of the island, looking out over the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay from the same vantage as Cubans have had for more than 100 years — nearly 50 of those in which the base has been an international flashpoint, first in the so-called Cold War and now in so-called the War on Terror.

I'll be gone a little over a week — by far the most time you and I have ever spent apart. While I'm away, your grandmother (you call her "Gak") is coming to stay with you and your mother — a last-minute change to our plans precipitated by the burglary of our home last week. She and your mother will take good care of you while I'm gone.

Still, I don't want you to forget me. So I've recorded a few of my normal letters to you on video and also made you a slide show of photos of you and I together. I know it's not the same as having your father home, but I thought it might help, if only just a little bit.

I'll be home soon.

I miss you and I love you.

Love,
dad