Letter to My Sons (and Daughter)

With apologies to those who have much more eloquently poured out their hearts to their children in books and poems and letters over the years, I humbly submit my letter to my sons and daughter. Such as it is:

Time has stolen many memories, but some linger. That of a child parading through the house in Daddy’s boots and hat. Another, in full military garb, guarding the back yard perimeter; still another, dutifully putting his Matchbox cars away or carefully writing down his “Blue‘s Clues“. The birthdays and other special occasions are foggy, and for that - that I can no longer retrieve those memories at will - I am truly sad. Rather it is the everyday moments I still recall glimpses of, and not all of those pleasant. The look of disappointment when I was too tired to play catch, or too busy to look over your math homework. The resignation in your voice when I had another call coming in that I had to take.

I knew the day would come when you would figure out I wasn’t Superman (or the Incredible Hulk, or the handsome prince, or Johnny Cash). At some point, you saw that I was flawed and vulnerable. I dreaded that moment when I was younger; now I find it liberating.

I know I’ll never be nominated for Father of the Year - it was never my goal. My intention, rather, was to instill in you some of what’s in me; some of that imparted to me in love, more learned along the way, occasionally at a horrific price.

And so, while I have no silver or gold, or deeds or titles to pass along to you, I give you this, such as it is:

As you grow older, you’ll learn that the most important things in life are not how much money you make, or how many friends you have, or how big your house is. It’s whether or not you can look yourself in the mirror every morning, without turning away in shame.

It’s knowing that you can - and should - put other people’s happiness ahead of your own, and expect nothing in return. It’s knowing that - in the end - we have but two choices in life: To be hard-hearted or broken hearted. And knowing that hearts can be broken again, and again, and again. It’s forgiving yourself for being human, and fallible. It’s realizing that nothing lasts forever, save for the recording of our deeds in the memories of those we hold dear.

You’ll learn that happiness really is a choice, and that misery and self-pity will age you prematurely, and alienate those around you. You’ll learn that it’s okay to cry, and - okay if you don’t.

You’ll question yourself. You’ll wonder if you’re on the right path; if the price is too high, or the alternative too dreadful. Like me, you’ll wonder where we came from - and where we’re going. You’ll doubt yourself, and you’ll marvel at the injustice and coldness and inhumanity you’ll encounter along your journey, but also in the warmth and beauty and heroism and unfathomable love. In times of tragedy or dire need, you’ll surprise yourself by what you’re capable of.

You’ll tuck your own children in, and tip-toeing away, be haunted by thoughts of things you meant to do for them that day. And, in those moments, you will feel very small. And you will silently vow to do better.

You’ll look back in anger, and forward in determination. You’ll live, you’ll laugh, you’ll love, and one day - as must we all - you’ll die.

But know this: None of you have ever shed a tear that I wasn’t aware of, or ever felt pain that I didn’t feel. And - as long as there is breath in me - you will never take a breath without my love.

Such as it is.