Today is my youngest son Alex’s birthday. Happy ninth birthday, son!
Alex, if I could be with you today, the first thing I’d do is wrap my arms around you and give you a huge birthday hug. I’d tell you how much I love you, how proud I am of you, and how thankful I am that God chose me to be your dad. It’s hard for me to believe that nine years have already passed since the first time I held you in my arms. Somehow that tiny baby has become a nine-year-old boy with his own personality, interests, talents, sense of humor, and growing faith in God.
Birthdays have a way of making a dad think about just how quickly time passes. There are so many things about watching you grow that I treasure, the conversations, the laughter, the adventures, the ordinary days together, and simply getting to be your dad. I am proud of the boy you are, Alex, and even more excited about the young man God is shaping you to become.
This birthday is different because I can’t celebrate it with you in person. Today also marks 431 days since I’ve seen you. That is a sentence I never imagined I would write about one of my children, especially on his birthday. Because of decisions made by your mom and the court system, I’m not able to be with you and your brothers right now. I wish more than anything that I could spend today with you, watch you open your presents, make you laugh, and tell you face-to-face everything I’m writing here.
Since I can’t do that, I want to give you something else: memories. Someday, Alex, when you read these letters, I want you to know that while we were apart, your dad remembered. I remembered the big things, the little things, the ridiculous things, and all those ordinary moments that didn’t seem particularly important when they happened but mean the world to me now, and on your ninth birthday, I want to start all the way back at the beginning, the day I met you for the very first time.
I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday. Your mom started having labor pains early, so I took her to the hospital with plenty of time before you arrived. Apparently, you weren’t in much of a hurry. You took your good old time getting here, and you were pretty tough on your Mom in the process. She made some guttural sounds during labor that I’m pretty sure weren’t entirely human. After many hours at the hospital, though, you finally decided it was time to make your grand entrance, and you definitely made an entrance.
You had the darkest hair of anybody in our family when you were born. Your skin was red, and you had this incredibly full head of dark hair, almost black. Like your brother before you, you were my little “wolf boy,” except somehow you managed to have even more hair, and you were a chunk! You were bigger than your brothers had been when they were born. But despite your dramatic arrival, you were surprisingly quiet. You didn’t cry very much, and your brothers were incredibly excited to finally meet you. Luke sang Jesus Loves Me to you and Jacob would kiss your hands and attempt to tickle you, even though you weren’t ticklish yet.
There is also something funny about your birthday that you may have noticed about your old man over the years. You were born on September 30, the last day of September, but apparently my brain has never completely accepted the fact that September only has 30 days. We were in the hospital with you for multiple days, and somewhere along the way my old-man memory permanently scrambled the calendar. I know your birthday is September 30, 2017. I really do. But more than once my brain has tried to convince me that you were born on September 31.
I’ve even gone to pick up a prescription for you, been asked for your birthday, had a complete brain fart, and confidently said, “9/31/17.” The problem, of course, is that there is no September 31. Then I have to stand there for a second while my brain catches up with the calendar and correct myself: “Sorry. September 30.” So if you ever remember Dad getting confused about the date of your birthday, I promise I didn’t forget your birthday. Apparently, I just forgot how many days are in September. Maybe when I’m 50, I’ll finally get it right.
Then, because apparently your birth wasn’t eventful enough already, something happened that I’ll probably never forget. After you arrived, Mom and the nurses were taking care of you while I was sitting on the couch in the hospital room trying to relax. Suddenly, a police officer walked into the room. That is not exactly who you expect to visit immediately after your son is born.
He told us that our van had been hit in the hospital parking lot by a woman driving a Mercedes. Thankfully, she had done the right thing and admitted what happened to the police, and insurance eventually repaired the van. At the time, though, it was one of those moments where I remember thinking, Seriously? Today?
But even in that strange little interruption, God was in control. Our van could be fixed. What mattered was that you were there, you were healthy, and our family had just been given another son.
The Bible says in Psalm 127:3, “Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward.” Alex, you were, and still are, a gift from God.
Nine years later, there are so many things I remember about you. I was thinking recently about Cedar Point and how much I miss going there with you. I especially remember the times when it was just you and me. You loved the Matterhorn. I did not love the Matterhorn. That spinning thing could make your dad sick and dizzy, but if you jumped off and immediately said, “Again!” somehow I would find myself climbing back on with you. And then again. And probably again. I didn’t ride it because I loved spinning around until I couldn’t walk straight. I rode it because you loved it, and watching you have fun made getting dizzy worth it.
Before that, there was the Kite Eating Tree. You loved that ride when you were little. I have video after video of you riding it, and you kept riding it even when you were getting big enough that you were almost too big for it. You didn’t care. You loved that thing.
I remember or vacation and how much you loved sitting in the hot tub. I remember all our trips to Great Wolf Lodge and the fun we had there. I remember playing football with you, playing monster trucks with you, and watching you create entire worlds with those trucks and tracks.
I remember camping with our Trail Life friends when you caught a crayfish. Catching it would have been enough of an adventure for most kids. But we boiled yours on a campstove and you actually ate it. That’s my Alex.
I remember the catfish you caught and how excited you were when you pulled it in. I remember your derby races and the car you designed to look like Race Ace, your favorite monster truck. You didn’t just race it, you came away with two awards: one for design and another for speed. I remember how proud I was of you.
I remember soccer. I hope soccer is going great this year, buddy. I wish I could be standing on the sideline watching you. I know how much you love the game and how hard you play. You have always been tough and tenacious. You don’t give up easily, and I hope you never lose that quality. There will be plenty of times in life when things are difficult and you won’t know how everything is going to work out. Keep going. Keep getting back up. Keep trusting God.
More than your sports, your awards, the fish you catch, the rides you love, or anything else you accomplish, though, I am proud of your faith. That’s what matters most to me.
One of my greatest prayers for you has always been that you wouldn’t simply know about Jesus because Dad talked about Him or because you went to church. I want you to know Jesus for yourself. I want your faith to become your own. I want you to learn to trust Him when life is good and when life makes absolutely no sense.
3 John 1:4 says, “I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.” That is what I want for you, Alex. More than anything else I could ever want for you, I want you to walk in the truth. I want you to become a young man who loves Jesus, loves people, tells the truth, protects those who are weaker than him, forgives people, admits when he’s wrong, works hard, laughs often, and stands firm when doing the right thing is difficult.
You don’t have to be perfect. Your dad certainly isn’t. You’re going to make mistakes. You’re going to sin. You’re going to have moments you wish you could do over. When that happens, run toward Jesus instead of away from Him. Let Him shape you into the man He created you to become.
Alex, I miss you more than I can put into words. I miss throwing the football with you. I miss monster trucks. I miss watching you play soccer. I miss hearing your voice and seeing what makes you laugh. I miss the ordinary stuff that I probably didn’t appreciate nearly enough when I had it every day.
I’m now missing a second school year of your life, and that hurts deeply. I am sorry that I cannot be there with you right now. I want you to understand something clearly whenever you eventually read this: my absence is not because I stopped wanting to be your dad, stopped trying to be part of your life, or stopped loving you. Your mom and the court system currently do not allow us to be together. I hope and pray that changes soon. But until it does, there is something no court order, distance, or number of days can change: You are my son. I am your dad. And I love you.
Four hundred thirty-one days cannot erase the first eight years of your life. They cannot erase all the memories we haven’t made yet. Someday, buddy, I hope we get to make up for some of this lost time. Maybe we’ll walk back into Cedar Point together. Maybe you’ll be riding the big coasters then. Maybe we’ll ride the Matterhorn again, although at my age, you may have to help your dad walk afterward. Whatever we do, I look forward to simply being with you again.
Until then, I pray the blessing of Numbers 6:24–26 over you:
“The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; the LORD lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.”
Happy ninth birthday, Alex. I’m proud of you. I’m praying for you. I’m still fighting to be part of your life. And whether it has been 431 days or the full 1,460 days, there will never be a day when I stop being your dad or stop loving you.
I love you, son. Happy birthday.
Dad
