The Potential of You, My Beloved

Dear Alanna,

Hi, it’s Daddy. I read recently that parents who have lost a child before birth should name their child, and have a funeral for that child, to assist in the grieving process. So I thought I should let know you that if you were born a girl, we would name you Alanna. I think we felt there should be no middle name. After the eighteen names we gave your older brother, Drew, we’d completely exhausted the baby name dictionary. If you were a boy, I think, based on what I just said before, that you’d be lucky to leave the hospital with any name other than “Boy #4 McCullah.” Besides, with three boys already, my heart was strongly leaning towards finally having a baby girl in our house. You could say that in that moment when we found out you were coming, you, baby girl, was my fondest heart’s desire. I’d like to think that God would have blessed us with a girl. So, Alanna, you are. Welcome to heaven.

When your mommy and I found out you were coming, I have to admit we were equally thrilled and scared out of our minds. Drew just turned two, and he’s quite a handful by himself, but then you add Jude, the Tazmanian Brother to the mix, and we’re getting kicked out of daycare. And your oldest brother, Noah, he’s quite the charmer. Just a few weeks from turning thirteen, and he already acts like he’s seventeen. Well, it’s all a point of view, I suppose.

But we were fearful because of our current situation. It’s been rough lately. Finding a job in this economy if difficult. It’s hard to keep our family above water. We weren’t sure how we could fit yet another child into our tight household. And to be perfectly honest, because that was how we would have raised you, like we try to teach your siblings, we weren’t sure that we could even find room to add more love to the mix. How do we spread the love between four children? Who feels left out if we do something wrong? Alanna, you would have been the baby of the house, and prone to all the special treatment we slather upon Drew right now. Jude and Drew would fight with each other for position, and attention, and try whatever they could to get in Mommy’s lap, regardless of what you needed from her at that moment. I would have to go and buy a referee jersey, a whistle, and start making calls. Maybe even add that penalty box I’ve been threatening the boys with.

Here’s the interesting thing, sweetheart. Mommy and I found out about you the morning of our sixth anniversary. On the day in which we remember our love and commitment for each other we found out you were on the way!

But last week, was the hardest week…and this one, too, if you want to know the truth. You couldn’t make it. I don’t care what the world says, how the media mixes it up, or how many politicians will make this topic a platform for debate… from the moment you were conceived, you were alive, developing, changing, growing… You were becoming what we hoped you would be, and yet somehow, it wasn’t enough.

I’ve asked myself hundreds of time in the last two weeks why. Why would you even happen, a miracle of life that only God can make happen, and then die two months into your growth? What would be the purpose? Why the hope, and the growing love (more on that in a moment), and all the mental and emotional waves we went through in preparation for your coming? I still don’t have the full answers, and likely never will. But I do think of at least one possibility. This loss we’ve suffered (and are still suffering) has brought your mother and I closer together. We’re leaning on each other more for that support. We seek each other out. Not that we were growing apart, or had any trouble in our relationship, but somehow this tragedy has made us tighter together.

Now, about that growing love. We discovered that when we found that you weren’t going to make it in our world and home, we found ourselves grieving. We discovered a love for the potential of you, and hurt that we would never get the chance to be your parents. And your mother is still hurting in ways both physical and emotional. The unfortunate physical aspect of this event is scarring in ways we never imagined. It’s a lengthy and–dare I say–continual reminder of what didn’t work out for you, and for us. Your mother grieves, and weeps every day for you. I pray God’s hands on her heart, to give her comfort and peace.

And for me, too, baby. I miss you as well.

And so, Alanna, I wanted to share a few things with you. From my heart, to yours. Take these words with you down the streets of gold, and know that we miss you here, and look forward to seeing you one day in heaven, reunited as a family.

I would have loved to watch you grow into a beautiful woman like your mother. Watching as you bake cookies together, do crafts with beads, fabric, and such. (Your mother is a very talented girl!) I would have loved to see the growing bond between you both, that mutual bond that says, “Finally some balance against the overwhelming testosterone levels in this place!”

I would have experienced joy in watching you put your brothers into place, and with equal glee, watch them protect you and guard you from the world outside, challenging any and all who dared to stand by your side if found unworthy.

I would have loved to see you dance in life. A father daughter dance, awkwardly trying to move to music, surrounded by equally awkward fathers with their little girls. Interrogating any would-be suitor who come to our door, calling. Oh, the things I would say! Watching you grow, complete your education, find the dreams of a life beyond our doors, a career, a relationship and marriage…family, whatever your heart would desire.

I don’t know why it happened. But Alanna, know this in your heart: your mother and I love you, like we never thought we could before. We will carry you in our hearts as well. May Jesus’ light shine upon you now and always, and may we one day meet face to face… and dance in His light!

Love,

Daddy

Gaps That Kill My Blog

Okay, so I got some great reactions to some of my last blog entries, specifically about my high school reunion (which in some strange way still feels surreal to me). I’m thankful for my friends, old and new, who give me such positive feedback and encouragement. Writing is something I never set out to do. In fact, I took Creative Writing from Mr. Richards, and nearly failed. It wasn’t what I liked doing at the time. I couldn’t even imagine being creative enough to write down anything of length, and tell a story. It wasn’t even that difficult of a class. Mr. Richards had two main assignments for the whole semester: do a daily journal, and a final writing project. The project could be either 1). 20 – 30 poems; 2). 5 – 6 short stories; or 3). a 4-chapter novella. I didn’t have the right mindset to write poetry (and only rarely have I written anything I even considered shareworthy… usually in deep periods of depression), and I couldn’t even begin to think that I could write a four-chapter novella! That felt like the largest task ever put before me. So I chose the 5 – 6 short stories. Of course, I also wasn’t very good at math (I’m dyslexic when it come to numbers in my head), and so I never once figured that it likely would have been easier to write four chapters about one subject, than write 5 or 6 individual stories about different subjects…

As I mentioned before, I nearly failed that class. On the last day of school, Mr Richards pulled me aside, and said in essence: “You have more in you than you realize. If you would just allow yourself to see your potential, rather than your fear, you would accomplish great things. I believe you can, but my belief won’t do it for you. You have to believe, too.”

Mr Richards invested himself in me like no one had ever done in school before. And although I am still a good friend of a teacher, Steve Hansen, and we share many common interests, Bill Richards did something that day that turned something on in my brain.

It was while I served in the Air Force that I began writing, the way many fans do… by reimagining their favorite stories or characters in new ways. In other words, fan-fiction. After a while, I grew used to laying down the words upon the page (all hand-written… I didn’t have a computer or typewriter), and found that I had more things to say than just based upon someone else’s work. I had ideas of my own.

My first written success was a one-act play that I directed in college. It was quite the experience, the least of which was seeing all of the hard work I’d sweat and bled into my written baby, and then sitting in the audience after weeks of rehearsal, to see my actors carry it out all on their own. And it lived!

But playwrighting didn’t offer a lot of opportunities for public awareness. I wrote four more plays within the next two years, but never did a thing with them. I could never raise the interest, even through local community theaters.

So I turned to prose. Novel writing was where I found my fit, and for a short period of five years, I was comfortable there. I thrived. It was my most prolific period of writing. I wrote three novels, several short stories, essays, and even a handful of poems.

But two major things happened in my life that changed me, and my direction. I became a husband and father–that’s one (Noah was almost six when Paula and I married), and I became immersed in video media as a job. That kind of work drained the creativity right out of me, and then being an active husband and father didn’t really leave me the kind of time I’d grown accustomed to when writing. I used to carry a journal with me everywhere I went, and wrote on whatever occasion suited.

And so, there have been two weeks since my high school reunion, and I’ve hardly written. There have been gaps in my creativity. And it seems to be killing my blog. My children are growing up fast, changing and developing in awesome ways, and I all I can do is stand nearby and watch in awe… and by the time I get the mindset to write about it, the memory grows fuzzy, and my boys are off doing something new that I must observe.

And so, I guess the point of this whole thing is… well, keep writing.

That’s another thing… I’ve never really liked writing the ends of my projects. I never can make a satisfying ending. Except for my novel, A Sense of Gina, and my next novel, Stranger No More… those seemed to write themselves.

All You Need is Now

Or, 20th Reunion, Part II.

I feel like I haven’t said all that’s been going through my mind since last Saturday. And perhaps, since you’re like not sitting anywhere near a full-blown rock concert speaker array, you can probably focus on this little conversation between us. Are you comfortable? Is it quiet, or relatively so? Good. Let’s talk, old friend. It’s been a long time.

Let’s look at the reunion honestly. Ready? How many of us showed up, answered asked the questions we knew were easy to answer? How are you? Where are you now? What are you doing for a career? Easy right? Teachers, lawyers, graphic designers, video producers, writers, and parents…I met you all. And in the frenzy to see that most recent arrival in that little courtyard, and hear ourselves over the music, I feel we didn’t get so very far in getting to know each other all over again. I would be remiss if I let any of you get that far away again, without trying to know just a little bit more about each of you.

What were our interests back in school? Football (the mountain kind, of course), Milli Vanilli (you know you listened to that album!), student government? Did I even know that much?

I want to put out a challenge to my fellow Class of 1991 warriors: Tell me a little more. It can be trivial. It can be serious. Light-hearted, or life-changing. Tell me about it. Lay it out on the table! Let’s be friends, you and I. Life is too short.

And, to be fair, I’ll start.

For example, when my wife and I were honeymooning in San Francisco, I got meet Sammy Hagar, and get his picture with me. (You can see it in my Facebook photos).

My first and only published book took me two years to complete, but only six months to write.

I entered a writing contest, and came in third place. The best thing for me, though, was that the contest was judged by Stephen King, and he loved my piece!

I’ve known my wife since college, 15 years now, but we’ve only been married 6 years.

I have three boys: one redhead (a color that landed on him from three generations back), and two blondes (my Irish twins).

I never went to school for what I do in my job, but am qualified to work at any Hollywood film editor’s desk.

Okay… that’s enough of me. Now it’s your turn. Will you share with me? Shall we stop the clock long enough to hold this 20 year achievement just a little longer? I want to know. All you need is now, my friends. I’ll be here.

So… That’s What It’s All About…

 

 

 

It’s something I’ve thought long about…the prospect of seeing former high school classmates face to face, and speaking as adults do, with thought, intelligence, added years of experience, and earned maturity.

And then there are those who drop their pants while dancing on the floor.

In high school, I was known–no wait. Strike that… I was almost known. By known, I’m talking notoriety. The jocks who made a name for themselves on the sporting field and court. The girls who naturally drew a crowd around them just because they were so beautiful to look at. The one’s who partied the most and hardest. The one’s who missed the most class because they’d earned trouble of some kind. Me? I floated.

I floated from one social circle to the next. Did I know the jocks? At least one. Enough so that if I saw that guy in the hall at school, and happened to stand close enough, I’d get the requisite nod of the head of recognition. It was a silent signal. “I see you here, and I won’t make you leave.” The rest was up to me. I simply stood by, and observed. I didn’t speak very often. As a teen, I had awkward like a recessive gene. It inhabited my walk, my gestures, and the way I spoke. I didn’t know how to carry on good conversation. I had trouble with the 2-minute rule (wait at least 2 minutes of conversation before saying something you’ll probably regret).

This aspect of my life applied to every social circle at school. The cheerleaders (I knew at least three girls who didn’t flinch or react negatively when I was around), the stoners (it was sheer accident that I even knew their names–somehow I always ended up sitting near one of their crowd in class), the top-tier populars, the nerds (actually…I fit in too well in this crowd, and I wasn’t even smart enough to keep up with their intellectual banter)…

I floated from one to another, always on the fringe, always outside looking in. It wasn’t necessarily miserable. It was a safe way to conduct myself. I didn’t make enemies. I merely didn’t present a threat to the institution. My social life was spent at church, where my father was pastor of a large and well-known congregation in town. I never played sports. I hadn’t joined any clubs. I didn’t play any musical instruments, or even pose for pictures with them. I drifted solidly and quietly through the high school experience, doing my best to pass my classes, and get out of school, and eventually, out of town. I didn’t want to be trapped in the small-town life, which was as alien to me as any experience.

At graduation, I gave fond goodbyes to those I knew best, though I can safely say I knew you well enough to stand nearby and smile. We did Grad Nite at Disneyland, watched music acts like C+C Music Factory, Keith Sweat, En Vogue and others, and slept on the bus home.

Fast forward twenty years, to a reunion that has occupied my mind since graduation. What would it be like, to see my peers, aged to perfection like me? How had maturity changed our outlooks, our vocabulary, our pride and joys?

I’ve recent observed to friends that the biggest difference between my 20th reunion, and that of my parent’s, was they didn’t have Facebook. Today, we see the faces of our classmates, because they post the most recent pictures of their new aprons, their trips to the beach, or touring the rodeo circuit. We know their children’s names, ages, and what grades they got in school last year. Instead of my parents asking their friends, “What on earth have you been up to in the last twenty years?” I and my peers are asking things like, “How was your doctor’s appointment Wednesday?”

At the same time, as much as we see the exposure of our old friends on Facebook, there is a realm of their lives we don’t see. We don’t see facial expressions of joy or pain. The way they tell of losing a job, or the birth of their newest child. That’s the experience I wanted to share as I took my college sweetheart with me to my high school reunion.

I met with some friends I’ve bumped into off and on with enough frequency in the last twenty years to greet warmly and with that freshness that comes with familiarity. Then there were those I truly had not seen since we departed the bus from Disneyland on that long ago night. Hugs were given, smiles widened, and faces changed to excitement. Some of those excited faces were from people who didn’t look twice my way in the halls between classes. Conversations and discussions about family took dominance from some who didn’t know my name back in school.

I talked with a girl who–like several in her social circle–was one that I knew in school was way beyond my grasp. The years had changed. We had grown. We discovered that everything about we as students and our ambitions for popularity were totally irrelevant. Who we are today as professionals, parents, and contributors to society was formed for us in the immediate years following high school. We had to face the world, make decisions that would alter our life path, and make a way in this large and crazy world. We chose mates (some who had sat next to us in Mrs. Walstrom’s English class), and some who were waiting for us further down the road. We created beautiful children of all personality types, who inherited our intelligence, our ambitions, our eyes. We chose careers (or vice versa).

On this night, under the stars of Tehachapi, as the nearby sounds of train horns blared across the road, and the rhythms of 20 year old music blared from speakers too close to hear conversation, I reconnected with those I never dared talk to before, and found something in common. Twenty years of life experience. It had value that could never compare to our struggling, meager attempts in school to rise above.

Now, to bring this post to my children, I say this to my fwee sons: School is a training ground for your brains, and for your ability to relate to your peers. The point of school is to survive and move on, taking with you your good grades, and friends that in twenty years will marvel that you want to talk with them. Because in the end, everyone feels the same as you… a pebble in a large ocean, looking for significance, and a place in this world.

Like a Child…

In Sunday School lately, we’ve been discussing Paul E. Little’s book, Know Why You Believe. The reason comes from 1 Peter 3:15, which talks about always being ready to give a reason for the hope we have… Paula mentioned to me this morning in class that it may be a good idea to do a family-friendly version of that kind of study. We had several books from author Josh McDowell on why the Bible is true, and how God is who He says He is. Many of these books are aimed at youth and children. So I took his Children Demand a Verdict book, and we started to read through some of the questions listed inside.

Paula and I glanced at our son, Noah, and saw a mist of tears in his eyes. Now, Noah is probably one of the most emotionally touched young men I’ve ever known… next to his old man, at any rate. One moment, he could be crying over something that hurts down deep, or expressing some fear that brings a very similar reaction, and the next, he’s wrestling on the floor and blowing up spaceships and Transformers.

These tears, however, seemed to come from nowhere, and so we prodded him for what was troubling him. He said, “I tried to witness to Jackson [his good friend down the street]…” and here the tears doubled in his eyes, and his lower lips flared out, “and he said he doesn’t care about that…” Then he cried.

Talk about your wake up calls! Christian friends, brothers and sisters, when was the last time you cried because someone you witnessed to (or perhaps, hadn’t gotten around to witnessing to) didn’t care? And Paula and I, looking at our son, Noah, and then back at each other, knew right away that these weren’t tears brought on by rejection of him. These were tears over Jackson’s rejection of Jesus. Noah, feeling mortality and our own temporary state on this earth as exquisitely as any sold-out soul for Jesus before him was weeping because Jackson didn’t appear to care whether he went to heaven or hell.

We tried to offer some light. Jackson was still young, and though old enough to be accountable for doing right and wrong, could still be young enough to not understand the implications of what Noah felt for his soul. We also know that Jackson’s parents have indicated in some fashion that religion is not for them. For all we know, his parents have possibly made that abundantly clear to Jackson. I asked Noah, “Suppose a friend of your at school came up to you and told you that everything your mom and dad told you was a lie and wrong. Would you listen or believe them?” He shook his head no.

I told Noah that in essence, that’s what witnessing to Jackson might sound like to his ears. Your parents are wrong. This is the way it really is. It’s tough for a 12 year old to stand up against something he’s been taught all his life. But then I encouraged Noah, by telling him that he has planted the seed, however. He’s told Jackson about his need for Jesus, and that some day, he may draw upon that moment of Noah’s bravery and boldness, and remember what was said.

Paula followed up on that with, “First of all, you give a testimony of what God has done personally in your life.”

I followed that with telling him that God made a miracle in his own life by bringing his mom and dad back together after years of anger, hatred and bitterness. I told Noah that by telling others how God did something personal in his life, he makes God that much more real for others.

“Now, you need to pray for him,” Paula continued. “Your Grandpa Jerry says that the best thing we can do for those who won’t listen is pray that God does something in their lives to help them listen and make that decision. You can’t force Jackson to any decision. But God has given each and every one of us deep inside that little yearning that says, ‘There must be something bigger than me out there!’, and we want to find it. Jackson may want to look, and now that you’ve told him what it is, he could find it easier.”

Noah still wept for his friend. “He doesn’t understand it! He says, ‘How am I supposed to know if that’s right or not?’”

And that, my friends, is why we need to know why we believe. So we can answer. So that others might hear, see, and believe.

About Me… and the Fam Part 3

Engaged Valentine’s weekend, 2005. We got married on November 19, 2005. Between those two dates, a whirlwind of change blew through our lives. One of us had to find a job where the other lived. In my line of work, finding a job in video production was rather limiting, though I tried. There was nothing where Paula lived, or within a hundred mile radius. Though Paula had a teaching credential, she hadn’t taught since the year after she graduated. Instead, she worked for the local paper as the director of a program called Newspapers in Education, using newspapers in schools to help teach kids. So Paula sent out several applications to schools in Bakersfield, and two of them called her for interviews. The first one offered her the job.

Paula and Noah were moving to my town.

After spending the summer hunting down apartments, Paula and Noah moved in July, and she began teaching in August at a nearby middle school. Our plans were in full gear for the upcoming wedding in November.

For those of you who don’t know, my dad is a pastor, evangelist, prayer warrior, and one of my favorite men of God.

He’s also done a few weddings in his time. We asked him to do ours. We found a woman my parents knew, and she took on coordinating duties. We held the wedding at her house on a Saturday afternoon.

Certainly the irony wasn’t lost on us how backwards we were doing this. First the couple meets, dates, gets engaged, gets married, and then they have children. This time, we asked our son, Noah, to participate in the wedding. Paula’s dad walked her down the aisle, and then Noah, standing by my side, met her, took her hand, and walked her to the small area at the front. He placed her hand in mine, giving her to me. Of course, I couldn’t see fine details at this point, because I was weeping like a baby. (Thanks, Mom!)

My dad began the ceremony, and we followed along, each trying hard to listen, to remember, but I can’t honestly recall a single word said. Except my vows. I said, “I do.” That was enough, right? That was the promise we made? To do? You don’t say, “I may…” You say “I do.” That’s an active word. That’s a promise to perform, to be, to involve yourself in a lifetime.

Paula was my princess then, and remains my queen now. Dazzling in white, she was a radiant source of joy that I leaned on in moments when I was uncertain of my future, when she’d merely look at me, and in those eyes, promise a life to doing together what I had struggled so often to accomplish on my own. I wasn’t alone anymore.

As my dad closed the wedding ceremony, we had asked him to add on a special part that you don’t often see at weddings. In fact, usually, you see this kind of thing at a Sunday night service. Noah stepped up and joined us. I took Noah’s right hand, and Paula his left, as he stood between us, looking up at us. Then, we dedicated ourselves to raising him right, to lead him in a spiritual house, to honor God in our relationship, and in teaching Noah. We gave him a bracelet to mark the occasion.

It wasn’t long after, maybe a few months…that the age old question was sent our way. “When are you going to have more kids?” Noah was going on seven by this time. It only made sense that we gave him a little sister to teach and protect. Two years passed with no luck. We began to think that maybe Noah would be our only one. I mean, God gave us Noah. Why would it be so difficult again?

Two years later, Jude was born. Almost two years after that, Drew came and completed our family. I didn’t get a single daughter. Perhaps it’s okay, and deep down inside, I know why. And I wouldn’t trade my boys for anything. My family is here, we’re growing up and growing out. And I’ve discovered that life as a father to three boys is as much a life of “I do” as my relationship with my wife. For example:

I do hate changing diapers. I only thought I did before. But this confirms it.

I do feel incredibly protective of my family. Why do boys feel the need to roll down a grass hill at a seemingly sharp incline? (It surely looked sharp standing at the bottom as I was.) And for that matter, why was their mother rolling down the hill with them?

I do love my boys more than I ever thought possible.

I do believe I’m tired. Yes, at this moment, I am. There’s more to do later.

About Me… and the Fam Part 2

After two weeks of emailing and phone conversations, Paula and I determined that I should come out to their town and see Noah for the first time since he was born. The last time I’d seen him was when he was just four days old. That tiny little infant boy had been crying in whomever’s arms until they handed him to me. Then he stilled and a calm fell over both of us.

It was only for a few moments. Remember, Paula and I couldn’t stand being near each other, but we’d arranged this brief meeting.

Now, five and a half years later, I was going to see my son. It just so happened that the weekend we chose was Halloween weekend. I could go trick or treating with Paula and Noah.

We’d decided that it would be best if Paula and I met first, to get used to being around each other. If there was any lingering awkwardness, Noah would almost certainly sense it, even if he didn’t know what was going on. Paula met me at my hotel, and when she first saw me, she fell into my arms and hugged me and apologized for all that had happened in the last six and a half years. I made my amends, and then we headed off to dinner. We sat at that restaurant talking for well over an hour. When Red Robin had finally had enough of us hanging around, we drove out to a park near her house and we continued talking for another three hours. We’d already spent lengthy amounts of time talking by email and on the phone. And it continued just as strong in person.

The next day, Paula brought Noah over to the motel to finally meet me. I opened the door, and there was this small, skinny red-headed little boy, certainly not the infant in the picture above. He had charm, and a fun-loving personality. He was curious about everything, and he loved to play! He hugged me as if I’d never been gone.

The weekend flew by quickly. Much too quickly. A trip to a pumpkin patch and a corn maze, the local park, where I showered him with gifts, and we played for hours. Finally, we had arrived at Halloween night, and we went out trick or treating. Noah was a small ninja, or as he said it, “ninjun.” It was a perfect evening, and Noah came away with a huge haul of candy. Afterward, we ate at a small burger joint nearby, and laughed and had fun together. We knew it was almost over. I was driving home immediately afterward, and it was two and a half hours away.

As we stood at my car, we all found it hard to say goodbye. Noah had to say goodbye to a father he’d just met. And Paula and I had to say goodbye to something we’d never anticipated: a budding (and in a way, resuming) new relationship. We began the weekend assuming only friendliness and an effort to be civil, and we ended the weekend at the start of a new road, and we were scared to death. I gave her a kiss farewell, and never had I felt the weight of the future in such a simple gesture.

It was in about two or three weeks that I traveled out to visit again. Soon, our visits grew with frequency to include every weekend, and Paula and I spoke on the phone each and every night, for at least two or three hours. What makes that more special is the fact that my job had me going home at 11:30pm each weeknight. I called her as soon as I left the building, and we talked until the early hours of morning.

Valentine’s weekend found us in Vegas. Not to get married, but to attend the wedding of her best friend’s daughter. I’d never been to the city outside of a very brief layover while flying home once. We had dinner at the Venetian on the canal, and then Paula took me to the mall inside Caesar’s Palace. She wanted to show me one of her favorite statues. I need to point out that this trip was completely last minute. Originally we were going to enjoy a very quiet romantic weekend together. And, I had gone and purchased a ring set in order to propose to her. I’d planned the whole moment in vivid detail, with a scavenger hunt around her hometown to revisit places from our earlier attempt at this relationship. When she asked if instead we could go to Vegas for this wedding, I brought along the questions and the ring box to try and figure out how I could make an adequate change of plans.

When we reached the statue inside the mall at the Palace, we sat side by side and watched the people for a few minutes. Then I reached inside and withdrew one envelope at a time, and asked her to tell me where the clue pointed to, before handing her the next successive envelope. Paula worked through my clues, until she’d reached the last envelope. As she was reading it, I began inching down onto my knee, and only then realized how difficult it might be to reach into my pants pocket for the box while in this position. I did it, and had the box out in my hand by the time she’d finished. I opened it, and held it out. Here’s where I’m embarrassed as a writer. I don’t have a single clue what words I said right then. I know the phrase “will you marry me?” was in there, and “I love you” and most assuredly, “forever…” But the rest? Total blank. It doesn’t matter, because Paula’s eyes glazed over with a fine layer of tears, a smile crept slowly across her face, and she silently too the ring, and slide it on to her finger while nodding her head.

Immediately we heard loud applause behind me.

We looked. A crowd had gathered to witness something that I’m certain occurs constantly all across the city. However, these people had just happened to be there when it happened for us. We laughed. In the moments afterward, we lingered in the glow of the moment, when we could each see that a very real and definite future was before us, and we’d chosen to enter that future as one, for better or worse. I showed Paula the wedding band that went with the engagement ring. I wanted to be sure that it fit and I could make any adjustments necessary when I returned home. As I was sliding the band onto her finger, we heard more applause behind us. Another crowd had gathered, a second one, in the space between the popping of the question and the yes answer. We laughed again, and with a glint in our eyes, wondered if we could take this show out on the strip. Watch as the loving couple gets engaged!

Engaged. It has such activity in that word. It is full of interest, involvement, and commitment. To be fully engaged in something is to have decided there’s no turning back. And that’s just what we were. As I continued to learn about my new role as Noah’s father, and as a partner and helpmate for Paula, I began to finally see the future as something not quite so indistinct anymore. For the first time, I had a hope for something brighter, and someone to share it with, through thick and thin.

(To be Continued…)