"It's okay"

<p>"It's okay." Those were my last words to my son as he drew his final breath. Not "bye"; not "I love you"; not "I'm sorry"; not "don't go"...it's okay. In fact, I didn't say it just once, I repeated it...over and over...almost frantically. It was as if I didn't know what else to say; and I'm pretty sure that's because I didn't. He looked so scared--I HAD to reassure him that it that it would be okay. He was struggling in pain--I HAD to reassure him that it would be okay. I was sad and scared--I HAD to [selfishly] reassure both him and me.</p>
<p>The faith that I hold today is that he immediately knew afterwards that it was okay. He had reached salvation, and knew all would be better now. If I didn't have that belief--that truth--I wouldn't be able to function for all these days passed. But, I do...and it's okay.</p>
<p>Nowadays, I've noticed that's what I unconsciously tell people when they react to learning of Cooper, his life, his disease, his passing (his cure). "It's okay", I say, "He's better now [and I have accepted it]." Last week was when I realized I was saying this, and then I realized that those were my last words to him. I mean to say: I knew both of these facts individually, then it suddenly dawned on me that they were the same. Truthfully, I don't know what to make of this; and I have REALLY been thinking about it...everyday...analyzing all of the possibilities. I just haven't come to a conclusion yet. I don't know if I will. I suppose the answer will come to me one day, and I'll feel silly for not knowing in the first place. In the meantime, I'll keep moving forward, knowing that it was, is, and will be okay.

Logic requires that I challenge the validity of the statement altogether: IS it okay? Or is this just an insubstantial mantra? No...it's okay. I just don't need to say it to know it.

Great! Now what am I going to tell people?!?!

...and thank You for The Plumber. Amen.

I want to walk as a child of the light

"I Want to Walk as a Child of the Light"...a standard in the Hymnal.  Great music to sing along to, and the message (on the tertiary) makes you want to sing louder.  And once you hear (or even think of) the song, it is stuck in your head for the rest of the day.  I've read some pretty critical reviews on the song (apparently, not a favorite of Christian Music Analysts) that say the lyrics make no sense (in that the lines are contradictory to both each other and the foundation of our faith), none of the lines really relate to one another, and that the song itself is somehow "fake" and self-serving.  Whatever...maybe they just don't hear the message as it was meant.

Honestly, I had never even heard of the song until after Cooper had passed.  She and I were sitting at our kitchen table with our priest planning his funeral service.  Sarah said she wanted it played, Father Gerry agreed, and I went along with it.  Though I KNOW it was played, I can't say that I really remember it being sung by that packed church.  I do, however, remember the next time it was sung in a Sunday Service at Trinity Episcopal Church in The Woodlands...I immediately recognized it, and I felt really good (though I could swear I saw his small, blue steel casket in the front of the church again), and Sarah cried because of the life event with which she now associates that song.

I have thought of this song everyday of this week, and it's because I think I finally understand it.  I think I know what it means to be a "child of the light."  A friend sent me an email mid-week to let me know that somebody (who really wasn't more than acquaintance to me) had passed away the previous weekend.  I was almost immediately full of shame and regret.  This person was a neighbor.  The family situation is "complicated" to say the least, but perhaps that is because I never took the time to really understand it.  Older parents; a pregnant teenaged daughter and another one that was already a teen mom; a son too young to have the criminal record that he did; a tween daughter with a possible history of abuse, and a youngest son that bullied my own kids.

Last year, I watched this family change.  The older boy was apparently sent away in the custody of the law, the youngest sister apparently was re-located for therapeutic reasons, and the young boy got involved in scouting.  Things got better as far a bus behavior reports from my kids are concerned.  Then, the behavior reverted....the bullying returned...and he was removed from the bus.  Soon I only saw the boy as he sat with his father who was the elementary school crossing guard.  The first day of school came, and I wondered where he was...did the school district cut his job? Did he resign the position?  The traffic around the school really needed him, but I went about my life.  Now, I suppose it makes sense.

Now what?  Was I a good neighbor?  Am I living hypocrisy?  I know the difference between right and wrong, but I'm not accepting the challenge as I know I should.  I've been to the Mount, I've hear the Sermon, I've eaten the bread and fishes, and I feel like I'm walking away from the "hard teachings."  But I know that Jesus is The Light of the World, and I want to walk as a child of The Light...I want to follow Jesus.  It's tough, and I am full of flaws; a guy can hope, though...can't he?

My ears are open to the message--Cooper did that for me.  I see the world differently, and I hear the message [for me] in songs and sayings that would have just vibrated my eardrums before.  That is what his cure is for me, and I am eternally grateful to him.  I was supposed to do that for him, but he did it for me.

Today, the deal was sealed at Trinity...again.  Deacon Sean read the Gospel, and Father Gerry gave the homily.  Father Gerry said it was a controversial translation that didn't favor Jesus' kindness very well; I got the message, though....I got MY message.  "The children must eat before the dogs." Whether or not it was a loaded statement, or whether or not He had a twinkle in his eye when he said it, I don't really care.  "Even the dogs eat the crumbs that the children drop under the table."  The gentile woman gave the response as if providing the answer to the password challenge at the entrance to the secret party.  

EVERYBODY deserves truth and justice and kindness and time and attention.  Everybody deserves to be your neighbor, and be treated as one, because they are.  In the light of God we're all neighbors, we're all the same, we aren't to be treated differently.  I would say that I've been shown the way, but I think I have so much more to learn.  I know the path we are taking because "the light" is shining the way.  I want it to shine in my heart, so He can lead through me.  I don't know if I'm worthy, but I have to keep trying; otherwise, I'm ignoring the gifts of hearing and sight that Cooper gave me.  Today, I hear the song.  Now I want to sing it with my life.

That's all I've got for now, except for a final association: 
For a while now, when I hear or think of the song, I hear my friend Jerome singing it.  It's a really good memory.  He sings with such gusto that I know he sees more in the words of the song than shallow, contradictory phrases.  Jerome's health is failing, so I don't see him in church much anymore, and I miss him. If I were to eternally link that song with the memory of Cooper, the memory of Jerome singing it is a great tribute to Coop's memory.  The singing is loud and joyful from a voice that is scratchy and slightly off-key pouring out of a head that is positioned like that of a Peanut's character singing and attached to a body that swaying off balance from the chest heaving that accompanies taking breaths that deep to sing that joyfully.  

1. I want to walk as a child of the light;
I want to follow Jesus.
God set the stars to give light to the world;
the star of my life is Jesus.

Refrain
In him there is no darkness at all;
the night and the day are both alike.
The Lamb is the light of the city of God:
Shine in my heart, Lord Jesus.

2. I want to see the brightness of God;
I want to look at Jesus.
Clear Sun of righteousness, shine on my path,
and show me the way to the Father.

3. I’m looking for the coming of Christ;
I want to be with Jesus.
When we have run with patience the race,
we shall know the joy of Jesus.

...and thank You for The Plumber.  Amen.

Coop's Hibiscus

More than a year later than the last post, here we go again... 

After Cooper passed away, some neighbors (and good friends) gave us a plant. Isn't that always how it starts? Somebody close to you dies, so somebody else gives you a plant to take care of. "Gee, thanks for another living thing for me to take care of after I let another living thing die. I can't wait to feel grief for a plant, too." I jest, but truly this was nothing like that. 

Our neighbor, Sandy, and her daughter, Erin, specifically chose this plant for us. I know they didn't get it immediately after his passing, but I honestly can't remember how quickly it was...perhaps weeks later. My point is that it wasn't a "funeral" plant...those stayed out at Coop's Place until the foundation for his marker was ready to be poured. We took such good care of those "temporary" plants that their roots broke through the basket they were in and began to take root in the ground. Unfortunately, they didn't thrive after a re-potting, and ultimately faded away when we brought them home. Hmm.... Anyway, this plant was different. 

Sandy and Erin knew (like many) that orange was Cooper's favorite color, so they picked this Hibiscus because it was as close as they could get to orange, and they knew it thrived in the area. Truthfully, the blooms are more of a coral color; and, I've noticed this year, that it is a pale-ish coral at the start of Spring, and a deeper, more intense red coral late in the summer (like now). Before Cooper's Feast Day this year, we bought a "giant" planter to re-pot is so it could thrive more. It has really been doing well. 

Every now and again I notice that it's looking a little sad, realize it hasn't rained in a while, and get back on a regular watering regime. It really does best with rainwater, but I don't mind giving it some regular, personal attention. I love to walk out through the back door in the morning, when I leave for work, and I instinctively look to the left to see how he is doing that morning. Prior to the re-potting, it was located in a place that was right in my line of sight as I left the house, and I couldn't help but stop and admire it. The blooms are so big and colorful, that I could often be found delaying my departure for work while I took pictures. Look, I'm no nature photographer, but I love my boy and all the beauty he brings to this world. 

This year, I also took to "stealing" blooms to give to people. The first bloom of the season went to Sandy. I was putting the trash out for the day when I saw her drive down the street towards her house, and I knew she HAD to have it. So we gave it to her. Another time, I left the house, and the color of the flowers that morning reminded me of a friend at work that always liked to see pictures of the flowers at Coop's Place and of Coop's Hibiscus; so, I took one to her. 

Another went to a close friend on her birthday...ironically, after being such a good friend, caring for Cooper's well-being, and being a good listener through all of our challenges with Cooper, she is now the mother of a special needs child. I like to think that we share an understanding that allows us to speak frankly to one another about life, health, and parenting. 

I never plan on giving somebody one of the flowers, it just suddenly strikes me to do so. It's almost like I walk out in the morning, turn to say "hello", and he says to me "Good morning, Daddy. Don't you have a friend that could use a happy flower today?" "Why, yes, I do. Thanks, big buddy!" 

Now to the point of this post...FINALLY! right?!?! 

Yesterday, a friend at work returned from an unexpected week away following the passing of her sister. She puts up a good front, but you can just see the sadness in her eyes--no matter how bright her smile is. This morning as I gave Coop's Hibiscus a morning misting, we knew what I had to do. 

There was only one open bloom to give. It's color was deep and intense, but you could still see the orange shining through. There was a blemish on one of the petals...a small dark spot. It was perfectly imperfect. I existed for this purpose. Needless to say, we made the journey to work together. Once I got to work, it was an hour or so until I saw her to give her the bloom. Seemingly appreciative of the gift, and perhaps knowing the intention of the message, she thanked me as I told her that I just thought she could use one today. Later, I had a quiet, private conversation with her to explain about Coop's Hibiscus and what it meant to me. I then told her that I don't expect to know her pain, but I have known pain...I know it today. 

The point of the flower was to tell her that I see my special boy every day because all the beauty of the world around me reminds me of him. I know beauty because of him. The way the orange shines through the deep red coral of a tropical flower, it's nearly magical. He kisses me with the warmth of the sun on my face...it even gets brighter when I ask him for a kiss. He spins the pinwheels at Coop's Place in conversation when the air is calms, and the wind swirls strongly around me when I ask for a hug. I see natural occurrences differently, I hear songs differently, old words find new meaning....I don't know, maybe I'm just desperate for signs, but I'm sure he has EVERYTHING to do with it. He changed me, in every good way. 

So, the perfectly imperfect flower....what thoughts did this evoke for me? 

1. We see our beautiful friends in beautiful nature. 

2. They send us timely messages. 

3. It's never perfect. Though you are happy to get the message, it's only possible because of the loss. 

4. It may not look like you remember it, but you can still see the original shine through. 

5. Sometimes it can look different because the hurt is so intense.

6. The flower is going to wilt...quickly. You can't stop it. It's going to get sad and ugly; you're not going to like it. Don't think of it as a single flower and don't think of it as the end; realize that another will come along...it may still be deep and intense, it may be bright and beautiful, and it may be just as you remembered. It's not going to be the same, and you won't know exactly where to look. It'll be back. It's natural. 

7. I hope the same good stuff for her. 

 That's all I got. 

....and thank you for The Plumber. Amen.

The cure can hurt too

I am likely one of the suckiest bloggers out there....few and far in between. Oh well, I suppose this is more for my benefit than anyone else's.

So here I am, 1:30AM on Sunday night/Monday morning, and my blog is all I have to talk to. Really, with the type of person I am, I'd much rather vent this into a personal journal (which I'm just as awesome about keeping current with content), but that is not convenient to me right now. You see, everybody else is asleep and a paper journal does not illuminate itself like a pc does...turning on a lamp would draw too much attention. Tonight is one of the rare nights that Sarah is sleeping--and it's even more rare that she is sleeping before me. As it would turn-out, it appears that tonight is my turn.

I'd prefer to keep it all to myself, but I came to a conclusion when I pondered why I would share with "you." I get so many comments in life (now that my boy has fought his long, hard fight and passed away) about how strong I am, and how well I keep it together, and how I'm such an example for others by staying composed day by day. The not so shocking truth is that I don't. Sure, I'm not a blubbering, depressed mess infront of everybody I encounter--my personality is one that keeps grieving more private--but that doesn't mean I'm not a blubbering depressed mess.

The truth is: I don't keep it together, and that shouldn't surprise anybody. Take for instance...let's say...now. Okay, I don't blubber, and I really don't get depressed (at least not in the "suicidal, pity me, nobody cares, and oh by the way I'm worthless" sense). But I get sad, I physically grieve, and right now my soul aches with that grief. No matter how hard I squeeze my eyes shut, I cannot hold back the tears that are streaming out. Breathing is difficult at best. My sybmolic broken heart manifests as throbbing pain in my chest around the real one. And my face contorts as if I am in physical pain. All the while, I endure this as quietly possible so as not to disturb the rest of the family....including the one sleeping right next to me (boy, she's going to be pissed when she reads this!)

What did it? I really should have seen it coming, but I suppose I still never would have under any circumstances. It's been lots of remembering and noticing that things just aren't the way they "should" be. I was working on scouting stuff tonight as Sarah watched a memorial video for another child that just passed from mitochondrial disease. I could help but glance over, and think "gosh, they all seem to look the same throughout their short lives." It's not a literal "same" but the similarities are striking as experiences are had, options are exhausted, and they finally reach the end.

Of course, that video got me thinking about Cooper's--that his maternal aunts put together for his services. Then, Sarah went and put that in her drive and watched it. My eyes welled with tears, and I tried to blink them away, as I watched pictures of my boy fade in and out. He was so beautiful. Life with him was so wonderful. But even that didn't do it.

When you miss one of your children that much, it's like you HAVE to go kiss the others and tell them that you love them as soon as possible...just in case you don't ever get that chance again. The thing is they ALL look alike, so I can see Cooper in every one of their own indiviually beautiful faces. Nope, that didn't do it either. But I started feeling kinda "off" at that point, though. So I went downstairs and got something to eat...I suppose it beats drinking myself to sleep. And, yes, I fully recognized that it was that kind of eating that you do just to take your mind off of things....didn't work.

This morning, in church, the choir sang "On Eagle's Wings." It's a standard for me...I sang it when I was in the youth choir in church. It was sung at Samuel's funeral; it was sung at Cooper's funeral; and it was even in the video that Sarah was watching online tonight for that little girl. Sarah got upset, and couldn't control her grieving. Like I said, it's a standard for me, so I don't really associate it with Cooper and his funeral....so, no, that didn't do it either.

Then I threw caution to the wind. When Sarah was crying during church, I thought to myself "I can listen to 'You Hold Me Now' and not get upset." Since thinking that, the song was stuck in my head, but in a weird way....I couldn't remember the tune or the words. This song, by the way, was sung by Coop's palative care doctor the night he died, and at his funeral. Well, I finally remembered the song as I lay wide awake in bed realizing it was my turn to not sleep. Then I made the wrong move.

I reached into my briefcase next to the bed, and pulled out my Zune. I listened to the song. Yep, it took me back to that night, and my eyes began to leak a bit. But I really just thought most about how much I missed him. Coop and I shared something special with bedtime and music. Each night, when I put him to bed, I would turn on a cd of Disney lullabies and kiss him good night. Then he would inevitably ask me to sleep with him (on the floor, of course, because apparently that's what I "preferred"...or at least that's what he told mommy, because she always got to sleep on the bed). So there I would lay, quite willingly and very contently, as he drifted off to sleep and the music played. My favorite song was track 4--a piano composition of "House at Pooh Corner."

With my earbuds in, I listened to this music thinking of the comfort it always gave to be there sleeping on his floor. Truthfully, I cried back then too; because I was so worried for him. I knew what was coming, and everything he would have to endure; and I worried so much for him, but at the same time couldn't help but love and admire him. Well, if you guess Track 4 was that straw, you'd be right. As it played, I missed him so much I began to sob uncontrollably....but silently, of course.

And here we are now...it's now 2AM, fyi. Truth be told, the tears really haven't stopped....slowed, but not completely stopped. I miss him. I miss him SO much. Life is tough without him, because it was so great with him. He was my baby boy, and now he's not here to hug and kiss and sleep on the floor next to while he gently snores. As much as we disliked being in the hospital, I'd much rather be strolling through the halls of TCH with him, or playing DS together in the CMH IMU. He's better now, I know he his. But understand that there is a lot of guilt when you bring a child home on Hospice care, even when you know it was the right thing to do.

So, what's the point of an entry like this? It's a funny part about "the cure"...it can hurt too. Did you know that cancer patients are not the only sick people that get chemotherapy? Neither did I, but it makes sense. Transplant patients do too, really sick transplant patients. Cooper got chemotherapy (on a darkly funny side note: there's something gravely humorous about having chemo drugs delivered to your house for your 4 year-old and storing them in the fridge in the bar). There's nothing really important or scary about the word "chemotherapy"; it just means "chemical treatment." What makes it bad is that chemotherapy treatment includes the use of cytotoxins; these are medicines that attack cellular make-up and actually kill cells....hopefully, the bad ones. It's like using arsenic to treat heartworms in dogs--you give them enough to kill the worm, but HOPEFULLY not the dog.

The fact is, you're pretty bad off, and the chemo is going to make you feel a whole lot worse, but at the same it will hopefully make you feel better...eventually. I'm gonna confess to you, I'm pretty bad off. But if you see me out, you won't see that. (Remember, I grieve privately!) The reason I won't be a mess is because of him. Cooper is a cure in my life. He has opened my eyes so that now I see. He he helps me hear all the intricacies of life (every note, chord and crescendo...no matter how slight). He gives me pause for thought. He helps me extract the pointed message in casual exchange. He continues to be everything beautiful and wonderful in life; it is all because of him. The reality of today is sad and painful, but (on days and nights other than tonight) I am able to get the healing that his cure provides.

2:30AM...if this blog entry actually makes it to posting, it'll be lucky. Like I said, this is the stuff of a private journal entry. I'm just as inclined to select-all and delete. But maybe I'll be overtaken in the process, and click the publish button. I accomplished my goal: I got all the words out; I told "somebody." But I think I will post it, because you never know who might be helped by the understanding...I was. If you, the reader, happens to know me "in real life", please don't bring up the aforementioned grief and pain or "how sorry you are for my pain and loss." I'll likely blow it off as nothing; after all, I'm walking around with a smile on my face, aren't I? Plus, I REALLY don't like attention; and that is attention...unwanted attention. It also a really good way for me to continue my less than stellar frequency of blogging.

Almost 3AM: my eyes burn, but not with tiredness. Probably because they are finally empty. Do I re-read the entry? Surprisingly enough, I'm sure I've failed to make or complete some points, and I'm even more sure there are some typos. Nah. Let's see how this one flies. Now...To sleep or not to sleep? That is the question. Who am I kidding? I'll always sleep; I'll just sleep too late now.

...and thank you for The Plumber. Amen.

My Son taught me....COURAGE

I thought I'd recount a conversation Sarah and I had with the big kids last night. It all started like this...

Sarah called me in the early afternoon to inform me that she had just gotten an email from Ollie's teacher--Ollie is our middle son; we call him "The Puppet Master" because he's so cute that he knows he can use it to manipulate people, and if you are not careful, he'll be elbow deep in your rearend making you talk like a dummy.

ANYWAY, the email informed Sarah that Ollie had been sent to the "sad table" at lunch for trying to start a food fight in the cafeteria. Ugh! Caroline and Adam never got in as much trouble in their 7 combined years of elementary school as Ollie has in less than one. For the record, they NEVER get in ANY trouble...well, except for the time that he was caught climbing the urinals in the boys' room. (Gross...there's not enough Purell in the world.)

Next, Sarah informs me that Ollie is still (yes, STILL) punching, kicking and spitting-on kids (especially one of his girl friends) on the bus. Where does he get this?

Then, we find out Adam has been lying to Sarah. He's been telling Sarah for days and days that he's reading his school assignments on the bus. Sarah questioned this, but he insisted and got downright offended. As it happened today, his friend ratted him out when they got off the bus. Not good for Adam.

At the dinner table that night, we had discussion about these goings-on. Ollie claimed that a few other of his friends started it, and he was the only one that got caught. Sarah thought we should call the principal and arrange to have Ollie miss recess to help clean the cafeteria. I decided that we shouldn't interfere with the discipline structure in the school. If the school does not feel Ollie needs more severe punishment, we'll take care of it at home.

I explained to Ollie that I don't care he wasn't the only one doing it; I don't care that he was the only one caught; and that I am not going to call the school and the other kids' parents complaining and demanding that more people get in trouble. As his daddy, I am only concerned with him, and how he behaves; and he must learn that we do not accept this kind of behavior from our family. Then the focus turned to Adam and his lying.

To make a long story short (too late!...and really, only to continue on longer from the "educational" aspect), we turned the focus to excuses. You see, we understand what is happening here: the kids are getting away with A LOT because they are being pitied (is that how you spell that?) They are the kids whose brother died, and they are being cut the biggest break ever. Sure, maybe they DO deserve it...not in THIS family. Excuses show weakness and show that you are afraid to accept responsibility. That is NOT what Cooper taught us.

His whole life, Cooper accepted his condition. Cooper only once told Sarah, "Momma, I don't want to do this anymore" as he was having to bear through another long, uncomfortable and painful procedure. But it was only a short time later, during an upper-GI as he was having more fluid than ever before forced into his small belly and Sarah was pleading with the radiologist to just stop, that he looked Sarah in the eyes and said, "Don't worry, Momma, I'll be okay." Then he powered through the remainder of the examination. He knew he had to be strong for her at that moment.

Cooper fought through the last second of his life...I know, I was there...holding his hand. It's his courage that inspired people the most, and still does today. We're all special--our entire family--and we are all changed forever. There is no going back.

But we're not special because we're the family of that sick kid that died. We're special because we had Cooper for his 4 years of life, and we will for the rest of our lives.

[begin tangent] He affected me so much that I cannot even miss his presence, because I see him every day. I see him in people doing right. I see him in a sunny day. I see him in the rain. I see him in the wind. I see him in a smile. Selfishly, I miss having him around to hug and hold and joke with...I miss hearing him say "I love you, Daddy." But I can still remember how his hugs feel...so it's not so bad. [end tangent]

We're special, and people will feel sorry for us; but we don't want them to. We can use excuses, and get away with it; but we know that is not right. And shame on me if I EVER use him as an excuse.

I think I'm going to call this "Part 1" and pick-up later. Those tangent thingies are apparently dangerous...I think it hit me in the eyes and got caught there. ANYWAY, I'll continue with a Part 2 later, because there's another story in this dinner conversation with the kids that is important to the point. It's worth the wait.

....and thank You for The Plumber. Amen.

Why "The Barrel Maker's Cure"?

Hmmm...why indeed? Truthfully, I thought it was catchy. In the olden days (and I suppose today as well), cooper was the name for a person in the barrel-making trade. Never knowing--for the longest time--what medically ailed my youngest son, Cooper, I thought of "The Barrel Maker's Cure" as the quest to solve the puzzle that is him. It's come to mean so much more to me, though. *****

FYI, I began writing this post many, many months ago. I wrote it, and re-wrote it several times; and then I just let it go...promising myself to come back to it. Well, enough is enough. This blog is about what is inside me, what I am thinking, how my eyes have been opened, and how I am proud to be Cooper's father.

In all this time that passed, so did Cooper. So much has happened, and I've become more and more awake in this existence. What is The Barrell Maker's Cure? It's a boy finding his place in the universe. It's a family staying together. It's doctors realizing connections, and helping other kids. It's a world touched by the perseverence of a small boy. It's growing up. It's crossing borders. It's strength. It's courage. It's finding you've lost nothing, when you've lost it all.

I'm proud to have been cured.

I don't know how much sense this makes, but here we go. Let's see how it plays out.

...and thank You for The Plumber. Amen.

This I Believe: It Truly Is a Wonderful Life

Foreward:
This is the aforementioned essay that really began it all for me. Rewind to November 2008...I've been a long-time listener of National Public Radio (don't judge!), and it is not uncommon for me to listen to "Morning Edition" on the way in to work and "All Things Considered" on the way home--in fact, it is uncommon for me not to. I have my reasons for listening, this is one of them:

There is an old series by Edward R. Murrow called "This I Believe." Originally, notable figures of the time would write essays concerning their core beliefs; NPR continues this series today as does Houston Public Radio--the latter taking submissions from everyday Houstonians. I always wanted to make a submission, but never felt I had a worthy enough belief. Until one evening (I believe it was Christmas Eve 2007) when I found myself up late watching the movie "It's a Wonderful Life."

I suddenly realized the important message of this movie, especially within the context of my own life and its recent (and on-going events). I never submitted the resultant essay to NPR, as I couldn't seem to edit it down to the word and time limits; however, my Sarah managed to spread it around the web, so this won't be its FIRST web publishing (sorry to disappoint).

Perhaps one day I'll convince myself that it's worth a submission to the catalyst program. Until then, I'm proud to share with anybody, this I believe...

“This I Believe: It truly is a ‘Wonderful Life’”
An Essay, 11/24/2008

Growing-up, [the movie] “It’s a Wonderful Life” never made much sense to me; but that is likely because I never had the patience to watch this overplayed, seasonally-occurring “black-and-white” made when my parents were young. I am now thankful for that; because, when I happened upon it last year and watched it from beginning to end, I was mature enough to understand why it is an important story to tell. At 31, I am aged more by parenthood than by years; and I see a bit of George Bailey in myself. I never could have imagined that I would face the challenges I do today, but I know—deep down in my heart—that it truly is a wonderful life…this I believe.

My “Mary” is Sarah; and I’ve always been willing to lasso the moon if she would just say the word. We have four great children—Caroline, Adam, Oliver and Cooper. We agreed early-on that—as long as we could afford to do so—one of us should be home to raise our children…I think we sometimes had to fool ourselves into believing that we could afford it, but it is an important “luxury” to us. We have a modest home; no fancy cars or electronics; no extravagant vacations; just a happy, close-knit family that trumps every other privilege in life. I believe in my father’s ethic: to work hard to provide for my family everything they need…and most of what they want.

Through eight years of marriage and seven years of fatherhood I have experienced many triumphs and trials. But the devastating ordeal that threatens to take me to that icy bridge surrounds the health of our youngest son, Cooper. A yet-to-be-named disorder has been increasingly affecting his body since his early birth into a NICU. Today, after a growing number of months in the hospital, he is IV nutrition dependant for the remainder of his life. So, after a difficult start, he will most certainly have a difficult finish in a race that medical statistics say will end early. As a parent, this has been a heart-wrenching concept to grasp. However, I adamantly refuse to even consider starting that cold, drunken, Christmas Eve walk.

I firmly believe that we were “chosen” because there are others that may not been able to handle the challenges of our life as well; and therefore, “better us than them.” Our marriage and family have remained strong, open and honest throughout; and I believe that is what has kept us faithful (in all respects) and with hope.

I believe in the innate goodness of the human being. Though this has burned me several times, it will continue to because I cannot give up on it. I try to help others as much as I can; but find difficulty accepting help from others, and am ashamed when I give into the temptation. The grown-up in me could blame this on a feeling of unworthiness, perception of self-sufficiency, and plain old foolish pride. But truthfully, I feel indebted to help others as penance for the misdeeds of my childhood.

Yet, each day when I return home, I return to the unsolicited and unyielding support of those who care. The relationship of mutual respect and aid that I now have with my mother-in-law is one that I could never have foreseen as a twenty-something newlywed. The residents of our once quiet street have grown closer in a unified effort to help us with the challenges that we face. Surrounded by the love and support of family, friends and neighbors, I ask daily “Why me?”

In the end, the “Wonderful Life” of George Bailey explains it all…

• Wealth is determined by how much you mean to others; and you can only gain their admiration by following The Golden Rule.
• Everything happens for a reason, and somehow the world is better because of it.
• We are educated when we have the clarity and patience to understand this.
• We are fortunate when we see the reason for the ordeal realized.
• God does not challenge us with ordeals we cannot overcome.
• When you lose faith and clarity, listen to the Clarence that He sends to you…an angel’s wings are not earned by leading man astray.

This I believe.