Three is not Enough

June 18, 2017.Reading time 6 minutes.

While we sat together at dinner we were introduced to a nice, older lady. When the girls’ names and ages were given, she seemed somewhat overwhelmed.

“No boys?” She asked.

If I had a nickel… I shook my head, “Nope, all girls.”

“Three girls! Wow. You’re a good man.”

Picking up my fork, I thought that line of questioning would end and we could move on to other gentilities, or perhaps our salads. But it didn’t stop.

“Just stopped at three, huh? Three was enough? Didn’t try again.”

And just like that, simple words became broken shards of glass thrown against the soft flesh of my soul.

No, three is not enough. We have four daughters.

I saw my wife’s eyes well up immediately and I felt the heat of my own reddening face. When confronted with this awkward scenario, I’ve found I must make a quick judgment call. Most often I find it necessary to say her name – to politely plead her existence and memory. Kylie would be fifteen… Other times, I survey the situation and decide the correction would only embarrass the person to whom I am speaking. After all, she didn’t know any better. She didn’t know that I have a daughter who has died.

I let it pass.

I looked at the three daughters before me and thought of the one who is gone. I am a better man for all four. Going into fatherhood, I had no idea what the experience would give me. I assumed that I would be the teacher; and yet, I am most often the student. Each little nugget has given me unique treasures. I see beauty, root for the underdog, admire individuality, cherish time, and I value experience in wholly new ways thanks to them. My children have taught me more than I could ever teach them. If I could impart any wisdom on them it would merely be a condensed version of what I have learned in their company over the past twenty-one years.

But this begs a question: Am I a better man for having lost one of them?

It seems a preposterous proposition, but it is a question I ask myself. It is also one of my favorite questions to pose to other dads who have lost a child. Understand that when we meet, we grieving fathers are way past pleasantries from the outset. We almost always jump right to real, meaty conversation because of our shared experience. The answers vary – some say yes, some say no. Some ponder and ask me for my thoughts, but the question never fails to spawn meaningful dialog.

I have had a long time to consider the question. While simply being a father has taught me much, Kylie’s life and death have radically changed me.

I now know that love ranks above all else whereas money, status, and the things that men covet are basically meaningless.

I understand that the people in my life are meant to be treasured and that every experience has value all its own.

Where once I sought conformity, I now seek to celebrate uniqueness in myself and others.

I have come to respect things that are true and genuine regardless of how they make me feel.

I believe my faith was somewhat rote before, but now it is messy and something I must fight for every day.

I have learned the power of the moment – the simple joy of presence in the company of friends and family.

So yes, because of the things I have learned through this horrific experience, I believe I am a better man. The cost was far too high, however. I would rather have remained a shallow, worth-less human and have Kylie here. But I was not given that choice.

Life is a series of undulations: some are relatively minor and the swells of others destroy everything. From each, we learn more about ourselves and about riding the waves so we can be better in the future. As a father, I sink, flounder, and gasp for air daily – my daughters will tell you that. I haven’t the power to calm the sea around me; I can only seek to use the lessons of the storm to be a better man or drown trying.

This much I know: Three is not enough. I miss my baby girl.

I am the father of four.

The Extra Bunny

April 16, 2017.Reading time 7 minutes.

The Easter Bunny is one of those things my generation accepted without question. Seriously, what societal influencer developed the notion of a rabbit who travels the world hiding eggs filled with chocolate? When you really consider it, the concept sounds like something concocted in a smoke-filled van outside a Grateful Dead concert. Yet millions of kids wake up every Easter morning to find their stash of chocolate and run in search of colorful eggs.

There seems to be a new movement afoot where parents refuse to “lie” to their children with traditional holiday antics. That’s fine – your kid, your parenting choices. I rather liked seeing the excitement when my children were younger and I’m not sure what kind of parent I would have been without a ruse or two.

I remember filling and hiding the eggs – sleepy, happy girls finding them and then watching their dilemma over which chocolate ear to gnaw off first. I loved that stuff.

Our kids are older now. Two are home for the holiday and won’t wake up at the crack of dawn for anything – certainly not candy they can now afford for themselves. But my lovely wife is old-school. Last night, she retrieved the baskets and produced two huge bags of candy that she had hidden away. I laughed and went back to whatever I was doing… until I heard her crying.

It took a while for me to understand the problem. She finally stopped weeping enough to say,

“I bought four bunnies.”

I’ve been thinking about expectations a lot lately. We all have a certain menu of expectations that are created for various reasons – some we manufacture ourselves and some exist because of the age and culture in which we live.

For example, in the twenty-first century in western society, we expect to outlive our children. Modern medicine has achieved so much over the past century that we have an expectation. In 1900 the global mortality rate for children under 5 was an astounding 36.2%. People only hoped their children would live. By 1960 it had fallen to 19% and now it is down to 4.3%. Can you even imagine a time when 20% of children didn’t make it to their fifth birthday? Of course you can’t – because we have come to expect our children to live.

We buy four bunnies.

Two thousand years ago, the disciples bought four bunnies. Up until Jesus was arrested, they were confident that he was the promised Messiah – the one the Jews taught would come with a sword and end the Roman oppression. As they watched him die on the cross, I wonder how bitterly they wept over the extra bunny.

The Roman soldiers at the empty tomb bought four bunnies. They never expected a dead body to rise and evaporate under their watch. Roman law dictated that the punishment for their crime would be decimation – where the soldiers cast lots to see who was the loser. The “winners” would then be forced to beat the loser to death. Think they regretted their purchase of the extra bunny?

The extra bunny creates quite an issue because it represents the gap between what we believe should happen but does not. And who do we blame for broken expectations?

Expectations can be killers, destroying contentment and robbing perspective.

I never expected Kylie to die. It never dawned on me that it would happen. There was a huge gap between my expectation and my reality.

I also never expected that I would have little desire to go to church on Easter Sunday. That was always a given. But now, as I wrestle with God over unmet expectations, I find it hard to listen to songs and sermons extolling the empty grave when I’ve put my child in one. Oh, I still believe. But like so many others, I struggle.

I held my wife until the tears subsided and then surveyed the candy she had purchased. There were more than a couple of bags. She bought way too much. Our girls are healthy eaters and will have this candy well into the fall unless a large, rabid bear (possibly named daddy) raids the pantry. Surprisingly, as cheap as I am, I’m glad. Not because I’m happy for the midnight snack. I’m glad because her natural bent is to shun the cost and expect the best.

While expectations can be killers, their absence can lead to despair.

Expectations represent hope. While it might hurt at times, we need the extra bunny.

Kylie would have bought the extra bunny – ten times over! Right now, I can picture her hiding eggs in heaven for the younger children whose parents never expected them to be where they are. She’s watching with a knowing smile as they search for the last one that eludes them. Unlike me, she won’t allow them to struggle long. She will give away its hiding place quickly.

That’s because she’s got her mother’s heart – the kind that buys the extra bunny.

Don’t let your unmet expectations drag you down. Easter morning and the empty tomb provide a hope that can bridge the gap between your expectations and your reality.