Reflections On The First Year

We're still here. So is Manoah. That is one way of measuring success.

We don't enter parenthood as experts - there is a disturbingly providential irony in the fact that you don't have children near the end of your life. It's like God's way of teaching all of us that we're existentialists at heart. In Kierkegaard's way of thinking there is a "certain understanding [that] must precede every action" but life is inevitably a leap of faith into the unknown and mysterious order of life. A leap that would be tragically despairing were there not a trustworthy God whose arms embrace the faithful who jump into the dark.

We had a certain understanding, but it was by no means comprehensive. Confessionally, our parenting style has been somewhat of a patchwork quilt, using whatever resources we have to make it work. I often tell Anjuli about how I feel a particular sadness for the first child who must suffer somewhat from being expiremented on. I pray God would show grace to our son and restrain the consequences of some of our failures and shortcomings. We try to use all we have available but are continually challenged to listen to our hearts and to God as we progress.

One day I'll have to apologize to Manoah.

I don't have time in my life for books whose authors seem to have solutions to every problem, and who apparently have brilliant little philosopher/kings for children. I've read pieces and parts from some of these but the truth is none of it worked the way it was "supposed to." Some stuff helped, others was down-right deceptive, and some stuff was patently rediculous.

Manoah will, to a great degree, reflect the patch-work that his parents raised him in. It's inevitable. But here's the thing about patch-work quilts. The patches work. It keeps him warm, we just keep adding more patches as others wear out. And somehow, over the course of time it becomes a work of art displayed for all to see. Who's to say that their quilt is better than ours, they are all patch-works anyway, I guess so long as they function well in keeping our son warmly wrapped in our affections and love.

One day Manoah will have to take his quilt to the Master and trade it in. It worked, but its time will pass. One day I'll have to take Manoah by his hand, walk him up the mountain, and give him back to God. One day I will tell Manoah that I was just a faint and cracked mirror reflecting the glory of my Father, and that hopefully through tarnishes and cracks he can discern the extended arms of our "Papa" in heaven.