Days Like These: A Father’s Wish

I forget sometimes how large I loom in their world. But on this Father’s Day, I am reminded of it, and it’s something I don’t want to forget.

All my sons put so much effort and care into my Father’s Day present. It helped me remember that, no matter who you are, as a young kid, the people who raise you are your whole world. Mothers and fathers are just…giants to a kid. All children explore this, fascinated and in awe. That’s why all kids put on their parents’ shoes and mittens and walk around in them.

“Maybe someday,” we wish, “these will fit and I’ll get the chance to be like them.”

Mothers and fathers are giants to a kid.

This is such a gift of love, not just for our joy and hearts but for the people we will become in the future.

I’ve been thinking about how this year, on my birthday, my perception of age changed. When we’re young, the first change comes when you realize how awesome it will be to be older: bigger, stronger, and more free. Then you hit the invincibility years of your twenties, wishing to stay 27 or 28 forever.

Next come the years of control—or lack thereof, I suppose. There’s not enough money, not a good enough job, the kids grow up too quickly, and you find yourself nervously joking about the increasing gray in your hair or talking about revisiting old haunts to recapture fleeting youth.

Then my 37th birthday hit, and my perception of age changed again. It was a birthday where I thought, “Damn, I’m just glad to be here for it.”

Why? Because I became very conscious of how our table grew more crowded this year, not less. This year, we’ve added children, brothers, and sisters to our table of friends and family. And we lost almost nobody. I’m old enough now to realize how rare and precious birthdays like this one will be from here on out.

So yes, when I blew out the candles on my pineapple birthday cake this year, my wish was: “Thank you, God, for letting me celebrate this birthday. My wish is for my next birthday to be like this one, with our table more crowded, not less.”

One of my greatest fears about death now is not the pain, suffering, and uncertainty that surrounds it—though that’s still a real fear. I have started to fear that a birthday will come—especially if my friends and family are gone, and I’m the last one standing—where I won’t wish for another one.

That’s the final change in our perception of age: moving from a place of peace and gratitude for our life—where we’re just happy to be here—to hoping for death to come peacefully, but also soon. I don’t want to ever slip into that last phase of age. I hope this last birthday, where I was just happy to be here and hoped for another birthday, is the last time my perception of age meaningfully changes.

No matter what happens, I know today that I have mattered to my sons. Days like these, marked by little celebrations and small gestures of love, remind us that we mattered to someone—whether it was our kids, friends, family, colleagues, or neighbors—that we loomed large.

These little Father’s Day gifts, like the ones I received today, are more than just presents. They are symbols we can hold onto as we age, reminders that we loved and were loved. These symbols of love will always give me hope and a feeling of worth, a reason to keep wishing for more birthdays. Because we were loved once, there’s always hope that each day we wake up, there will be that light of love again—whether it comes to us or is the light we carry and gift to others.

Maybe I Should Just Shut Up

My conclusion after a slump of parenting was this: Maybe I should just shut up.

Maybe my meddling between two sons, who have infinitely more experience in what it’s like to have a brother, isn’t helping. Unless they’re drawing blood, breaking bones, or veering into legitimate cruelty, maybe I should keep doing the dishes and let the hollering in our basement work itself out.

Maybe I’ve taken what Dr. Becky taught me a little too far. I should help narrate and put some scaffolding on their big feelings, sure. But maybe I can let him freak out for at least 20 seconds before I interfere and force his heart rate to lower through me and my adult voice. Maybe I can just sit here with him and just breathe for a minute, before I say something that he’s trying to express and feel himself.

Maybe if my reaction to whatever just happened carries the tone that I’m older, smarter, and more arrogant—believing my son is being ridiculous—I should take my own advice and shut up if I don’t have anything nice to say or if I can’t say it kindly right now.

Maybe when they’re excited about something—like a goal they scored, a word they learned to read, or a bug they saw on the playground—I can just smile eagerly. I don’t have to rattle off details like Wikipedia, make their moment mine, or turn it into something teachable. Maybe I can just look at them, give them my attention with my whole body, and smile eagerly.

It turns out, for an external processor of feelings and thoughts like me, learning to keep my mouth shut long enough to let a pause pass was really hard. But it turns out, it freaking works.

I always worry about letting them struggle to the point of developing depression, anxiety, or God forbid, a hopelessness dangerous enough to invite self-harm.

Yes, I need to not cross that line.

But damn, it turns out I could have avoided many of the worst moments, where I’ve been the worst version of myself, by shutting my mouth, opening my ears, and letting things linger a little before I shift into “dad mode.”

They’re smart, good, and capable young men—already. As difficult as it is to let them grow forward, something they might need from me is to stay nearby, with love waiting, but also quietly.

Sometimes, the greatest act of love for them today, and for our future selves where we’re all grown men, is to just shut up.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere.

This is one of the most divine things a person can hear. Especially someone, like me, whose nightmare is to be alone. But aren’t we all that way, in the deepest part of the heart at least, where it’s hardest for the light to reach?

I knew that if Robyn and I started dating, I would marry her. We started, and I loved her quickly. I was hers, before the end of our first summer. As summer became winter, I started to get scared. I honest-to-God loved Robyn. And I knew that when we married and had our life together, eventually one of us would pass from this earth. And there was a chance that Robyn would be the first to go, and that I’d be left alone.

The idea of being on this earth without kissing Robyn goodnight is among the most painful realities possible for me. What if? How could it? Would I? When?

By then, Robyn already knew the reaches of my curious and inquisitive mind - both the gregarious dimension of it and the morose. And so she said to me, those divine words that protected my soul from its darkest fears.

I’m not going anywhere.

Really, saying this is a promise. It’s a promise that we’re going to stay. It’s a commitment to companionship and love. Whether we reach the gates of heaven or hell, when we say something as bold as “I’m not going anywhere,” it means we’re there. This word, anywhere, is all-encompassing. When we say anywhere, it means we’re ride or die for someone.

But that’s the catch, isn’t it? The second part of ride or die is just that, die. We can’t control when we die; none of us can. So we know that “I’m not going anywhere” doesn’t mean that we’re going to be here forever. We infer that it means we’re here for as long as we can outrun the reaper.

I’m not going anywhere.

Our sons are at the age where they’re afraid of the dark, afraid to go to bed, or some combination of both. I get it. I slept in my parent’s bed well past kindergarten. I was scared too. Part of me still is.

So we say this to them: “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here. I’ll check on you before I go to bed.”

This is what most soothes them. Because they know we mean it, and they know they’ll be safe because we have the night watch. They know they won’t be alone and they’ll have someone to run to if they have a bad dream or throw up in the middle of the night - because we’re not going anywhere.

But they don’t understand the deal, fully. I can’t tell them, yet, that when I say this I implicitly mean unless I die.

This unsettles me because I am making them a promise that they don’t fully understand. I am running the risk that I will be stolen from them before they understand this. They need me to say it, so I say it. And I mean it, so I say it. And I plan to be here for a long time, so I say it. But I’m always still sending up a prayer every time I speak those four words.

I’m not going anywhere.

When I wake up in the morning, I believe in God. And when I go to bed at night, I really believe in God. This faith is what carried me through tonight.

Robyn is traveling this weekend for our soon-to-be sister-in-law’s bachelorette party. It’s Saturday as I write this, and I’ve been solo parenting since lunchtime on Thursday. The kids are having a really hard time with their mother being away. I can tell, even though they are the same rambunctious, gleeful, hilarious set of brothers that they always are.

It was a boys weekend and tonight was game night. Bo was the last one up today because I let him. And to be honest, I think we needed each other. We are both incredibly emotional. We both feel the sting of loneliness more devastatingly than anyone else in this house. So, I let him stay up later than his brothers, so we could play one extra game. He chose Ticket to Ride: First Journey, probably because it’s the only game where it’s at least 50% likely that he’ll beat me.

After his bath and bedtime story, he started to wig out. He flailed his arms, and contorted his body while sputtering semi-coherent sentences, as if the closing of the book’s cover caused him to be possessed by a wandering ghost. Thank God I wasn’t a train wreck of a father like I was earlier in the day. Next thing I knew, he was clinging to me, he and I on top of the duvet - and he was just clutching me, tight as he ever has.

“I’m never letting go,” he whispered.

This may be the most vulnerable he’s ever let himself be around me. His big feelings scare him, and with Bo, there’s no such thing as little feelings. So I am surprised, and humbled, as he says this.

“I will always be with you,” I replied.

Then my heart started to quicken, and tears squeezed out the sides of my eyes.

“No matter where you are or when it is, part of me is always with you, bud. Wherever I am, I am always thinking about you, mommy, and your brothers. Part of me is always in your heart. I will always be with you.”

This, I suppose, is the way out of this ride or die dilemma. I believe in God, and I believe that I have a soul. And I believe that if I love and pray hard enough, part of me will always be with Robyn, and with each of my sons. I can say those words and actually be telling the full truth. Because even if I die, part of me will always be with them.

And that is the divine element. Because with the help of God, I can say “I’m not going anywhere”, fully, lovingly, and deeply, without any exception.

And that’s where I left it with Bo tonight. I carried him to his room. I helped him squirm under the covers, tucked him in, and told him.

I’m not going anywhere.

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My new book, Character by Choice: Letters on Goodness, Courage, and Becoming Better on Purpose, is now out in soft launch. I’m so excited to share it and proud of how it turned out. If you liked this post, you might find it a good read. You can learn more about the book here.

The parenting cheat code(s)

In retrospect, it seems so obvious that sleep and paying attention are crucial. If parenting were a video game, these would be the two cheat codes.

First, there’s plenty of data out there now that affirms how important sleep is. But as parents, we already know this, intimately, from lived experience. It’s obvious. When I don’t sleep enough, I am cranky and short-tempered. When the kids don’t sleep enough they are cranky and short-tempered. When we sleep, it’s a night and day difference—our household functions so much better when we sleep.

And then there’s paying attention. Again, there’s lots of data that emphasizes the importance of intimate relationships and being deeply connected to others. As parents, we also know this so well from lived experience. How many times a day have you heard, “Watch this, Papa”, “Papa, look at me in my pirate ship”, or worst of all, “Can you stop looking at your phone, Papa?”

When kids aren’t paid attention to, they literally scream for it. They fight to be loved and paid attention to, as they should—cheat code.

And as I’ve reflected on it over the years, these seem to be cheat codes for much more than parenting. It’s as if sleep and paying attention in the moment are cheat codes for a healthy, happy, and meaningful life.

In marriage, we are better partners and more in love when we sleep and pay attention. At work - sleep and paying attention boost performance and build high-performing teams. In friendships, the cheat codes still apply. In spiritual life, it’s the same thing. Sleep and paying attention are cheat codes.

And still, I almost blew it. I messed up for the first few years of Bo’s life. I didn’t get enough sleep. And I was too obsessed with work to pay attention him, fully, when I was home. I often missed stories and tuck-ins. My mind was itching to scratch off items on my to-do list and obsessing over the man I wanted to become in the eyes of others.

And the worst part, the one that makes me want to just…retreat, and trade a limb if I could, is that I remember so little of him as a newborn. I don’t remember how he laughed and giggled at 9 months old, barely at all. I don’t remember more than a handful of games we played together, maybe just peek-a-boo and “foot phone”. Damn, I am so sad, and weeping, as I pen this. I was there, but I still missed out.

I want so badly, for the man I am now to be baby Bo’s papa. Because at some point in the past two years, with a lot of help, I figured this out. I figured out the cheat codes—but, my tears cannot take me back. I have no time machine, no flux capacitor. What’s done is done. Damn.

The only consolation I have is that it didn’t take me longer. If I had lived my whole life not sleeping or paying attention—to Robyn, to our sons, to friends and family, or even just walking in the neighborhood and appreciating the trees—I’d probably pass from this world a miserable man with irreconcilable regret and guilt.

Right now, Bo, Myles, and Emmett, you are 5, 3, and 1 years old respectively. Maybe one day you’ll come across this post. Maybe I’ll be alive when you do—I hope so. Or maybe I’ll have gone ahead already, I don’t know.

But if you’re reading this one day, I am so deeply sorry that I messed up, and it took me years to figure this out—to start using these cheat codes I guess you could say. I apologize about this, especially to you Robert. I wasn’t fully there for you in your first 2-3 years.

I hope you all can forgive me. I am not perfect, but I’ve gotten better, and I’m still trying. I hope that by sharing this with you, you can avoid the same mistakes I made.

Photo by Lucas Ortiz on Unsplash

The silhouette of brotherhood

It is so obvious how quickly children change. Even a single day after they are born, something changes. They learn and grow immediately. They start to eat, and they quickly discover how to grasp, with their whole hand, the little finger of their father.

Then they smile, sit up, and then crawl and walk. They speak and laugh. They get haircuts and pairs of new light-up velcro shoes and they learn to hold their breath while swimming.

They were born to change, truly. And it does happen fast. But occasionally we’ll notice something, one little thing, that endures a bit. One little, essential, thing about these children that will remain permanent even as they grow, like a thumbprint of their personality.

Something, finally, which is consistent and deeply comforting and helps us find a peaceful, amicable reconciliation with the passing time. I need these little, essential things to stay anchored when the water in our lives gets choppy.

We are at the beach and I am sitting in the sand when Robert catches my eye.

He is about 25 yards ahead of me, at the water’s edge. As he looks out at the the waves I notice his silhouette, the tide splashing past his ankles. I am awestruck by how Robert’s posture and demeanor have remained consistent over the years.

Robert has an empathy and quiet confidence in his posture. His feet are grounded and his back is straight, but there’s a softness to his stance. He stands like an explorer does who has both the anticipation to go where others have not and the humility to appreciate the vastness of the ocean before him. Robert’s silhouette has had a tender graciousness to it his whole life.

Myles is about 10 feet ahead of me and is sitting cross-legged, while building sandcastles with his Grandad. I notice, immediately, the sturdiness in Myles’s back. His posture is upright, erect. His silhouette is eager, bold, and focused. His muscles and frame are sinewy and taut, and he always carries his chest a few degrees forward as if in an athlete’s ready stance.

And yet, just as everything about him is sturdy, Myles also radiates a sense of playfulness and joy - his body moves with a rhythm of jazz music even now, as he plops sand in the bucket shovel by shovel. This mix of intensity and ease gives him an uncommon swagger, I think to myself, which could not possibly have been taught to him - it’s something calm and natural. Myles’s silhouette has always been deliberate and electric, just as it is now, as I watch him fill another bucket with wet sand.

And finally, I turn my gaze to Emmett, who has just crawled out from between my legs to be closer to the action of the sandcastle factory in front of me. Even at just one year old, Emmett’s unique qualities are already starting to emerge. Emmett’s posture is open and gregarious. His arms and his legs, even while sitting on the beach, are spread out as if he’s giving the breeze and the sunshine a hug as he giggles.

Emmett’s silhouette is like a starfish, always reaching and spreading his limbs and fingers to wave at, greet, and smile outwardly to the whole world. Already, I can tell that within Emmett there is an enduring openness, friendliness, and dynamic warmth. This is a truth his silhouette is already revealing.

These are the silhouettes of my three sons. What I am seeing is my three sons. And even though so much of who they are and who they will be is not yet decided, I am seeing something essential about them. There is something of them that is already drawn. Something that will not change. And what is already drawn is something unique and something good.

And then I snap back to the moment. The children laughing, the friends, the sand, the waves, and the horizon all come back into focus. I’m back here, sitting on the beach.

But then I remember some of the other wonderful silohouttes I’ve seen throughout this day at the beach and this trip - like when Myles and Robert were walking hand in hand down the boardwalk, or when the three of them were dog-piling on the floor laughing and tickling each other, or when they were all right in front me me working on the same sandcastle.

What I’m seeing is a bond being formed. As I watch my three sons play and explore the world together, their individual silhouettes are blending together to form a beautiful, harmonious picture of brotherhood. Witnessing this is what fills my heart the most.

There have been so many moments during this trip where I see them together, the lines of their silhouettes and complementary postures all within one frame. What gives me the deepest pleasure as a father is seeing the Tambe Brothers become a silhouette of it’s own.

And deep down, I accept their relationship with each other will grow and evolve. They’ll tussle and wrastle and have spats from time to time. I know this.

I know that their bond as brothers will never again be the same as it is now. Time will, despite my best efforts and sincerest prayers, continue to pass.

But I know, too, that something about this scene in front of me won’t change. Something of their brotherhood is already drawn and will endure, even after we are gone. I find comfort in this. This is the anchor I am looking for.

This image of the three of them together, in a bond of harmonious brotherhood, is the silhouette I treasure the most.

Photo by Pichara Bann on Unsplash

Holding onto forever

ACT I

I appreciate things I can hold. I mean this literally.

I savor burritos and breakfast sandwiches - these are the foods that I enjoyed with my father and remind me of him, down to the detail of us both dousing them with hot sauce. I relish the feel of a tennis racket in my grasp, gripped to perfectly that the racket feels like it’s gripping back - the tennis court was where I could find peace and freedom, before I even knew what meditation even was.

I like pens, pencils, and chef’s knives - because words and a meal prepared for others are two of the only ways I know how to tell someone I love them. All those three objects - pens, pencils, and a good knife - feel less like implements and more like extensions when I handle them. Then take on the rhythm and flow of my heartbeat and tapping toe, as if they’re a part of my body.

With the things I hold, I develop a symbiotic relationship. I fuse with them somehow - I become a little of them, and they become a little of me. This connection brings a feeling of peace, serenity, and security.

My whole life may resemble that one chaotic drawer in the house, filled with knick-knacks, rarely used items, and tiny screwdrivers that only see the light of day in a frenzy. But when I'm holding something in my hand, I've got it. And when I've got the thing in my hand, I start to feel like I've got this. The act of the body changes the act of the mind.

I, quite literally, cherish things I can hold. But I also mean this metaphorically. I appreciate buffer and the freedom it provides, borne from a lifetime of needing to feel control and security. I prefer to save rather than spend. To this day, I pack one more pair of underwear than the number of nights I'm traveling. I’ll pack a rain jacket even when it’s sunny. I like to be prepared. I like to hold onto extra.

I think I do this because I know what it feels like to lose. When I was young, money was tight. It was tight again when the recessions hit Michigan. Our brother, Nakul, was taken from us too soon, as was my father. In some ways, the seriousness with which I was raised makes me feel like the innocence of childhood slipped away prematurely.

When I hold things, I' feel like I’ve got them. And when I've got them, I can tell myself for a little while that nobody else can take them. Now, I finally have a world - my wife, my children, my family, good friends, my health, a livelihood, and a few dreams - that's worth holding onto.

And I'm going to hold them in the palm of my hand, gripping them tight enough so that nobody can ever take them away from me.

I intend to hold onto them forever.

ACT II

Everything feels like forever when you're a child.

Even a summer vacation, with all its bike rides and fireflies, seems endless. Middle and high school, infused with a sense of invincibility, appear as though they'll never run out. Every long car ride, every grocery queue, every football practice - every single thing is long.

Childhood is the part of our lives that feels like forever.

And for you three, so much of that forever is shaped by your mom and me. The golden, fuzzy forever you experience - your memories of childhood - isn't entirely up to you. Part of it is your responsibility, sure. But a lot of it is ours.

And so I wonder - what will you three, my sons, remember about what forever felt like?

I want you to remember being held because to be held is to be loved. I want you to recall that you were loved. I want you to feel loved. I want you to be loved, and I want to love you.

Holding onto someone and being held is not a small thing. It, in a very physical way, proves that we are bonded. It proves that we are together and committed to each other. It demonstrates, with certainty that I care about you because I am here. The Jesuits talk about finding God in all things, and I think embraces are an example of what they mean in this teaching. There is something divine about being held, because to be held is to be loved.

You will have memories of fun, laughter, and joy, of course. You will experience snow days and summer nights. You'll have spring flings and Friday night lights. You'll have moments with your toes in Burt Lake and in the backyard grass on Parkside, ice cream dribbling down your chins. You'll have all this. I promise you'll have all this.

But when I think about my own childhood, the only thing that endures enough to be more than a memory but a feeling, a deep-seated sensation, is love. Love is what endures.

Even a single moment of true, unconditional love is what carries you when you want to give up or when you feel like all you can do is surrender everything. Just one moment of love is enough to save us.

I want you to remember being held because being held is to be loved. So that no matter what, you have that. When you think of the part of your life that was forever, I want you to feel like holding onto it. I want you to feel like holding onto forever.

This is why I must hold you, all three of you, forever.

ACT III

Nothing feels like forever now that we're grown. We have a clock, and it's ticking. Tick tock, tick tock.

When we’re drinking wine after the kids go to bed, I often say that last weekend feels like "forever ago," but that's not really true. Our days are full. Our nights never seem long enough to rest. Our weeks and weekends are packed enough to trick me into thinking time is passing slowly.

I notice this the most in photographs now. We look different than we did not long ago. I see it in our hair and skin. Our postures. The settings in which those photos were taken.

Seven years have passed since my favorite photo of our wedding day was captured. It's the one on our mantle, the black and white image in the silvery frame, where we're on the river, and you're embracing me from behind, around my neck and shoulders, your mehendi-adorned hand visible. I'm smiling at you over my right shoulder, looking up at you, as if you're the sunshine. It reminded me of what forever can feel like.

We've aged seven years since then, and luckily it doesn't look like more. But it feels like it should have only been two, maybe three years since that photo by the river. Tick tock, tick tock.

We hug and hold each other often and spontaneously. We naturally find our way to an embrace. It could be in the kitchen while the pasta is boiling, or for a few minutes in bed after you've showered, and I'm still lying in my pajamas. You hold me, and I hold you.

These moments, where we're holding each other, don't stop the clock. The clock moves ahead. The alarm rings. But during those moments, when we're holding onto each other, we're reminded. It takes us back to that photo by the river, where I am smiling, and you look like sunshine, in the moment that reminds me of forever.

And sometimes, when we were there in those embraces that remind me of forever, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay there. I feel safe there, loved there. To be held, after all, is to be loved.

But at the same time, what would our lives be if we did not have the world around us, if we just kept it to us in that embrace, just you and me?

If we did not have our children or our families? Or if we didn’t have our friends and neighbors? Or even kind strangers? To embrace them we have to open up and expand our hearts from just us, to give more than we think we have. To hold onto them, we have to let go.

I have to remember sometimes, that not everyone is trying to take you all away from me. Not everyone is a threat to what we finally have. I can hold on while still letting go, at least for as long as it takes to share some of the love in our hearts with others.

This ability to hold on and let go first felt like a paradox, but I think now that it’s merely a leap of faith. It is okay to make this leap, I know this now, because we will always get back to holding each other. We will come back to an embrace of each other. And we will get back to this place that reminds me of forever.

Photo by Marcel Ardivan on Unsplash

Small Love

The front-facing window of our family room faces East. And not just East, but perfectly East. And so in the mid-morning, before the sun is at its highest point in the sky, its light pours in by the bushel.

That window, over the 6 years we’ve lived in this house, has become a bit of a holy place for me.

Before that window is Riley’s guard post, where he became the sentinel and protector of our family, his watchful eye and bark alarming us of any potential intruders. It is where Robert and Myles both took their first steps, on the worn-in hardwood beneath their wobbly and eager feet. It is our arena of card games, and magical lands we have built with blocks, lego blocks, and action figures.

And most recently, it is the very spot, I believe, that the brotherhood of the Tambe boys was established. It is there that Robert and Myles, 5 and 3, have stood, looking outward, their silhouettes radiant in the morning light.

In the window, side by side, facing easteward into the sun any rivalry they have has siblings is forgotten. All the fighting and the insults. All the screaming and the punches. All the jealousy and differences. All these things, have faded for now.

For now, they both there there, talking, staring out with wonder and inquiry about the comings and goings of the street. They observe and listen, both to the wind in the trees and to each other. Their world, for at least this moment, starts and ends with them and what they see through the threshold of the glass. They are gentle and peaceful, but also with a dynamism of connection between them.

This image of them, little shoulder to littler shoulder, hands up to the sill, noses to the pane, I know, is uneraseable from my memory. To see this is joy, and relief.

They, there, in the frame, convinces me that no matter what happens between them in their lives, no matter what difficulties ebb and flow between them, they can be grounded. They can be a team. Right now, what I see here before this window, is incontrovertible proof that they are bonded for life.

Before this window, they became brothers.

And soon enough, Emmett will be there with them and the fraternity they created, right there at the window, will grow. These three are becoming brothers.

What is most haunting, though, is the realization that one the most likely ways for their bond to be broken is because of me.

Rivalries, I know from education and experience, exist because of competition over common resources. Rival sports team compete for prestige. Rival kingdoms compete for land and power. Rival companies compete for customers. Rival nations compete for position in the international order.

And though I don’t understand their sibling dynamic from my own experience of having a sibling, I understand the one thing they might have to compete for is my love.

It is my duty then, part of my dharma even, to convince them that my love does not need to be fought over, to be won. I need to prove to them that my love need not be a source of their rivalry or a crack in the foundation of their brotherhood.

My love cannot be finite. The pressure on me as their father is to demonstrate beyond and shadow of a doubt, that my love for them is ever-widening and expanding. That it is a deep pool from which they can always draw, never running dry.

I need to make my heart big enough to support their brotherhood. But how? How can I do this in a world where children have lived through mass shootings on two separate campuses? How is this possible?

The secret, I think, maybe the love that is present in small things.

There is love, small love, in waving at a colleague in the hallways instead of letting them pass without acknowledgement, feeling as if they are an outcast. There is small love is in asking and answering “how are you” sincerely and truthfully. There is small love in allowing ourselves to laugh loud enough so others - and our own hearts - can believe that it’s okay to find humor in peculiar places.

There is small love in saying thank you. There is small love writing a little note or giving an unprompted hug. There is small love in remembering someone’s birthday or even just their name. There is small love making a new friend, or in letting yourself become a new friend. There is small love, if we deliberately create it, all around.

It is in these small things, and creating love in these small moments, that we see that love is possible, not just in grand seemingly-cinematic scenes but in every moment. Small love shows that it’s possible to expand our hearts in in every moment.

I think we can do this. Small love is not out of any of our reach. And the prize is immeasurable.

If we create love in small moments we can convince ourselves, our children, and those around us that life doesn’t have to be a game, but that it can be an expansive sort of thing. We can believe that love is a renewable resource, and that it need not be finite.

If I can grow my heart with small acts, I can prove to my sons that my heart is big enough and that my love is a deep enough pool for all of them. I can show them that they do not have to be rivals, they do not have to fight for my love, and that they can be brothers.

This is why I must create moments of small love. So they can be brothers.

And so to for us all, I believe at leastIf we can create enough love, even small love - whether with our families, our colleagues, or our neighbors - we can end this rivalry. And when we squash these beefs that are over nothing but love, can can form genuine and durable bonds of brotherhood and sisterhood. We can be brothers and sisters.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @kellysikkema

Becoming giving beings

Children are selfish. By design. That’s what they’re supposed to do and their survival depends on it. From the moment they are born, they demand that we feed them, clothe them, protect them, love them, and bathe them.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @adroman

And so did I. Like every other person that has ever lived, I was a selfish child. Far into adolescence, I was selfish, even if it was slightly less so than the day I was born.

As we age, it seems as if life extracts the selfishness, little by little, from our bodies and minds. First through marriage, then through children. For those of us who believe, through faith also. Through the intensities of grief and joy the selfishness is stolen sneakily, by the experience of life itself - if we let it.

If I am lucky enough to live a full life, without sudden death, I don’t know, exactly, what it will be like to die. I know it’s coming someday, but say I am dying at 95 from the ailment of a having a body that has long since depreciated past its useful life - what will it be like? I meditate on what it might be so that I can be prepared.

If I am so lucky to not die a sudden death, I think it may actually be like the movies. That’s what I hope for, anyway.

When I meditate on what I will be thinking and feeling on my deathbed, I imagine being close to Robyn and our children. I think I will want to just sit with them, drinking water and eating rice with lentils. Simple food, that does not distract from the company.

As I visualize myself slowly chewing the tasteless rice, my deathbed meditation progress to its very last moments.

I am there. Robyn is there. Our sons are there, and even in my foggy mental state, and despite the excruciating pain of inhabiting a dying body, I can tell our sons are grown because the hair on their temples has started to grey - that is the mark of a grown man in our line.

And then, at the very end, I gaze at Robyn. I am there, trying to muster some last words before I go ahead. In that last moment I do not ask for more painkillers. I do not cry. I do not beg God for more time. I do not say to her, “tell me you love me.” In those last moments, I am determined not to take.

With the last breaths of oxygen I breathe, and the last beats of my heart, before my thoughts go dark, I will try to say, “I love you.”

I will try to give love, to her, until the literal end of my life. Until God takes me from her embrace. In that moment, when I am as vulnerable as the day I was born, I dream of giving whatever love remains. Just like that. Just like the movies.

In life, and death, there can be so much suffering. That’s part of the deal. But what a beautiful thing to be part of. It is wonderful to know that if we must suffer the fate of death that there’s at least a fighting chance that life will have transformed us from something selfish into something more gracious.

It is utterly remarkable to me that we can go from being newborns, designed to be selfish, into giving beings. What a beautiful and curious thing it is, that after the immense suffering of our lives, at the moment of imminent death, our singular focus, above even our own survival, can become, “I love you.”

Being that, a giving being, is what I hope to become.

This is why we do the hard days

“This is why we do the hard days.”

I felt a certain lightness coming on immediately after Robyn said this, on our lazy walk back from the neighborhood coffee shop, her Au Lait in hand. We haven’t done this Saturday ritual in months, but today - warm, autumnal, and with nowhere else to be - is the perfect day for it.

“Tell me more,” I said with intrigue, with as much tenderness and charm as I could muster.

“I’m just here, basking in this beautiful family. I’m so happy and at peace. We’re all together. We’re outside and it’s beautiful. And the leaves are peak color. This is literally the dream.”

I want to remember days like these. Days when we can just bask in the simplest, most unremarkable, pleasures. Days when it easy to see that our family is not beautiful because it’s particularly different or special, but because it’s ours.

When Robyn asks me how I’m doing, I pause. And then I have what feels like a revelation.

I don’t have to justify being here.

My whole life I’ve been doing things to try proving that I deserve to be alive. But I don’t. God gave me this life as a gift, and even though he will take me from this world he will not erase the life that I had. He brought me here and I don’t have to pay him back.

Anything I do here is not an obligation, at least to God, I think. He gave me the entirety of the gift up front, with no takebacks. The pressure is off, in a way. I don’t have to do things to earn my life.

What I do with this life, I realize, has always been a choice. Whether I pay it forward is a choice. What I do for a job or what I choose to learn is a choice. What I choose to contribute is a choice. How I choose to treat others is a choice. And I know that if I choose to pay it forward, it will require sacrifices. Paying it forward will not be easy. Paying it forward is an acceptance that there will be extremely hard days. Paying it forward is a choice and realizing this after years of feeling guilty and inadequate is liberating.

I try, extra hard, to remember days like these, precisely because they’re not particularly noteworthy. I would forget them if I didn’t write about them. But days like these, where we’re just here, are the most profound I think. These days are ones where God sends a couple little winks - whether it’s the sunshine, the feeling of love and attachment to my family, or sound of leaves crunching under paws and little feet - that remind me that his gift has already been given.

“I’m good. Really good.” I say to Robyn. I look at her and I realize that I’ve started smiling.

She really did put it perfectly. This is why we do the hard days.

Salsa is the last stage of grief

To many of my oldest friends, my father was best known for one thing: his salsa.

It was objectively out of this world, and the craftsmanship he used was nothing short of incredible. I remember watching him, at the green granite island in my childhood home, taking tomatoes and looking at them like a championship athlete surveys a playing field.

Then he’d take these tomatoes and mince them into minuscule cubes, better than a machine could, even if he had a dull knife. Then he’d do the same with an onion and cilantro before adding spices, hand-squeezed lime juice, and one or two green chilies. His salsa was the stuff of childhood legend, and the way he made it, with such precision and pride, was legendary to me.

It is without exaggeration to say that one specific thing I grieved when he went ahead was that I was never able to have an afternoon with him - where he would pass on the recipe, yes, but also his wisdom, his blessing, and the torch. Even when I was young, long before I knew he would be taken from us so suddenly, I put it in my mind that the salsa was not just a recipe but an important rite of passage.

I haven’t been able to bring myself to try making it since he died. The thought of making it was sad, but also scary. The knife would’ve invoked the feelings of a haunted house, I thought, and how could I do it justice without him teaching me the secrets of his work? Anything less than perfection would’ve felt like an insult to his memory.

—

My family has more than its fair share of gardeners.

I’ve been hearing about Udai Mama’s green thumb - he’s one of my four maternal uncles - from my mom for decades. My Masi, who’s know by her nickname “Gudda” in our family, is the same way. She’s created an Eden in her backyard in Long Island, with everything from tomatoes, to Indian vegetables, to figs.

She sent us home with a bounty from her garden last weekend, when we were visiting our New York family. So here I was, with a deluge of perfectly ripe tomatoes I didn’t know what to do with, which would surely rot within a week without intervention. And how could I waste a basket of tomatoes from my aunt’s garden? I may not be perfect, but I’m not a savage.

As it happened, five days after our return from New York, our youngest son Emmett was to be baptized. Our plan was to have everyone over - our family, godparents, friends, kids, everyone - for an early dinner before Mass. Robyn created the menu and had us stocked up to make our crowd-favorite white bean chili, cornbread, and a frosted chocolate cake. I picked up a Sister Pie because I happened to be in the West Village for lunch with an old friend.

And there were those tomatoes in the orange, plastic colander - the one Robyn had in her apartment when we first started dating - that were just sitting there, catching sunshine, getting riper and riper by the day.

—

It was one of the proudest moments, Papa, I’ve ever had over something I’ve made - when person after person was raving about the salsa I made. Your salsa. I got to tell all our friends and family present for Emmett’s baptism - most of whom I met after I moved to college - the story of your salsa and say with so much joy, “I’m glad you liked it, it was my Dad’s recipe. I always thought he should market it, too.”

As I was making it, I was remembering you. I was remembering your life, how you left India and landed in Tehran to join the ship on which you were to be an engineer. I was remembering how intensely you insisted on doing the right thing, in the right way, down to how you impressed upon me, “You MUST cut the tomatoes by hand, a machine leaves the pieces too large and soft. The tomatoes must be firm, Neil, FIRM.”

When you died, in addition to tremendous sadness and grief, I was also under duress for practical reasons. I didn’t know how to do any grown up stuff.

How do I negotiate a salary? How do I buy a house or plant a garden? How do I feed a baby a bottle? How would you like your last rites to be conducted? How do I find a new dentist? How do I file my taxes? How do find my way in life? How do I make your salsa? These were the things I needed to ask you, that I never could.

And beyond those practical concerns, that was supposed to be our time. I was finally grown. We could finally be the friends we were always meant to be. Asking you for advice was how we were going to bond as grown men.

I was so sad that we never got that time. I still am, because I’m balling as I’m writing this part of the essay. But I suppose you probably see that.

But a funny thing happened as I was making that first bowl of salsa yesterday. In addition to remembering you. I was remembering all the stuff that’s been going on over the past few weeks. All the grown up stuff Robyn and I have had to do lately.

I took the lead for us and traded in Robyn’s car for a minivan that can fit our growing family. I cleared the garden we plotted in our backyard for the winter, and put away the drip irrigation system I installed. I found a masonry contractor and got our garage fixed. I found a high-interest cash account to take advantage of rising interest rates. I navigated a career decision. I, and Robyn too, figured out how to get help from a therapist-coach so we could be better parents to Bo - and we graduated, so to speak, after four months, earlier this week. I figured out that the secret ingredient I was missing in the salsa was ginger.

I realized when I was chopping those tomatoes and onions that you probably never had a salsa recipe. Of course you didn’t have a recipe. Indians didn’t invent salsa. You made it your own. You figured it out. Just like you figured out everything else in your whole adult life, when you were oceans away from your family, making it as a first-generation man in this country.

As I was squeezing the lime I remembered all the things I saw you figure out. How to make a shelf. How to deal with customer service agents who disrespected anyone with an accent. How to use credit card points toward the purchase of a car. How to build a house. How to deal with unemployment. How to raise a son. How to be an honest man. How to live a life.

You were the example of figuring it out, for my whole life, and that’s what I realized yesterday. Even though you went ahead, I should’ve never been worried about the things I didn’t know how to do. It was never about that. I finally realized that you never needed to teach me the salsa recipe or anything else fathers tend to teach their sons as adults. Because you taught me to figure it out. You left me prepared, long before you died, to figure it out - whether it was the salsa or anything else.

It was an unexpectedly big moment, Papa. I’m not scared anymore. I can figure it out. I know this now.

I can figure out how to build a thriving marriage. I can figure out how to be a father to each of our very different sons. I can figure out how to be a man of good character, worthy of our family’s name. I can figure out how to make a contribution to this world, in my job and outside of it. I can figure out how to make your salsa, because you taught me to figure it out.

It’s a cliche to say, but is true - not a day goes by where I don’t think of you. I’m still so sad that you can’t be here with us for the big and little family moments we have. I still have so much gratitude and joy when I think of the happy stories we can tell about you. I know you would’ve wanted us to keep living life, and I swear to God I have. But the weight of grief has been heavy.

But yesterday was a big moment. Something feels different, lighter perhaps. When I think of you I will always have sadness, gratitude, joy, and laughter all mixed together. But now, after learning this lesson from the salsa, the grief part might now, finally, be over.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @yehoshuaas

Showing Up Is The First Choice

Listening is the key.

We can love, maybe anyone, after we listen to their story. We can understand and solve many challenges if we are curious enough to listen and learn and understand. Relationships of trust and respect are built upon listening, more than anything else, perhaps. Listening to and knowing our own hearts, strengths, and unrelenting desires is a non-negotiable aspect of finding our way.

And from a posture of listening comes the core foundation of inner strength: courage, persistence, and integrity. I really believe this deeply, and as I’ve aged I’ve come to see listening as the under-appreciated linchpin of character and morality.

If listening is the key unlocking greater virtues, the key to listening is showing up. Only after showing up does listening even become possible. I know this without any empirical data.

I know this when I creep into my inbox, and Robert starts to inexplicably lash out at his brother. I know this when the energy in a work meeting changes based on the percentage of people who have their camera on vs. the percentage who are multi-tasking with their camera off. I know this when Robyn mentions that “Myles was asking for ya” at story time when I’m away on a business trip. I know this when I’ve glazed over half a chapter of my nightstand reading because I’m thinking about my to do list.

I know this when I’m rocking Emmett back to sleep, fuming about the slights I’ve perceived from the day, and he doesn’t settle into sleep on my shoulder until I’ve shifted my thinking to his breathing. I know this when I remember what it’s like to go on a date with Robyn and I’m finally hearing her again, not even realizing that I’ve forgotten how to listen.

And though I can wax about it’s importance, showing up is so hard. We can travel so cheaply, to get anywhere but here. We can be any place in the known universe with a smartphone. We can work from anywhere. We can retreat from the present challenge and justify just about anything under the auspices of “I deserve this” or “self-care”. We can disappear into our to do list, because it never ends anyway.

And there, too, is great distraction in struggle. There is hunger. There is disease. There is violence. There is The fear of missing out. There is uncertainty and mean spiritedness. There is the fear of not being enough or a life without meaning. These struggles are a barrier to showing up.

And most insidious of all, we can tell ourselves we can stop showing up if someone we love seems like they’ve stopped first. Tit for tat. it’s only fair. “He did it first” makes it okay, right?

Showing up is a choice. Rather, showing up is many little choices.

It’s the choice to get enough sleep. Or to put the phone away at dinner. It’s the choice to put a boundary on work hours. It’s the choice to meditate and do yoga to build concentration. It’s the choice to eat nutritious food and drink adequate water to prevent the body from distracting the present.

Showing up is the choice to make eye contact, and not scurry into our house to avoid talking with our neighbor. It’s the choice to hear out our proverbial weird uncle or aunt at Thanksgiving dinner. It’s the choice to not weasel out of a commitment when we get better plans. It’s the choice to breathe deeply instead of letting our attention run wild.

In a world of limitless choice, where we can be almost anywhere physically and digitally, showing up is a choice in itself.

I struggle with this. Most of the time, I act on autopilot and don’t actively choose to show up or not. It just happens or it doesn’t.

Like, literally yesterday I had an AirPod in my ear listening to the Michigan game while we had a family afternoon painting pumpkins and playing soccer, in Long Island, with family we flew across the country to see. In retrospect, why did I need to multitask for the sake of a football game? I was on autopilot.

And perhaps choosing whether or not to show up is not the greatest of all choices. That honor belongs to the choice of whether or not to become a better person. But even if it’s not the greatest choice, choosing to show up is our first moral choice. I must remember this, it is a choice. Showing up is a choice. It’s step one.

Before anything, I must stew on this deeply in my bones: will I choose to show up? And I must repeat the echo the answer in my head as a mantra: Yes, I can choose to show up. I can choose to show up. I can choose to show up.

Photo: Unsplash (@a_kehmeir).

“Papa? Will you never die?”

“Papa? If you take good care of your body, will you never die?”

This was the last tension, that once revealed, unwound the bedtime tantrums a few nights ago. As it turns out, it wasn’t the imminent end of our annual extended family vacation in northern Michigan that had Bo’s feelings and stomach in knots.

It was death.

Unasked and unanswered questions about death. Doubts about death. Anxiety about death, so insidious that I have not a single clue how the questions were seeded in his mind and why they sprouted so soon.

“I want to be with you for a hundred million infinity years, Papa. A hundred million INFINITY.”

Such earnest, piercing, and deeply empathetic honesty is the fingerprint of our eldest son’s soul.

When he tells me this, my excuses all evaporate. How could I ever not eat right from this day forward? How could I ever get to drunkenness ever again? How can I not be disciplined about, exercise, sleep, and going to the doctor? How could I ever contemplate texting and driving, ever again? How could I let myself stress about something as artificial as a career? For Bo, for Robyn, and our two younger sons, how could I do anything else?

I needed to hear this, this week, because I have been losing focus on what really matters.

I have been moping about how I feel like many of my dreams are fading. My need to return to public service. My need to challenge the power structures that tax my talent everyday at work. The book I need to finish, or the businesses I need to start. Ego stuff.

In my head, at his bedside, my better angels turned the tide in the ongoing battle with my ambition. Those are not needs. Those are wants. To believe they are needs is a delusion. Dreams are important, yes, but they are wants, not needs.

All I really need, desperately, is to be here. To show up. To wake up with sound-enough mind and body. To not lose anyone before the next sunset. To have who and what I am intertwined with to stay intertwined. This is what I need.

What I vowed to Bo is that I would take care of my body, because I wanted to be here for a long, long, long, long, long, long time.

“I will be here for as long as I can. I want to be here, with you and our family, for as long as I can.”

And as he drifted to sleep, I stayed a moment, kneeling, and thought - loudly enough, only, perhaps, for his soul to overhear,

“Please, God, help us all be here for as long as we can.”

Radha, My Sister

Her hair would’ve been actually black, I think, two shades darker than mine. My hair being dark-dark brown, but which most people think is black from afar. Though a different shade and sheen, her hair would’ve had equivalent thickness and vigor. And, for some reason I know that she would’ve worn that black, thick, hair of hers just above the shoulders.

Until recently I had only been able to visualize the back of her head - I don’t know why - and get a single breath, though a full one, of her essence only from time to time.

I am an only child; I literally have no siblings, but yet she is my sister. My younger sister, I should specify. She was never born, never conceived. And yet, for years now I’ve had a strong intuition that she existed, even if only as a spirit in the spectral realm. I have not even seen her in a dream, but I still knew of her in a dream, and I knew she was my little sister.

Over the years I’ve discerned more and more about her. Sometimes memories of our relationship come to me in a daydream, or I might feel her presence, usually manifested in the intermittent, but often forceful, breeze of early springtime.

She would’ve been two and a half inches shorter than me, and built with a broader, sturdier frame, more like our father’s than our mother’s. An athletic build, you could say, though she was not athlete. For some reason, I knew she was quietly enamored with art and art history. She was able to sketch and draw, and was a handy seamstress, like our mother. She is the one who inherited the wanderlust of our father, and would’ve moved to a place like New York or San Francisco so she could be close to museums, culture, and cuisine.

For some reason, I know her name is Radha, and that Radha is serene. Stoic and of remarkably even temperament. But every now and again, I know, her charm would shine through unrestrained. Flashing a smile, and patting my back after listening patiently to me vent about something irrelevant - softly but sheepishly interjecting, “That’s how it goes sometimes, big brother” before sashaying off to the kitchen to get us both a glass of water.

Radha and Robyn would’ve had a wonderful relationship. Radha probably becoming an ally and collaborator of Robyn in her pursuits to make work more supportive of caregivers and mothers. Robyn probably becoming a role model and an informal mentor to her for navigating marriage and family life. I think they would’ve been close, confidants even.

And to the boys, she would’ve been a doting Aunt, taking them to the latest exhibit at the Detroit Institute of Arts whenever she was in town. And she would tell them stories about her and I growing up together, and stoke their interest in our Indian heritage. For some reason, I know she is more assured in her identity than me. And, I also know, for some reason, that she would find safety in the fact that I was her biggest cheerleader and loudest supporter.

I have been thinking about Radha lately because the past few weeks have been a magical time in our family. Our sons are forming a bond of brotherhood. Bo and Myles have taken Emmett into their pack, wordlessly and without initiation. They, even though they have now been brothers for five weeks, still spontaneously erupt into a chant of, “WELCOME HOME EMMETT! WELCOME HOME EMMETT! WELCOME HOME EMMETT!” Without prompting or notice.

And as I’ve seen our three sons become a cohesive unit, images of Radha have come to me - because I’ve finally been capable of it. I see their sibling bond, up close. I see and realize, in them, the relationship Radha and I would’ve had. It is like Bo, Myles, and Emmett are a portal into a sort of semi-real-semi-dreamworld - the past I could’ve had, with my sister who was never born.

For my whole life, I’ve had moments where I’ve so desperately missed Radha. But I am lucky to have had brothers and sisters who were not my siblings. Robyn’s siblings treat me more like a brother than a brother-in-law, even though we have no shared memories of childhood. And it sounds corny, but some of my fraternity brothers, really have become brothers to me.

I, too, have a deep bond with many brothers and sisters - which most other Americans would call cousins - despite geography and age. In Indian culture, we call our elder brothers “Bhaiya” or “Bhaisahib”and our elder sisters “Didi” or “Jiji” - it’s a sign of respect. It is one of my great gratitudes and joys in life to have people that I can call those things and really mean it, rather than just “cousin”.

And yet, I still think longingly about the time with Radha I never had and the memories that could’ve been. She would’ve kindly but firmly reminded me who I was when I was floundering in my early twenties. And I would’ve been her rock when our father died and her stoic personality succumbed to her broken heart.

I do feel more than a few shreds of ridiculousness talking about what to many might seem like an imaginary sister. And yet, there’s something of Radha I know exists. She is not a ghost. There’s a little speck of her soul I feel I am always carrying with me, as if my spirt had a charm bracelet with a link to her on it. My words here are merely animating and coloring her into a quasi-corporeal form that she will never take. But, still, she is real.

What a wonderful thing it must be to have siblings, in the real world, I mean. It truly injures me when our sons get into childish arguments. If they only knew what it was like to be the without-a-sibling-will-be-an-orphan-someday type of alone. I know in my head they will grow out of their intermittent terrorizing of each other, but I hope they someday go beyond that and sincerely appreciate the beautiful gift - a brotherhood - that they’ve inherited.

It is a bizarre thing to have a bond with someone who doesn’t exist, but it’s remarkably affirming and comforting. For Radha and me, it was not meant to be in this life. All I can do is hope that she’s listening or reading my blog, I suppose. And that whatever part of her spirt that is able to be carried is something I possess.

And someday, maybe just maybe, I will meet her once I pass from this world onto the next. I will meet her and she will be as I’ve imagined her. Waiting, with my father, at the front door of a bungalow atop a hill. The hill is grassy, like that of a mountainous, western state. And as I climb the hill, up the cobblestone walkway, she will be there with two glasses of water. And she will flash her unrestrainable charm, and say, softly but sheepishly, as I’ve always known her to: “Welcome home big brother, It’s so like you to be exactly five minutes late.” 

A Prayer Over Our Sons (on Emmett’s Birth Day)

February 28, 2022

Today, I prayed in the early morning instead of the evening. And it was a silent prayer, just with myself, instead of out loud with our whole family before tucking in the kids. When I first had the chance to hold Emmett about an hour after he was born today, a prayer just came over me.

It started as it usually does, with “Thank you God for this day, and for the good life we have…”

But today, the day-to-day blessings of family dinner, good friends and neighbors, our family, and the fresh air outside which I usually share in prayer were supplanted by prayers for our son, still weary from his 9 month journey into our arms.

Thank you God for today, and for the good life we have. Thank you God for bringing us Emmett. Thank you for he and Robyn both being healthy and safe. Thank you for the doctors and nurses who cared for them. The opening overture of this prayer was one might expect. But then, something deeper and purer started to emerge, involuntarily in my whispering thoughts.

I pray that he has a long and healthy life. I pray that he is able to learn and grow. I pray that he is able to contribute something in his life. I pray that he has a loving relationship with his brothers. I pray that we have many days and years with him, and as an entire family. I pray that he knows love and knows joy. I pray that he is able to experience both the simple and majestic beauties of nature and our world. I pray that his heart finds his way back to you, God. I pray that we can help him grow who he is to become, teach him right from wrong, and help him see life as the blessing that it is. I pray, God, for you to help us be the parents he needs us to be. And I pray for the chance to be good tomorrow.

Though not verbatim, this was my prayer over our son Emmett, on his birth day.

Sometime around lunch time, I began realize what I didn’t pray for earlier this morning. I didn’t pray that he’d become rich. I didn’t pray that he’d get into Harvard. I didn’t pray that he’d become famous. I didn’t pray for him to become a U.S. Senator or the President of the United States. I didn’t pray that he’d become a CEO of a publicly traded company. 

I didn’t pray that he would drive a Cadillac or a Porsche. I didn’t pray that he’d live in a house 2x-3x larger than our home in Detroit. I didn’t pray that he’d be the most popular kid in his high school. I didn’t pray that he’d find his what onto a who’s who list of his profession or his metro. I didn’t pray that he’d be the first person to set foot on Mars or find his way into the scrolls of human history.

Of course I didn’t pray for all that. When we are holding our children, literally, for the first time, power, status, and riches are among the things furthest from our mind. We pray over newborn children for something deeper and purer, because we know that the truest blessings in life - the ones we ask God or whatever we believe in for help to deliver - are deeper, and purer than power, status, and riches.

But, that’s surprising in a way. Emmett, today, is literally at the point in his life where his possibilities are most limitless. He was born, today. Anything is still possible, today. His choices are most unconstrained, today. Which in some senses makes it the perfect to contemplate large, aspirational dreams and pray for them, for him. If I wanted to pray for him to have power, status, and riches, today would be the day to do it.

Because starting tomorrow, the choices we make as parents and the slices of life he begins to experience will shape, ever so slightly, his future choices and possibilities. Even after a single day, path dependency starts. Today, the possibility set of his life is at its widest and wildest.

Emmett, Bo, and Myles, I’m now speaking to you directly here. I hope someday you stumble upon this post, after you’ve grown and started to make your way in this world. Because what I’m about to say is more than just an opinion, it’s a deeply-held conviction.

When I was growing up, adults around me - my parents, my family, my teachers, my parents’ friends, everyone - asked me the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” And answering that question, month after month and year after year started to shape my worldview without me evening realizing it consciously.

All those years of responding to adults about what I wanted to be when I grew up, I started to think being something and all that is related to what we be was most important. Without even realizing it, I started to believe that accomplishments were most important. That money and status, and ultimately the power that comes from being something was most important. Because, if these adults I loved and respected were asking me this all the damn time, how could what I become when I grow up not be important?

And it will be tempting for me to keep asking this question of what you three want to be when you grow up, instead of the more benign question of “what do you want your life to be like as an adult?” It will be tempting for me, because what you become reflects on me as your father. If you three become wealthy, respected, or powerful it will elevate how our community and our culture see me. 

Even though I try, sometimes desperately, to strip myself of this ego, I am a mortal man, and I haven’t reached that level of enlightenment yet. The chance to elevate how the world sees me is still a temptation.

I don’t have the data to back this up quite yet, but I have a strong intuition that’s a substantial reason why adults ask this question - our selfish desires to be praised for the accomplishments of our youth emerge. We’re only human I suppose.

Boys, listen carefully and remember this: you do not have to achieve money, status, and power for me. You do not need to live your life to prove something to me. You do not need to become successful by conventional measures of success to validate me. It is not your responsibility to help me become a respected man because I took a role in raising impressive sons.You three are not here to justify your mother and I as parents. 

You three, beautiful, honest, intelligent, kind-hearted boys - you need no justification. You owe nothing to me, directly. Your mother and I didn’t choose to be parents because we wanted something from you.

What you owe is what we all owe through our inter-temporal bonds. These are the bonds that bind us to the generations that came before us and the generations, God-willing, to come after us. We all owe something to those that came ahead and those that will come behind our time living on earth.

We owe it to those people who came before us to honor and cherish the sacrifices they made for us. We owe it to those that will come after us, even many centuries in the future, to make sacrifices so their lives may be better. That is what we owe. You do not owe that to me, we all owe it to all of them.

And the way I see it, the best way to honor our inter-temporal bonds are to live long, healthy, lives. Or to make a contribution to our communities and broader societies. It’s to experience joy, love, and nature. It’s to devote our lives to others - our families, friends, communities, and for some, 

There is a reason your mother and I pray for your health, and for time together, and for you to know love , joy, beauty, and God. Achieving riches, status, and power do not honor our inter-temporal bonds, those things are too impermanent. The way we honor these sacred bonds is to live fully, with goodness, honesty, gratefulness and grace. 

What I’ve found in my almost 35 years, too, is that life is sweetest when we live in a way which honors our inter-temporal bonds. Our culture doesn’t seem to always understand this, and maybe I’m wrong that a life of sacrifice is actually sweetest, but I’ve found it to be true in my own life.

So please, please remember boys, the wide and wild possibilities present on your birth days. Remember that you do not need to justify or validate me with riches, status, or power. Remember to really live, during your time on this Earth. And if you feel like you’ve lost your way - if you can’t remember how to really live - remember my prayers for you.