Beloved son,
When I was finishing sixth grade and students were passing around their yearbooks to exchange notes before summer break, two particular comments appeared most frequently.
One was HAKAS, an acronym for “have a kick-ass summer.” HAKAS had the advantage of being short and therefore easily reproducible on a mass scale—perfect stock material for 50 pre-teens asking each other to spontaneously compose meaningful messages for one another. HAKAS also had the thrill of naughtiness. We got to use a curse word on school grounds—in an official school publication, no less!—right under the noses of those unsuspecting adults.* Marking each other’s yearbooks with HAKAS was like stamping the seal of a secret society: efficient, allusive, and laden with mischief.
The other common yearbook phrase was “don’t ever change.” Unlike HAKAS, I don’t think I ever wrote “don’t ever change” in my friends’ yearbooks, though it sure did appear frequently in mine. Even at the time, I remember thinking how superficial and just plain dumb the saying felt. Don’t ever change? How could I not change? We were a bunch of twelve-year-olds; of course we were going to change—that’s what twelve-year-olds do. We would move on to seventh grade, we would go to a different building for middle school, we would have a whole new set of teachers, we would grow, and sometimes resent our growing, and sometimes wish we would grow faster, and we would find out who we were, and sometimes realize we didn’t know who we were, and we might often wish we were someone else, and so on and so on. The whole job description was change, change, change.
Looking back on “don’t ever change” now, though, I kind of get it. Sure, it’s almost offensively idealistic if you take it literally, but I understand the sentiment underneath. It’s like saying, “Don’t ever change: you are just right just as you are; I see your present self as it is, and I see beauty in it. I know it’s impossible, but if it weren’t; I know it would stifle you, but if it didn’t—don’t ever change.”
The most profound glimpses I’ve had as your papa have buried down along one of two roots: the parallels between our relationship and the one we share with our heavenly papa, and the paradox of touching eternity while being bound by time. It’s along that second root that “don’t ever change” resonates with me. I see you as you are, I behold your truly wonderful smile, and I can’t help but think, naïve as it is, “Son, please, for the sake of the world, don’t ever change.”**
Luckily, parenthood has not made me an idealist all the way through. I’ve seen you change tremendously in these 19 months, and I know you will change tremendously still. But there are a few qualities I see in you now that I do wish to never change. If I were to write in your yearbook this summer, here is what “don’t ever change” would mean.
Don’t stop laughing with others
One of your most charming qualities is how when others laugh, you laugh, too. To the adults in the room, of course it always strikes us as hilarious, because often you have no conception whatsoever of the joke being shared. We could be enjoying a good pun using words you can’t pronounce yet or making a reference to a show you’ve never seen, but as soon as the group erupts in laughter, you burst out laughing, too.
The amazing thing is that I think your humor is more sound than most adults’. I love the principle of your humor: if there is something to laugh about, then we all ought to laugh. To you, it really is that simple.
The hang-up for most adults is that they feel the need to understand the joke, and when they don’t, they either lose interest or—more likely—assume the joke is about them. (I know—what ego!) You share none of that insecurity. Instead, your humor is perfectly unselfconscious. You don’t mind if people are laughing because Mommy made a joke or because you are toddling around in a diaper and sunglasses. To you, if laughter is in the air, we all take a breath.
Don’t let this be just a baby thing. Stay light. Laugh often. Pay more heed to people’s joy than your ego. Don’t ever change.
Don’t stop learning the world
Your curiosity about the world amazes me. Sometimes you are almost scientific in how you learn a place. In our living room, for instance, you systematically examine every object you can get your hands on. You will pull off every book from the shelves, grab every newspaper and pen and miscellaneous object from the couches, look at every shoe in the entryway, tug at every cord by the outlets.*** Your learning dial is turned up to max.
If you could write, I could imagine you keeping the most detailed of logs documenting every little discovery.
Day 39 of living room console investigation. Re-counted the books; there are still 61. Contents appear unchanged. Rudolph’s sparkly nose seems removable, but the male adult stopped me before I could confirm. Pushed button to make bear play the flute 11 times; the flute activated every time. Pushed button on black obelisk on top of console, and a circular disc emerged. Male adult re-inserted disc. I pushed the button, and the disc re-emerged. Male adult re-inserted disc. I pushed the button. Male adult re-inserted. I pushed the button. Male adult re-inserted. Repeated this experiment 14 times before being relocated to kitchen. Will continue cabinet investigation there; notes forthcoming.
Don’t stop exploring. Search the world your whole life long; there truly is no end to the discoveries. Assume that nothing is trivial just because it is small. Stay curious. Don’t ever change.
Don’t stop loving purely
What a more harmonious world we would have if everyone took on the same curious, undiluted, difference-agnostic, barrier-bashing attitude toward others that you have. Besides the occasional inexplicable nervousness around a certain person – the same way you irrationally refuse to eat something you’ve never seen in your life, just to gobble down platefuls of it the next day—you smile on everyone you meet with a beautiful simplicity that, to my eyes, says, “Isn’t it wonderful to be humans together?”
One afternoon when you were maybe eight months old, Mom and I took you walking through the mall. An old, worse-for-wear man wearing an Army hat teetered over to us and got real close to your face to greet you. He was missing most of his teeth, and his face crumpled in on itself like a house ravaged by wind, making it so that we couldn’t make out a word of what he was cooing to you. Your reaction? It was as if you had rediscovered your best friend. You smiled and giggled and stared blissfully at that hobbled stranger. You made each other’s days, I think. What lessons you teach me about love.
Of course, some might attribute your unquestioningly affectionate gaze to ignorance: by the same token that you would casually wander off the bed or the edge of a pool were it not for our protection, you haven’t yet learned what or whom to be scared of. But it is the best kind of ignorance I can imagine. Rather than not knowing what you should, you have little interest in knowing in the first place. You just really love people – it’s that simple.
Be wary of your wariness based on how people look. Smile at everyone. Assume the best of them. Love them before you know them. Don’t ever change.
Now, if I were to write all that in your yearbook, there wouldn’t be much room for your friends to say anything. Good thing all your friends are babies and can’t write.
But let’s play fair. If I were indeed constrained to a corner of a yearbook page, hemmed in by crass comments, trite farewells, and forgettable inside jokes, I’d have no choice but to settle for brevity. So, in a word, my son, please don’t ever change. (And, obviously, have a kick-ass summer.)
* Okay, the adults probably knew we were up to something, I see that now. Perhaps they just decided not to intervene. Or, just as likely, they saw the acronym appearing all over the yearbooks and chose not to ask because they’d prefer ignorance. Adults have to pick their battles, you know. And besides, I understand now that the teachers must have been just as ready as us to go start their own kick-ass summers.
**Did our heavenly papa ever have that thought about his own son during Jesus’ life on earth? We know Jesus experienced dread at the prospect of his suffering and death; did the same horrible sense of foreboding ever settle in his father’s heart, too?
***Your curiosity about electronics and plugs is not Mom and my favorite, seeing as we’d like to keep our baby un-electrocuted if at all possible. How tricky it is, though, to pasture a thing like curiosity: fence it in too much and it starves, leave it too open and it wanders off to get eaten. Mom and I seek the middle option.