Dearest Little One,
I scribbled a note to myself last week, a reminder to order a Christmas stocking for your cousin, born last May. He is our third beloved grandbaby, and with each new sprout on our family tree, your Papa and I purchase a stocking with our little love’s name stitched at the top.
I smile, thinking that a year from this December, your stocking will lie bulging beneath our Christmas tree, and by then you will be crawling through piles of wrapping paper and ribbons, squealing with delight, entertained by all your cousins.
***
I had a dream the other night, and although I could not see your face, there you were, wearing a tiny tartan dress, white tights, and black Mary Janes, perched on your Daddy’s lap as his hands traveled the length of the piano. He laughed as you poked the keys; a magnificent sight as the music swirled, and our family clapped while your Mama filmed the whole celebration.
I awakened, my dream so real that I was startled to be at home, curled up in our soft bed, many miles from your Daddy, your Mama, and you, not yet born.
***
I will long remember the day your Papa and I visited, months ago, chatting and sipping coffee. I turned around in time to see your Daddy slip on a ballcap, a hat with words announcing he was soon to be a father. We covered our mouths, eyes wide, squealing, hugging.
As your parents were about to share the baby names they had chosen, I leaned in. I relish words and therefore names, plus the stories cradling them, like a fragile egg in a warm nest, or so it seems. Names are important, the first gift we receive; a solemn pronouncement, shadowing us throughout life.
So your Mama told us your full (and beautiful) name, if you were a girl, which we now know you are.
I think I will call her by this nickname, your Daddy said, going on to share it while toying with the ballcap in his hands.
My goodness, that name seems just right, perfect, a delightful surprise.
This is what I love about your father. He thinks ideas through, slowly and quietly, and then out they come, surprising me in a thousand different ways. Forever he has been this way, and it is precisely what makes him, him.
Someday, someday, you will be able to trace the long-standing love and devotion he holds for you, and always has. And someday I will tell you many stories about your father, just as I tell our other grandchildren about their parents — parents who once upon a time were my babies, toddlers, and teenagers, priceless gifts from God.
***
I have watched your father reach for your three older cousins shortly after their births, this tall man humming softly, soothing those beautiful little bundles to sleep.
Come to think of it, your Daddy has long reached for beauty, even as a toddler. He played hard outdoors with his big brothers and little sister, running, chasing, kicking the ball, then abruptly halting, crouching low to examine a cluster of wildflowers, before yanking a clutch of them, roots and all, and gifting me his offering.
Pretty Mommy, he said, smelling the bouquet and pushing it against my nose. For you.
I scooped him up, kissed his sweaty cheek, and smiled as I slipped inside to arrange the tiny bouquet in a Dixie cup, drizzling cold tap water two-thirds full.
Your Daddy collected pretty stones and leaves, pointed out stretching rainbows after a late-afternoon downpour, and marveled at fiery sunsets in the western sky and twinkly stars on wintry nights. When he was four years old, he set his mind on becoming a farmer, so I grabbed his hand and off we went shopping, choosing a few envelopes of sunflower seeds. Papa helped him dig a thin rectangular garden in our backyard, his small hands tilling the soil, poking thin holes in the soft dirt, and gently dropping the seeds one by one, tucking them in a blanket of dirt—a benediction. Your father watered, watched, and waited until one hot day his patience was rewarded.
I remember the day he burst through the back door.
Come quick, Mom! The sunflowers have poked through the dirt!
What a summer adventure. Those flowers grew up into the sunshine, stretched far above his head, and our little farmer smiled in wonder.
How happy he was tending the garden, quietly pondering, and shyly telling me of the flowers’ beauty.
***
Your Daddy grew up and reached for music, his practiced hands soaring over the piano keys, his soft touch lifting the instrument to life, an artistic rendering soulful and ethereal, the black-and-white keys trilling with beauty. A beauty falling as gently as snow, a mysterious snow coupled with embers scorching and searing the listeners’ souls; melodies that illuminated the power and goodness of God, and still do.
***
Over time, God summoned and wooed your father, who turned fully to Christ. This, dear granddaughter, is the greatest beauty on planet earth: the one who denies himself, takes up his cross, and follows God, wholly.
***
The hourglass sands of life kept falling until one June afternoon, your daddy reached for your mother and said Yes, I do. Their wedding bands gleamed in the sun, and they smiled as summer’s hot winds blew.
Years have passed quickly, and now, there is you.
In a handful of months, your Daddy will reach for you, and I can picture his smile and hear his humming…a sweet and gentle lullaby as you drift to sleep, cradled in your father’s arms.
