Saturday, October 24, 2009
A movie is playing on the DVD. In our cramped living room our children have plopped wherever they can find room: on the couch, in the worn-out banana chair, on the floor, in the old wooden rocker, and one on top of the unfolded laundry. I take my gaze away from the TV to look at each of my children. I was there at each of their births, but at this moment I suddenly feel how independent of me they are or will be. I study the face of each child wondering at what I have had a part in creating. How can this be? How can someone ignorant of life's secrets be allowed the privilege to help create a human soul—a soul with the potential of becoming like God? None of my children notice my wondering scrutiny and instead stare at the scenes on the TV. That is until I come to twelve-year-old Cory. As I am studying his face he must sense my gaze. Without warning his head turns and his eyes meet mine. He doesn't know why I am looking at him, but it doesn't seem to bother him. I don't know what he is seeing from his view point as he looks into my eyes, but he has the grace to smile at me before he turns his head back to the TV. His smile is simple, sincere, and beautiful. His smile says to me, “I am comfortable with you, Dad, and I love you.” That instant of eye contact, that selfless smile, they were a gift of God from a soul we had created together, but they looked to me to be from the part that God created.