What am I?

My little girl,

One day, when you're old enough to understand everything I write to you, you may find that I'm not the wise, able, and valiant father you think me to be.  I only pray your illusion doesn't crumble for I'll always be ready to walk through fire for you.
Today I'm going to tell you that the entire world needs to fit everyone into a label, and because we are all so different, there are many.  There are new ones every hour, it seems.
You'll hear the words jock, nerd, geek, burnout, and heaven knows how many other creative labels you'll come across.  I'm only giving you the ones I grew up with.
But the one that concerns me most, at least today, has to do with what you are.
The obvious answer would be that you are a girl, but the world wouldn't be happy with that.
You are American. 
Surprised?  I can already see your brow furrowed and even the little shake of your head as you think to yourself, "no kidding."
What I want you to understand is that it means more than you think.
Much like all your friends you're the result of a melting pot, one of the best qualities of this great nation.  You possess the type of logic that can only be attributed to your German roots; the beauty and humor of your Irish mother; the warmth and mirth of your Ecuadorian father; and somewhere deep within, you have the passion of the Iberian, the sentimentality of the Italian, and even the elegance of the Swede; and of course, the freedom to question, the freedom to believe, and the freedom to dream of the American.
You are American.
And with that in mind, you must accept certain responsibilities, for you were born in a country whose people confronted great evils to become the defenders of freedom.
The world saw the sacrifice of the greatest American generation that ever lived, so Europe can be freed from a megalomaniac during one of the darkest epochs of our world.  The first flag to fly on the moon is the Stars and Stripes.  Some of the most iconic symbols in existence are here in America and each is a  quiet testimony of the potential of its people.
But we're not without blemish and this is where you come in.  You inherit an America in low spirits, where its people no longer hold any hope in their leaders.  That'll be the cross my generation has to bear while you, you are the new hope.
If you wonder why I push you to read, to learn, to understand, it's perhaps because I know how much of a burden you'll carry once you're no longer a child.  I may have failed in leaving behind an America you'd be proud of, but I won't fail in preparing you to give you a better chance.
May you forgive me one day, my little girl, for the way we're leaving things for you.  But you're American by birth, and by God you, along with your brothers and sisters, will take on the challenges and restore your nation's integrity, and give all of us our pride back.
You're American, you'll never give up.
That's what you are.

Love you forever,

Dad.

An Easter Letter

Hey kiddo,

Your little sister still believes in the magic of those myths we've cultivated for the holidays just for you, kids.  I'm happy you'll keep your observations to yourself, and I'm sad that you are seeing things clearer than perhaps I want you to.

I watched you with a tangled mix of emotions as you approached the Easter Bunny at the mall, and sat on his lap, the disillusion clearly depicted on your forced little smile.

I didn't have the Easter Bunny when I grew up.  Where I lived, the entire week had a different tone.

None of us kids received a bag of goodies, a new dress, and we didn't look for eggs on Sunday morning.

We were instead, reminded of what it meant for God to offer his only son in order to save the rest of us.

I realize this may be too much for you.  At your age, the last thing I want you to know of is pain, death, or the malice of people.

I'm thirty-seven and I'm still struggling to fully understand that the Son of God had to suffer such torture, such humiliation, in order to save my soul. 

But as for you, the day you read this letter, I want you to know that when you come to understand that we all face the same end, and inevitably grow afraid, like all of us do, look into what Easter really means. 

There you will find that almost 2,000 years ago, Jesus died on the cross only to rise and ascend into the heavens, leaving us with the hope of joining him there at the end of our lives.  It doesn't end here.  That's what Easter is about.  Know Jesus, carry Him in your heart, attain to his one teaching of loving others as we want to be loved, and rejoice in His promise of living among Him and all our loved ones.

For now, let's color more eggs, let's find them in the silliest places, and let's have a sugar fest as we laugh at the antics of cartoon Easter Bunnies.

When your little sister comes to that same realization you did, let her know that it's okay because Easter is so much more.  Of course, we might be okay, she may forget the Easter Bunny lie and accept the candy and chocolates as just compensation.

Happy Easter, kiddo.

Dad.

"Why don't we go to church?"

After another busy afternoon, aside of coloring Easter eggs and laughing about cracked shells, we went shopping for some groceries and returned home to unwind.
I was running back and forth trying to finish up a couple of line on the next book when I figured to check on Sheri and the girls.
I found Sheri and Kendra engaged in a deep discussion about church.  After getting the gist of it, I returned to the safety of my office already thinking what I would say.
As inevitably as the coming of night, Kendra, my inquisitive seven year old came into the office.
"Daddy, why don't we go to church?"
With the hard-earned wisdom of thirty-seven years, I replied, "Ask Mommy."
The pause gave me enough time to consider several issues that don't always cross my mind.
I started wondering how to answer that.  Do I paint a colorful picture?  Do I deflect it as one of those trivialities of the adult world that she wouldn't understand in her young age?
No, I thought.  My daughter deserves an honest answer.
I was raised Catholic in a place where you were either Catholic, or you weren't.  When I came to the US at the age of thirteen, I didn't understand all the different denominations and no one ever gave me a real answer as to define what made them different.  Lutherans, Presbyterians, Baptists, Christians, Evangelists, it all just made it too confusing and the lack of answers made me decide to stick to the one safe alternative, which meant to have faith in the most basic and elemental sense. 
"Kendra, you're a kid, but you're a smart kid, and I don't think anything less than honesty will do for you."
Her eyes widened with interest.
"When you were a baby, you were baptized, which meant it's my duty to teach you to have faith, to believe in God, in Jesus, and all His teachings.  When I was a kid like you, I was obligated to go to church and sit there while the priest talked about things I didn't understand in the least.  A part of me didnt' want you to go through that, but I understand that you want to learn."
I've learned not to talk down to her, to any kid for that matter.  They constantly prove to understand far more than I've given them credit for.
"I don't go to church because I know God is with us every second of the day and all around us. He knows everything about us, sees us, hears us, He's not in a church waiting on us, and he's not charging us money to be with us.  Unfortunately to me, that's what the church does."
"Is everything always about money?"  She asked.
"Not always."
She seemed confused and I was afraid I was throwing too much at her.
"God is everywhere.  He is like the air we breathe."
It was then that I recalled having a similar argument with the last priest I ever held a conversation with.  He admired my staunch belief that God is everywhere, but he lamented that I failed to see that the church is about a group of people coming together.  I didn't disagree with the man, but fortunately, or unfortunately, I was too observant and too curious to blindly believe in hisdoctrine.
My experience with churches has been that they are wealthy places, and although every sermon has the directive of giving and sacrificing, I was there when the priest of a certain church in my native country sent two men to push a group of homeless out of the atrium and back to the street.  Talk about a contradiction!
In America churches seem to be always locked except for Sundays, despite their promises to always welcome everyone with open arms.
Before service began, before that first Hymn, the priest stood before the congregation and aired out the financial woes of the church and demanded (not so subtly) bigger contributions, and for what?  To turn a humble hall of worship into some modern, spacecraft-like building to compete with a neighboring church, which was undergoing renovations.
Of course I held back from telling my girl any of that.
In my humble, and perhaps misguided opinion, Our Lord Jesus did not preach from the altar of a multi-million dollar edifice, and he went out of his way to touch the hearts of the hungry, the downtrodden, the outcasts, and the lost.  He did not hide in his own little country surrounded by a large percentage of the world's works of art, and He did not shove his teachings down everyone's throat.  He had but one message, "Love thy neighbor".  No specifics, simply love thy neighbor.
I've seen far too many peacocks paste their fake smiles on Sundays and court the attention of the congregation, cultivating an image of perfect harmony, only to hold their own family in contempt and show nothing but disdain for others. 
But how do I weave all those attitudes into a simple reply to satisfy the curiosity of my daughter?
"Kendra," I prayed for God to illuminate me, just this one time, to say the right thing. "I'll be happy to read the bible with you, to explain to you the lessons in it.  Just promise me, you'll never let someone tell you what, and how to believe in God.  Not even me.  Just know that He is everywhere, and Jesus has a very soft spot for children like you, so when you need to, talk to Him.  Open your heart and talk to Him.  You don't have to do it in a church.  The churches you see out there, those fancy buildings, the long robes, that's not the church, that's more of a business.  The church is the people like you, like Mommy, like me, who struggle every day to be good people.  And God is love.  You can't see love, you can't touch it, but you feel it, you know it's there, and it's everywhere."
She noticed the faltering of my voice.  "Like the air we breathe?"
I smiled at her.  "Like the air we breathe."
She seemed satisfied, though I promised to make an effort to find a church for us.  I'll do anything for my little girl.  God knows that, and given what I feel in my heart, He approves. 
At the end of the night, I kissed my girls good night and returned to the computer to try to compose these feelings, though I suspect, I've failed miserably.
So, at this moment, once I sign off this letter.  I will grab my coat, and walk outside to stare at the starry sky, and I will fall to my knees, pleading for guidance from The Father, who is everywhere around me, in every breath I take.

Captain Obvious

It happened again.
I know just by the terse tone of my wife's voice as she lectures Amber. 
I can hear the little footfalls resignedly climbing the steps, Mommy hot on her trail, ranting the same lecture I've been hearing for a few months.
I'm caught in no man's land.  Do I continue to sit here and watch the hockey game, or do I go upstairs and pay my two cents, or at least make my supportive appearance, for both Amber and Mommy.  I'm still on the fence when I hear my wife bark a barrage of questions at Amber and the thought of that tiny elvin face, looking up with wounded eyes, launches me off my seat and up the steps.
As soon as my wife senses my presence, she turns to me full of indignation.
"She peed her pants again!"
I figured as much.  Amber's been having accidents, but only because she doesn't want to come in from playing, afraid she'll miss something.  So she'll hold it for as long as she can until the floodgates open. 
"I can't believe you won't come in to pee.  You can go back out after you use the bathroom, you know?"
Exasperation colors my wife's pretty face. 
She continues to collect Amber's discarded, wet jeans and underwear while keeping a fast-paced litany about heeding the body's urges.
For her part, Amber's learned to keep quiet until these storms blow over.  Even though she's sitting on the potty, she holds her head up high, her eyes resolute.  It's as though she knows we'll eventually stop lecturing and simply succumb to her cuteness, which we do, but that's not the point right now.
I'm almost ready to run into Amber's bedroom and gather some clean clothes, but the ire radiating from my wife keeps me rooted to the last step of the stariway.
She glares at me for a second making me think somehow I'm at fault.  I'm the man after all, right?  It's ALWAYS our fault.
Then she looks down at Amber, who meets her glare with one of her own that seems to silently ask, what's the big deal?  
I've seen THAT look on my wife before.  It has the same effect of the sliding of a round into the chamber of a shotgun before it goes off.
"Amber..." she says in a tight voice while our five year old daughter looks up with calculated disinterest.  "Why do you do this, what makes you do this?" Mommy demands.
The ensuing silence is perfect, in my mind I can almost see a tumbleweed rolling in the dusty wind of some western movie as the two combatants face off, fingers twitching by the butts of their guns.
"I want to know, what makes you do this?" Mommy demands.
Amber doesn't look afraid in the least, nor remorseful.  Her tiny brows pinch over her nose and in a firm, terse voice of her own replies, "Juice.  What else?"
Mommy visibly starts at the reply.  She turns slowly, her gaze finding me.  The stunned expression widening her blue eyes is more than I can take.  I laugh so hard I nearly roll down the steps.
Once again, I'm the hero.  With my wife shooting me daggers for my audacity to laugh, Amber, my little Captain Obvious is back outside playing, victor of the comfrontation.