Stories of Grace

Nothing special’s going on. I just love my daughter. I get to watch her by myself Saturday, and I can’t wait. It’s my favorite morning of the week.

I’m out of town again, this time covering a conference about Christian ethics. I’m listening to a woman talk about what Christians — Baptists in particular — are called to do in response to the HIV/AIDS epidemic around the world.

I’m pretty used to hearing this kind of presentation. The presenter is doing a good job, giving statistics about the situation and providing points where she believes Baptists can make a difference. I simply took notes like I’ve done all day long.

Then she showed a photo of an Indian child. The girl was looking straight into the camera and into my heart. The dimples in her cheeks could have been Grace’s. Her smile was bright and wide. Her hair was pulled back in a pony-tail that swung behind her head.

She is so innocent. And hopeful, despite living in poverty.

I wonder what’s it is like to be her father. Or her mother. Or her.

My family has so much to be thankful for. And — like so many other people around the world — so much we should consider doing for those fighting tough circumstances.

Every once in a while life works out where I get to see my daughter in the morning. I get to watch squench her eyes real hard and stretch her hands as far into the sky as she can. Then she opens her eyes and see her dad. And she smiles.

Good morning, angel.

This was a good morning. After she smiled, I picked her up and hugged her, told her I loved her and kissed her cheek three times. It reminded me of the Charley Pride song “Kiss an Angel Good Morning.”

I’m still smiling as I think about this morning.

One year ago yesterday my wife and I found out we were going to have a child. I still remember it vividly.

My wife hadn’t been feeling well for a few days and I decided to sleep in our guest bedroom that night in an effort to make sure she got more sleep. She had been convinced for a couple weeks she was pregnant, even going to the lengths of taking several pregnancy tests. I knew she could be pregnant — we weren’t exactly trying, but we weren’t exactly not trying either — but just thought she was being paranoid. It had to be a cold.

She flicked the lights on in the guest bedroom at about 5:30 that morning and immediately began saying the words I’ll never forget as she waved around a pregnancy test. “John, I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant.” I heard the words and understood them, but I’m not sure they registered. I was still trying to figure out why she had turned on the lights and woke me up.

I sat up in bed with my feet on the floor and paused for a moment in silence as I tried to figure out what was going on. Then it dawned on me what my wife was telling me. Everything slowed down. I remember telling myself to think. It was like I felt that thought roll into another one and into another one. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Finally a word came out.

“Really?” Such profoundness in such a crucial moment. I’m pretty ashamed.

“John, I’m pregnant,” she said, waving the test precariously close to my face.

I hugged her. Three of four times, holding her a little longer on the last one. I told her I loved her, and I was happy that we were going to have a child.

Then we went we about our regular routines that morning, except something strange happened. Emotions started registering in my body. I became more excited about the idea of having a child with each passing second. I bounced through brushing my teeth. I talked a lot. I hugged my wife repeatedly. A smile was tattooed across my face.

It was a great day. And one year later, it’s even better. That smile remains.

This week my daughter received her first daycare newsletter. By the time I got home, it was resting on the counter in our kitchen, calling my name as I walked by. The temptation was too strong, I had to see what it had to say.

It spelled doom for Grace’s dad. The countdown is on. It’s only a matter of time before Grace actually is smarter than her day.

This month, Grace begins learning sign language. Her teachers are supposed to show her six signs this month, including food, more, thank you and that’s enough.

After this month, my less-than-six-month-old daughter will know more sign language than me. I hope they show my wife the signs so I can at least pretend to know what’s going on.

Already depressed about my lack of sign language knowledge, I pressed on. More bad news. At two years old, the kids start learning Spanish.

I know some Spanish, so I think I can hang with a 2 year old for a while. But sooner than I realize she’ll pass my knowledge. Then she’ll know 2 languages better than me. The way I speak English, it might even be 3.

On the verge of asking my wife if they make pills that can make adults smarter, I continued reading. The nail in the coffin. The daycare starts teaching students how to use computers when they are in preschool.

Ouch. Very ouch.

My family got our first computer when I was in second grade. And that was only because I was fortunate enough to win it. It was an Apple II C+. It worked off DOS. There were floppy disks when floppy disks were bigger than your hand and actually floppy. The only thing we figured out how to do was play Oregon Trail.

My daughter will be able to do that before she hits kindergarten.

That’s when I started hearing the clock ticking. I still hear it now. My daughter is getting smarter as I type this. I’m staying the same. The information gap is closing between us. Soon she will pass me.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.