I have kept a journal since my pre-teen years and in hindsight, I am sure it was a touch of grace from above. To see your world in print is humbling with respect to the power of life, our potential to rise, and our blatant inadequacies.

When the boys were born, I started a journal for each of them, which I consider, again, to be a gift from above because I didn’t know what I would or wouldn’t remember. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a phrase can alight a thousand memories.

Once in a while, I am moved to skim those pages for inspiration—or for a laugh. Now that the boys are men, I often reflect on the journey—how quickly the time passed, and the evolution of soft and peach-fuzzed faces to stubbled and sturdy jaws. Deeper, you wonder about character and values and what makes life meaningful. You hope that you embodied the best we have to offer more than the inevitable flaws.

Without fail, they watch. They watch closely and listen even when you think they are not. I’m reminded of this as I read a journal entry from 2003:

 
Coming face to face with your own model is humorous at times. One afternoon after naptime, I entered three-year-old Evan’s room to find him a relaxed and serene figure sprawled to all points of the compass on his bed. As he gazed at the ceiling I asked, “Did you have a nice nap, Evan?” I will never forget his sleepy face, his assured tone, as he answered, “Dad, I need privacy.” He sighed and returned to his musings, projecting his youthful world to the ceiling. It’s hard not to laugh when your child responds with your own words, and mirrors you without flaw.