The night is over

I’m sitting in my living room. It’s early in the morning, and last night seemed longer than usual. I tossed and turned quite a bit, and although my body was craving sleep I found myself waiting for morning to come. In that period between sleep and waking I found myself thinking of what this day must have felt like for a small group of believers, 2000 years ago. I wake up fully and begin to move around.

Now here I am, sipping on some coffee in my favorite chair. I’m reading. All is silent. My family is asleep, and even the city around me seems to have ceased all activity. Silence.

And then… a noise. Footsteps. I catch the unmistakable whisper of sleeper foot on hardwood floor.

My heartbeat has quickened in anticipation of what is to come. I hear a door creak, the murmur of a mother’s voice, and within moments a little head peeks around the corner and blue eyes twinkle sleepily when they see me. I can barely see the face through the wild morning hair, but my daughter’s smile is evident as she mumbles “good morning, dad.” She climbs onto my lap, and I set my coffee down. The trajectory of my morning has changed. The darkness and silence that surrounded me just moments ago are gone, and I am wrapped up in the wonder of human connection.

Now I am reading with a little girl snuggled up in my lap. I want to freeze this moment; the scent of her hair, the softness of her baby cheeks, her tiny voice… I am captivated.

I’m reading through Matthew, and find myself skipping ahead in the story given the significance of today… not on the page, but in my head. Knowing the end of a story always affects how I absorb the beginning and the middle. In this case, seemingly small details about Jesus’ interaction with his disciples take on weight as I put myself in their shoes. I can only imagine the sense of mysterious hope that filled them as they walked alongside him, part of the inner circle of this man who defied their very sense of reality. But what about later on? What about this day? What darkness must have descended on them this morning when they woke up and remembered fully the chaos of the past 48 hours? What feelings of absolute confusion and hopelessness? This is a unique day in history… a fragile day. The Church was about to be born. True Dawn was just hours away, and yet the darkness must have felt all-consuming. The silence deafening.

And then… a noise. The murmur of yet another miracle. The stirrings of a stone rolling away.

We were created for connection. I already alluded to the fact that my morning didn’t truly begin today until the moment when my daughter peeked around the corner and gazed into my eyes. I am not attempting to draw a comparison between the miracle of the resurrection and the entrance of a 3 year old into my living room. Not even close. And yet, the Lord has created us for connection. My morning of silence following a long, dark night was brightened the moment I held my daughter in my arms. Because I was created to connect, born to engage. The anticipation I felt when I heard footsteps in my hall cannot begin to compare to the pounding in Mary’s chest when she heard her Savior say her name that morning in the garden. The night was over. She was experiencing reconnection. Divine connection.

The night is over. True Dawn has changed the trajectory of our lives. There is no need to feel alone, because you are not alone. The night is over. Open your eyes to the wonder of the morning, to the miraculous and undeserved gift of total propitiation. The night is over. Lift up your head and open your heart, allow yourself to be wrapped up in the wonder of Divine connection.

The night is over. 

The wind that wakes us

I’m buried. I look up and I can’t see the sky… just darkness. I’ve been down here a while, and I’m losing track of time. I don’t know when I’ll see daylight. The sooner the better. I’m surrounded by others who share my predicament. You’d think that we’d find some sort of camaraderie, that there would be a sense of fellowship among us, but that’s not the case. Each of us is choosing to individually bear the weight of his or her section of earth. Alone.

I’m sitting on a subway platform. I’m wearing headphones, and although there is music in my ears I can barely hear it. I’m distracted, as I watch what seems to be an uncountable number of people around me. Because I appear to be disconnected, I can look around and it’s safe. The people around me – almost without exception – are avoiding eye contact, avoiding contact of any kind, shutting out their surroundings. Intentionally, I think. It seems that almost all of us are wearing headphones. Several are actually wearing noise canceling headphones, the very image of which is sending a message: I wish to be isolated. I can’t hear you. Please leave me alone.

I can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside the heads of my fellow commuters. It’s easy to imagine that they’re in some sort of trance. I begin to wonder where they came from, where they’re going. Once we leave this place, we’re going to wind up scattered all over the city. Right now, the one thing we have in common is the fact that we’re not there yet.

The crowd down here can be divided into 2 categories.

1. Those who stand at the very edge of the platform, watching. Within that group, the reasoning for the positioning seems to boil down to one of two things:

• We’re looking for an advantage of some kind. Looking to outmaneuver, outdo, outperform. We want the best seat, or any seat for that matter. And our chances are significantly improved if we get on first. So we wait on the edge of the platform, watching.

• The very fact that we’re down here is difficult for us to come to grips with. Keeping our eye on the track keeps us from losing control.

2. (The bulk of us) are those who are just waiting.

Sitting. Standing. Trying desperately to keep distance from those near us. If not physically, then emotionally. Nothing is really capable of getting the attention of this crowd. There is silence. We sit, in a trance.

And then, something happens. The slightest breeze drifts out of the tunnel. A harbinger of what is coming. Quiet and gentle at first. Stronger then, turning into gusts of wind that cannot be ignored. And automatically, invariably, every head on the platform turns, every eye looks up.

In that moment, my mind drifts far away and hours ahead. The same crowd of people is scattered through the city. We seem to be waiting for something. Walking, sitting, standing, trying desperately to keep distance from those near us. If not physically, then emotionally.  Nothing capable of getting our attention. In the midst of noise, silence. Living life in a trance.

And then, something happens. The slightest breeze, invisible, a harbinger of What is coming. Quiet and gentle at first. Stronger then, turning into gusts of wind that cannot be ignored.

I am drawn back to the moment, and find my heart beating faster. All around me, the platform is alive with the reactions of those responding to the wind. And I realize that it is time to choose.

We are living life on the platform. Buried in the earth, isolated and alone. Watching. Doing. Worrying. Waiting. Most of us don’t know what for.

Which passenger am I?

As I sit in silence, I realize who I desire to be. I take my headphones off, and stand up. My eyes grow clear as I make my choice.

I am not the Watcher.

I am not the Doer.

I am not the Worrier.

I am not the Waiter.

I am the breeze. The wind that wakes you. The harbinger of What is coming. Please do not ignore me. Turn your head. Look up.

Where are you going?

© Joshua Dufek, 2012

Just a minute

She threw a chubby finger in the air, looked me in the eye, and said "just a minute, dad... Wait just a minute". And walked out of the room. Leaving me without many options other than to just... wait a minute. I feel this odd sensation, like what just happened is a precursor to something that may happen many times over the coming years.

I am a grown man. I have responsibilities. I shave. I have authority (sort of). I like to think I have some measure of control when it comes to my ability to self express. And I am powerless. Reduced to a shadow of my Grownup Self.

She melts me. I am gone, but fully there. Lost in time, but so in tune to the moment that this room becomes the center of everything. She doesn’t always get her way. I love her too much for that. But when she looks me in the eye and says “just a minute, dad”… I give her her minute.

I don’t like giving up control. I am at least that self aware, that I know this. I don’t care though… she has me, and it’s okay.

But there’s something else. Something tugging at the edges of my consciousness, something that I’m not okay with. It’s hard to put my finger on it at first, but then it hits me. Washes over me in waves of mixed emotion. She just talked to me. She told me to wait, give her a minute. How did this happen? Yesterday she was sleeping 18 hours a day, and the day before that she wasn’t even born. Where did this girl come from? The question rattles me, but not as much as the implication of the next question… where is she going? I want to slow things down, to freeze this moment. I don’t like this kind of powerless. My throat feels dry and thick. Time stands still, just for a few seconds. Tomorrow pulls at my sleeve…

She’s telling me about her day. She talks about school. She loves her new bike. She wants to wear make up. We go to the movies and share popcorn. I forget about the screen and just watch her. We go for a walk, and she tells me about this boy she met. I hold onto something to keep my hands from shaking. She asks me to give him a chance. I look away so she can’t see the look on my face. She asks the unthinkable, wonders if I would be willing to give her to someone else.

I wake from my reverie, and time starts back up. I look around me, and find the room just as I left it. Dolls in the baby bed. Ribbons and bows. A pile of picture books. I resolve to read every one of them out loud, 1,000 times over. I know that time will not stand still again. Not for me, or anyone else. But I’m going to stay awake. I refuse to waste a moment. I’ll slow it down when I can, if I can. My eyes drift to the door, the door she just walked out of. I can hear the noise her bare feet make as they tromp down the hall. I rise, and call after her…

“Just a minute, girl. Wait just a minute…”

© Joshua Dufek, 2012

The Voice

I woke up this morning feeling sorry for myself.

See, I had a late night of travel last night, followed by what seemed to be a very short night’s sleep, and this morning my 2 year old daughter woke me with some very loud 2 year old noises. In my foggy state, I had one of those “…this is the one morning in the past blah blah days I’m trying to sleep in…” thoughts. I staggered around the corner into the kitchen to make sure nobody was injured, as the noises supported the notion that someone was being hung by their heels and used as a punching bag. What I found instead was my wonderful wife making breakfast for us with a 5 year old “helping”, and a toddler clinging to her leg tearfully petitioning for increased responsibility and/or attention.

I was still in a haze, so I turned around and headed back to the bedroom to wean myself into a waking state by making the bed. As I put pillows in their place, I listened to my family. So much noise, coming from such small bodies. Noise. Voices. Folding the blanket back on itself, I was struck with the thought of how many men and women have voluntarily suspended the luxury of hearing their children’s voices in the morning in order to protect me and my family. This thought quickly brings me to one where I think of the many children, spouses and parents who will never again hear the voice of a father, husband, wife, mother, son, daughter… the list goes on. All for my freedom.

Something brings me back to the moment, and I now listen to my daughter’s voice with new ears. I go from one far away place to another, and picture her years from now… expressing herself with a voice all her own. A voice that has an audience. A message that isn’t subdued, an opinion shared without fear of reprise. What privilege. When I think it through and follow the thread of her freedom back to its source, I find myself in the same place as before: with a family who’s given up a loved one, a patriot who has paid the ultimate sacrifice. There are those fortunate enough to come home, and those who never do. I listen for the voice of those who have fought and died, strain to capture something, and all I hear is … Nothing. They are silent. Or are they?

I hear something. A small voice, almost imperceptible… weak, but growing stronger. My knees go weak as I realize that I am truly listening to the voice of those who have sacrificed themselves for the rest of us. It dawns on me that it was always here, and will go on long after I am gone.

 It is the voice of my daughter.

To those who have dedicated their lives so that I might raise my children in a free world… I say thank you.

And to those who traded in their voice so that my daughter may have hers for years to come, I say this: You above all of us have earned the right to be heard. And so you will. You will not be forgotten. I will not take my freedom for granted, and will do my best to raise her in a manner that honors your memory. She will know why she has a voice, and will be raised to use it. Her voice will have an audience; her message will not be subdued; her opinion shared without fear of reprise.

You will be heard.

© Joshua Dufek, 2012

My autumn walk, and a struggle against the stone

I was digging through some files this week, and came across this little piece that I wrote in the fall of ’09. I recall that when I picked up my pen that morning, I didn’t really know what I was going to write about. So I wrote the line “I went for a walk yesterday…”, and let the rest just happen. By no means is it profound, but I wasn't going for profound. I was simply seeking a chance to organize and capture my thoughts. Interestingly enough a lot of things in here are things that I still think about. One thing should be noted though, before you read it: I love my life. I am more fulfilled in my role as a husband and father than I ever imagined I’d be, and wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not once have I wistfully wished for days gone by. That being said, there are definitely times when – like many others, I imagine – I struggle under the burden of life. If not for my beautiful wife and amazing children, very little would have meaning for me. And if not for the sustaining grace of my Lord I would be lost, a rudderless ship in the fog.

My Autumn Walk

I went for a walk yesterday.  I had a lot on my mind, and of all months, October is my favorite walking month. There’s enough beauty to coax me outside, and enough chill to keep me walking briskly. And there’s sort of a balancing act between life and death. The colors feel more like life than those of spring and summer. And yet, there is a quiet sense of… something. Not life, I suppose. Perhaps it’s waning life, or that blissful moment just before sleep. Yes, I think that’s it.

So: my walk. There are enough leaves on the ground to make me notice, and enough wind to make the leaves run. If I’m thinking about something else, in the corner of my mind I’m imagining that the leaves are moving on their own; going somewhere of their own volition. They seem so determined… so rushed. They stop, as if they’re thinking about where to go next, then they resume their journey. I find myself with sort of a wistful feeling in the back of my mind; a bit of leaf envy. When I was a child, I envied birds on account of their ability to fly. Now I’m envying leaves simply because they’re not tied down. My, how far I’ve come.

So, I look closer. And in looking closer at these leaves, here is what I notice: Invariably, they stop moving forward. Something – a tree, a fence, a stone – something blocks their path, and they stop. They don’t stop moving, no. In fact, their movements continue almost as if they’re frantically trying to free themselves. And watching the struggle (which most likely will end with the leaf staying put), something occurs to me. The leaves aren’t really free, or untethered. They’re moving, yes… sometimes even moving for a long distance. But they’re driven. Driven by the wind. They’re not driving. I’m envying this leaf, until I realize how much we have in common.  They fall from a tree, sort of dropped into the world, and they’re travelling before they even hit the ground. Running to something? Running from something? Running. They hit obstacles, and the only thing that frees them is the wind, which they can’t control. They are the classic picture of a victim of circumstance.

I think perhaps I’m drawn now by a sense of subconscious empathy. I go for a walk to free myself; I walk to chew on my problems, to try and wrap my thoughts around issues that seem too big for me. My autumn walk is my struggle against the stone. 

And then I realize: here is where I’m separated from my leaf-brethren. I’ve been given the gift of choice. I’m surprised and ashamed by how often I choose the way of the leaf; surprised by how often I choose the passenger seat. In a sense, this leaf – the leaf I envied for it’s freedom – this leaf frees me. It reminds me of my ability to choose.

I’m expected to move forward; all around me people are moving forward. In an effort to conform, more often than not I choose to bow before the wind and fly. But living on purpose… although it’s sometimes awkward and slow, it’s the only thing that’s actually living, isn’t it? Running before the wind may look impressive from a distance, graceful for a time. But it ends with an unsuccessful struggle against the stone. No, I think I’m going to exercise my ability to choose. And I refuse to choose the struggle against the stone.

I choose to go for a walk, and think.

© Joshua Dufek, 2012

I'm allergic to your face

Ah, brothers.

I never had one, but I've got some experience in the role, and I can tell you: sometimes we say and/or do things that are nothing short of... well, mean. Particularly when it comes to the way we interact with our siblings, or our family in general. 

A lot of people have written about the “why” behind this, but that’s not really what’s on my mind this morning. For the moment, let's just say that my hall of shame in regard to things I wish I could take back, things I wish I'd never said... the list is topped by things I've said or done to hurt someone in my family.

And my sons... my sons... as amazing and beautiful and intelligent as they are, they haven't escaped this particular human trait.

A few weeks ago, I walked into the room just in time to hear Joey (age 6) say to his younger brother, "...actually Bobby, I'm allergic to your face." Bobby (an itchy, sneezing, kind-hearted boy who actually suffers from several real allergies and most likely assumes that one can indeed develop allergies to another person's face) didn't seem to realize that was really intended as a slight. I corrected Joey in the moment, told him that it simply isn't kind to say things like this, and moved on. A few days later, however, things sort of came to a head... 

Joey said some things that weren't very kind (involving liberal usage of the word "stupid"), and my wife Heather overheard. In the conversation that followed, he confessed that he had actually been complaining about his little brother to some neighborhood friends, and in the process of his complaint, had said some more unkind things about his brother, even written some of them down in a note that he passed to Bobby. (Luckily, little Bobby can't yet read.) He was sent to his room to ponder his transgressions, and was waiting there for me when I returned home from the office. He was penitent, and had actually shed some tears of regret. We talked about his day, and he shared his burden with me: that he doesn't know where the feelings come from, and it’s frustrating, but he simply doesn't like playing with his little brother anymore. I allowed him to vent, and then we had a conversation about what to do with these feelings. I think the conversation has some value outside of sibling conflict, so I'm going to tap out the main points.

We all have feelings that we can't predict. Sometimes these feelings may lead to us saying or doing things that are inconsistent with what we know to be kind and right. So often, we allow our actions to be dictated by our feelings, don't we? At times this is a very positive thing: we look at someone, our heart is overwhelmed with the feeling of love, and we do something kind or generous to show it. That's wonderful. But what happens when the feeling isn't there? We all know about this. What happens when you realize that the only feelings you get when you look at your little brother are frustration and disdain?

I’m going to digress a bit here. I didn't mention this to Joey, but perhaps this is one reason why the divorce rate is so high these days. Perhaps there are far too many people who make the decision to marry based on their feelings... the magical butterflies in the stomach, the accelerated heartbeat. It's a wonderful feeling, isn't it? But if that's all you've got, what happens 5 years later when you're in the middle of a fight? Where is the feeling? It's notably absent, actually replaced by different feelings which prompt a different set of actions, which create more conflict. When asked why they divorced, so many people say "we just didn't love each other anymore." They're probably right, in more ways than they realize. They stopped loving each other (the feeling was gone), so they stopped LOVING each other... love had ceased to be a “verb” in their relationship.

The feeling of love, as I mentioned, is an amazing thing. It's one of the strongest emotions we can experience, perhaps the strongest. But it doesn't begin to compare to the power of love as an action. I firmly believe that our feelings fall in line behind our actions. Think about it: if our feelings are tied to the actions of those around us (say, an annoying little brother), then we have no real control over how we feel on a daily basis. We weren't created to be that helpless. If we allow our feelings to govern our actions, it seems that we are putting the cart before the horse. Here's the scenario I gave to Joey D:

These feelings of frustration and irritation with his little brother, we compared them to a big, ugly, mean, growling dog (that worked for him... I think it perfectly captured what was going on inside him). Unkind actions and words, they're like a big bone you might throw to this dog. The dog is demanding that Joey feed it, and the only food it wants are the unkind actions displayed toward Bobby. But what happens then? Is the dog satisfied? No, it's not. Joey caught on right away, pointing out that the bone would only make the dog bigger. And then tomorrow, what happens? It's a bigger dog, and it wants another bone. A bigger bone. And the problem progresses until your actions are completely dictated by the big, ugly, mean, growling dog inside you. So, what to do? I proposed to Joey that he might consider refusing to act harshly and unkindly when he feels that dog growling inside him... that instead he might exercise love, the action. Love, the verb. He was quick to mention that if the growling dog goes unfed, it will get smaller, and smaller, and then just go away. I agreed. He determined that he would purposely act kindly toward his brother whenever he felt that sense of frustration, to make sure that he wasn’t feeding the dog a bone. More on that in a moment.  

Here enters my personal thought about love the action vs. love the feeling. Early in my marriage, I found that my wife wasn't perfect. I already knew that I wasn't, but I was surprised that occasionally I would find myself annoyed by little things she would do. Things like leaving the closet door open (I told you, these were very little things). So I mentioned to her - kindly - that I'd like it if she would remember to close the closet door. She did. Sometimes. Rarely. These are the typical little things that make the first year of marriage a learning experience. You have 2 people who have been living alone, learning to live together. Simple as that. 

So one morning, I woke up and walked into the bathroom, only to find the closet door open again. And I felt this feeling of frustration in my chest, more than anything else from the fact that my request wasn't important enough to elicit a considerate response. I wondered if this was why married people seemed to bicker a lot. Little things. I wasn’t satisfied to just ask again. It didn’t seem to be the proper resolution, and it actually didn’t seem considerate on my part. Then I was struck by a thought:

“… love covers a multitude of transgressions.”

I think in my mind, when I used to think of that concept, love had always been a noun. A big, pink, soft, blankety noun, billowing out over a random pile of transgressions. But on this morning, it struck me that perhaps - in this case - love needed to be a verb. Actually moving to cover something. And I decided to close the closet door. Make no bones about it: I was still irritated, still feeling a little frustrated as I reached out to close the door. What happened next, I’ll never forget. I remember the moment so clearly: where I was standing, the lighting in the room… like it was yesterday. Almost instantaneously, my mood changed. The feelings of frustration and irritation, they just disappeared. In their place I discovered this swelling sense of love – the feeling – that simply hadn’t been there even 10 seconds before.

The event above prompted a series of experiments. In many, varied situations, I tested this idea of the power of love the verb. And over the course of time I learned that my emotional response was consistent when I chose to exercise love as an action. My feelings fell in line behind my actions. The other side of this experiment was in moments when I had the opportunity to put the interests of my wife before my own. There was no transgression or frustration involved, but it was still a chance for me to choose love for my wife over love of myself. Kind of funny when the scenario is “Chinese or pizza for dinner?” Funny, but the result is no less powerful. My feelings of love for my wife were considerably stronger immediately following my actions of love for her.

That was a long time ago… 7 years or so. To this day I’ve found this simple practice to be one of the most powerful tools in building a loving marriage. I truly do love (the feeling) my wife more today than I did when I said “I do”. And my vision is clearer. I can see what a blessed man I am, that I was given the honor of loving and caring for this amazing, beautiful woman. I married up, believe me.

As for Joey D and his allergies to his little brother’s face, I have an update. We had our little conversation several weeks ago. I’ve waited to post this until I had time to observe Joey’s response over a period of time. The difference in the way he interacts with Bobby is spectacular. I’ve asked him a couple times about what we discussed that evening, and he has been able to illiterate the details of our topic very clearly. It’s obviously something he’s been thinking about and applying, and the kindness and softness have returned to their relationship.

And just this week, I found a note in Joey’s handwriting, in which he told his little brother that he loved him. I almost cried. It’s a little thing, that note. But the moment it was written, that moment when my Joey D reached out for his pencil, in that moment of silence when the lead was scratching across the paper... love was a verb. 

© Joshua Dufek, 2010

Where are you...

Last time I updated this blog, I had a 3 year old boy and a 1 year old boy. I said something about my "annual update". Well, so much for annual updates. The mystery that is time has changed my 3 year old into a 6 year old, my 1 year old into a 4 year old, and dropped a baby girl into our life. I'm not going to begin to try and fill in the last 3 years for you. Actually, those of you who actually kept up with this blog (the Faithful Four) have seen my kiddos over the years and know what's happened. Some of you see us more often now than you used to, even.

So, rather than talk about the past, let's talk about the now.

I love Heather more now than I did then, if that's possible. We're in St Louis. Our roster of children is as follows: Joey D (6). Bobby (4, in two days). Ruby Jane (6 months, with the hair of a rebellious 15 year old who may or may not live in a trailer park).

This blog used to serve as a good outlet for exorcising my thoughts. I still have thoughts (gasp), and although there are other outlets (lately a pen and paper has been a favorite of mine, but random conversations with Heather, a couple friends, and various strangers have also proven to be useful and effective), I think it's time to scratch out some thoughts on this here blog. And so I will.

I woke up this morning, and went into to Ruby Jane's room to change her. A grin and a full-body wiggle expressed her mood, and cleared my mind like no cup of coffee ever has. Recently, she's developed an affinity for playing peek-a-boo. Coincidentally, I also enjoy a good game of peek-a-boo, so within a couple minutes we found ourselves engaged in a lively match.

As I heard myself saying the words, "where's Ruby Jane? THERE she is...", my mind was turning the phrase over and wondering what it is about this game that is so attractive and delightful. I think I've come to a conclusion, beyond the obvious. Obviously, I love to see my little girl smile; the smile is The Thing. So when she smiles at me after each "...there she is!", my heart leaps. A natural high, it is.

But there's something more at play here... another layer. For a brief moment in the middle of a good game of peek-a-boo, I lose sight of my child, and she loses sight of me. We're disconnected, if only for a matter of seconds. And I wonder, what else is it that kicks me into that "natural high"? Is it the smile alone, or is it the reconnection? I love - no, I need - to find my children. It's part of my DNA, part of being a parent. Whether in the fleeting moment of a game of peek-a-boo, or the terrifying minutes when I lose sight of them at the park, the moment when I find them makes my heart leap. The clean edges of those moments make them easy to recognize, easy to remember. But the truth of it is, with the distractions of life constantly buzzing around my head, I'll admit that there are entire days when I'm not connected. I interact, but I don't engage. Without realizing it, I've lost sight of my children, and allowed them to lose sight of me. And then something happens, something wakes me up, and I realize - sometimes frantically - that I have to find my family. My children are eager to reconnect, like Ruby Jane, waiting with anticipation for me to wake up and say "where are you... THERE you are!" And in that moment, there is nothing else. Just us. It's as if someone has just passed smelling salts under my nose, and I see my children clearly...

I see Joey D and his analytical mind, always ready to have a conversation about the why, about what is behind the curtain or beneath the surface. I see Bobby, who has his mother's imagination and joy, who is usually in character as a dinosaur, or Darth Vader. I see my Ruby Jane, who is taking everything in and seems to love every minute of life, and is obviously gearing up to give Thing 1 and Thing 2 a run for their money.

And then the joy in my heart moves over to make room for the shame that comes because I've allowed the peripherals of life to cloud my vision. I'm blessed that children are forgiving, that my wife is patient. I feel for those who wake up too late, who wake up to find that those they seek have grown, or have gone.

I'm grateful that the Lord brings these things to mind while I'm playing peek-a-boo with my girl... gentle nudges to keep me awake.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find my children.

© Joshua Dufek, 2010

My annual update...

I'm a bit delayed in updating this; it's been exactly a year since I posted pictures last. I apologize to the 3 of you who actually look at this.

Joey is 3, and is somewhat of a paradox. He thinks through things deeply, and shocks me with some of his speculations. On the other hand, he's spent more than one pre-school recess in the Principal's Office. Never mean or malicious, just likes to make the other kids laugh (remember who his parents are). I love our big boy so much.

Bobby turned 1 on 8/30/07, and is quite a Daddy's Boy. He learned to walk about 2 months ago, but still prefers the 50 mph crawl. Although today I found him walking across the living room... when he saw me he actually let loose this sort of deep, throaty, half-fake laugh he has and dropped to his knees. Almost like he walks when we're not around.

We spent some time in Florida in September, and the boys got to hang out with Mickey Mouse, and most importantly, the original Frederick Joseph Dufek.

My Grandfather had actually never met Bobby, so this was a special visit. Bobby had also never been to the beach, so it was an exciting day!

Disney was magical. It was the boys' second time, and definitely the best.