Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts

Thursday, July 11, 2013

From Dr. Spock to Tiger Mom: What to expect from your parenting library

"What if I choose the wrong child guru and ruin my offspring?" new mom Katie Walmsley wrote in the late days of her pregnancy.
Editor's note: Katie Walmsley is a CNN producer and reporter.

(CNN) -- "Congratulations!" people said when I told them I was pregnant with my first child.

Also, usually, "What's your due date? Do you know what it is?"

And then, frequently -- and much to my surprise -- "What book are you reading?"

It turns out you can't just up and have a baby. Many parents are now also subscribing to a particular parenting philosophy, often well in advance their little one's emergence into the world. For a soon-to-be new mom, it was overwhelming. What was the right book? Should I stick with the philosophies that make obvious sense to me, or consider some that seem like more dramatic departures? Did I even need a book at all?

Heidi Murkoff, author of famed pregnancy guide "What to Expect When You're Expecting," argued recently that this quest for guidance in books and online is at an all-time high. In a Daily Mail op-ed headlined "Why I fear for modern mothers," she wrote that it stems from pressure on parents to be the best.

"Society's race for the perfect parenting prize has become all-consuming," she wrote. "Whatever the group, everyone is locked in conflict and judging each other."

Studying books on parenting is really no new phenomenon. Ever since Dr. Benjamin Spock published "The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care" in 1946, parents have been reading up on the best way to raise their little ones.

Spock's book was a parenting bible for many years, but also entertained its share of critics, from those who accused him of being anti-feminist, to those who claimed he fostered generations of spoiled brats, to those who blame him for an increase in violent crime. (Kids who grew up thinking it's OK to eschew broccoli probably also think it's OK to steal someone's car ... right?)

But where once there was just Spock to follow (or not, as the case may be), there are now hundreds of parenting books to choose from, most of which seem to ride the same popularity roller coaster as Spock. A book might be celebrated one minute, but a few months down the line, a parent is a pariah for even having it on the shelf.

Parents run the risk of reading a book, only to find it widely discredited mere weeks later. It seemed I had to accept that while books differ on how to parent, they all seem to suggest there's a right way to parent -- and they, the authors, know the secret.

Several friends lent me "The Contented Little Baby Book" by Gina Ford, swearing by the schedule Ford delineates for parents. It includes, in some situations, letting your little one cry for a few minutes. But the idea of "crying it out" now has some detractors wringing their hands as it has become a subject of conflicting research findings.

Another book, Pamela Druckerman's "Bringing up Bebe," touts the French system to raising an independent-minded child who allows you to sleep, have dinner or maybe even a conversation. No-brainer, right? But the author also generated indignation, with one Forbes writer even accusing her of pushing a socialist agenda and ruining all our hopes for future generations of tyke-oons.

Whether it's Amy Chua's push-your-kid method in "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother," Dr. Bill Sears' let-your-kid-sleep-with-you plan, Ellen Galinsky's connection-before-correction or Tom Hodgkinson's advice to just chill and have a martini, the messages are different -- but strangely the same: You can screw your kids up, or you can make them great. It's all up to you, and whether you follow these wildly divergent instructions.

Argh-gulp panic-middle-of-the-night-cold-sweat-anxiety. What if I choose the wrong child guru and ruin my offspring? Can you mix and match philosophies? What if by mixing and matching you just create some kind of a babymonster? What if I (gasp) don't read anything at all?

"In terms of controversies and the bombardment of information, [the prevalence of so many conflicting parenting books] is making things too complicated and very un-relaxing for parents", says Dr. Richard Weissbourd, who teaches at Harvard University's Graduate School of Education and author of "The Parents We Mean To Be."

In his book, Weissbourd looks at the pathologies parents themselves bring to the table, rather than just examining ways to parent.

The book also examines the idea of "over-parenting." He believes many parents are too affected by "the Joneses." Not only are they feeling competitive in terms of what they've read, but they worry that by not not taking the same approaches as other parents, they're cheating their child out of opportunities.

Trying to the absolute best parent can actually be damaging to children, the books suggests, and possibly pointless: There are no blanket ways to parent and there is often no right or wrong approach, Weissbourd argues.

"Books often tend to be too generic and get into all these debates," he said. " It's more like, 'Who is my child and how can I be most constructive given what's going on with them?'"

Will Ferrell, in a "Nerdist" podcast, talks about how as a child he refused to take part in a gifted academic program at school, because it would interfere with his square-dancing classes. Ferrell's mom did not dissuade him, as some parents might have, and of course now he's, well, Will Ferrell.

I wondered how Ferrell would have turned out if Amy Chua was his mom? Or what a Sophia Chua-Rubenfeld raised in the Ferrell household would look like? Possibly not at Harvard, like Chua, or on on "Saturday Night Live," like Ferrell.

"There are certain things that are fundamental and if you do them reasonably well, the chances are your kid will be fine," Weissbourd says. "Spending time, being warm, listening, creating reasonable expectations, caring for people, caring for yourself. Safeguarding your child's health and knowing basic health information."

It sounds a lot like ... Dr. Spock.

Spock tells parents in the first chapter: ''Don't be afraid to trust your own common sense. What good mothers and fathers instinctively feel like doing for their babies is usually best."

So, I don't need a book? No need to read chapter two? Just do whatever I think is best?

Perhaps.

Weissbourd points out that this hyper-concern with reading parenting guides is largely divided among cultural and economic lines, and tends to be more of a middle- and upper-class issue. It's not that parents don't need guidance, he said, it's about where that guidance comes from.

He believes parenting in the United States has become too private. Parents will gladly read books, but balk at feedback from people they know. We've all heard the line: "Don't tell me how to raise my child!"

The takeaway, according to Weissbourd, is not to ignore parenting books altogether, which can sometimes offer practical tips, but that the best advice comes from those around you who know you and your little one. Not only is your child unique, but parents might be bringing their own issues to the table, and those might need to be assessed on a case-by-case basis.

Consult a trusted pediatrician, consult people whose opinions you respect, consult your partner, Weissbourd advises. Find time to pause and reflect -- he advises, adding, "I think everybody has got to relax."

For me and my new life with a newborn, the most appealing books turned out to be those where I could find an answer quickly. In Marc Weissbluth's "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child," I skipped the chapters that explained why sleep matters -- that seems startlingly obvious -- and went straight to the week-by-week instructions. The standard "Your Baby's First Year" by the American Academy of Pediatrics and Murkoff's "What to Expect..." books have been very helpful. I relied quite heavily on the Internet to give a variety of answers, making sure to check any advice with my pediatrician.

With a baby, I think it's less about personality, more about practical help. I think the real market for parenting books is parents with older children. Parents of babies reading about what kind of parent to be are probably, like me, likely to gravitate toward books that espouse theories they probably already believe. I read "Bringing up Bebe," because it resonated with ideas I already have about parenting, like teaching kids to enjoy "grown-up" foods from an early age (I might eat my words if my little one refuses everything but chicken fingers.) I like the idea of having a well-behaved child, as I imagine do most people.

This is all very well and good in theory, but I think it's important to read a book that's realistic to the specific situation. Even though I liked "Bringing up Bebe," it just might not be appropriate if my child is exceptionally shy. If a child has attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, for example, then reaching for Chua's "Battle Hymn" may not be the best shot.

When faced with parenting hurdles further down the line, there won't be one easy answer, one book with all the fixes. I like to think I'll take the same approach I do as a journalist -- read several source, know what advice and opinions are out there, whether books, articles or conversations with other parents and my doctor.

Most important, I think, as Dr. Spock advised years ago, I'll go with my gut.
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Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Mail to Ryan…Our Beautiful Boy - Just Because He Breathes - Learning to Truly Love our Gay Son…


My husband, Rob, wrote this letter to Ryan as part of our expanded “Just Because He Breathes” presentation for Exodus International. The video below was shown in our presentation, after Rob read this:

Dear Ryan,

I miss you so much. I don’t really know how heaven works because you might already know everything I’m about to say but just in case you don’t there’s some things I want you to know. I love you so much and it hurts so bad that you were not here last weekend to celebrate Riley’s wedding with us. We all missed you so much. Riley and Abby left an empty place for you, and Lindsey was the only bridesmaid who walked unescorted down the aisle, because you should have been with her. Even though the day would have been difficult for you in some aspects, you would have been so proud of your brother. And I know that you would just ADORE Abby. Your handsome face and easy laugh would have made the day complete for me.

That said, I am not angry that you relapsed on that day In late June 2009. I know you did not intend to let things get out of hand like they did. In fact I would not be bitter or angry even if you had taken your life. I have nothing but compassion and respect for how well and how long you battled your difficulties. Only now by reading your journals, do I more fully realize how much pain and difficulty you were facing. Whenever I feel like I need a good cry, all I have to do is to pull them out and it puts me in touch with the deep pain you were in…and how, as your earthly father, I let you down in many ways.

I am so very, very sorry for the things that I did to contribute to your despair. I so desperately wish that I had known back then what I do know now. I thought I was so right when you first came out to us. Little did I know how much I had to learn. Please forgive me for letting fear control my decisions and the way I responded to you, instead of faith. I should have trusted God, who loves you so much more – and better – than I do, and who never stopped chasing after you.

I so regret how slow I was to truly understand and love you without any conditions.

But you always had such grace for me. You were so patient with us while we learned what really mattered.

Thank you for trusting us with your deepest thoughts and fears and sharing so much of your experience as a gay teen, and a gay young adult, attempting to reconcile his faith with his sexuality. Thank you for all your letters and emails; the ones that made us laugh and the ones that made us cry. Your handwritten letters are priceless to me.

I so wish that I could introduce you to some of my dearest friends now, men and women who love Jesus with their whole hearts. They have helped me to understand that gay is not a deal breaker for God…that gay and Christian can co-exist, and that God isn’t wringing His hands over this issue. He is way bigger than this. I know that God did not reject or abandon you, or anyone else.

I wish I could take you to dinner tonight and tell you all the ways that your life…and even your death…blesses ours every day. We have learned so very much from you. God, through you, has opened up a whole new world for mom and I.

I wish we could make that snowboarding trip to Mount Baker that we had planned.

I wish you could see how we’re still using the zip line you designed. I will never forget the joy on your face as you concocted yet another way to creatively fly across our back yard.

I wish I could take you backpacking again, and that we could talk and talk and talk as we hiked.

I wish you were here to have backyard bonfires, and to come up with ever increasingly crazy ways to alarm our neighbors.

I wish you could call and tell me all about it when you met a guy you were interested in…and that I could meet him, too.

I wish that we could have a barbeque on your roof, with the view of the Space Needle that we loved so much.

I wish we could ride down the driveway together…one of us on my rip stick and one on my long board…and that we could teach each other new tricks as we laughed and crashed.

I wish you were here to help me hunt the raccoons that threaten to eat our Janie cat…I will NEVER forget the time you pegged that one 30 ft up in the tree in our front yard, and then 20 seconds later, got the second one on your first try.

I wish you could cook your specialty eggs in our kitchen, adding that fire sauce, while you sang funny songs and worship songs and whatever else came to mind. I miss your voice.

I wish you were here in the audience, sitting with Larissa and Cam and Lindsey and Grandma Pat and Uncle Ronny and Uncle Don and all our new friends from Biola Queers, who I know you would love so much.

I wish I could hold you again.

I love you, Ryan.

I miss you. Oh, how I miss you.

I am so very, very proud of you.

I am sorry for EVER wanting you to be anyone other than who God made you to be. I am so very sorry for all the things I said that caused you to feel that I would love you more if you were straight.

I know now that you were EXACTLY who God intended…and that you were BEAUTIFUL.

You were, and will always be, my beautiful, beautiful boy…

We showed this video to accompany the letter during our presentation:
 
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Just Because He Breathes: Learning to Truly Love Our Gay Son


On the night of Nov. 20, 2001, a conversation held over Instant Messenger changed our lives forever. Our 12-year-old son messaged me in my office from the computer in his bedroom.

Ryan says: can i tell u something

Mom says: Yes I am listening

Ryan says: well i don't know how to say this really but, well......, i can't keep lying to you about myself. I have been hiding this for too long and i sorta have to tell u now. By now u probably have an idea of what i am about to say.
Ryan says: I am gay
Ryan says: i can't believe i just told you

Mom says: Are you joking?

Ryan says: no
Ryan says: i thought you would understand because of uncle don

Mom says: of course I would
Mom says: but what makes you think you are?

Ryan says: i know i am
Ryan says: i don't like hannah
Ryan says: it's just a cover-up

Mom says: but that doesn't make you gay...

Ryan says: i know
Ryan says: but u don't understand
Ryan says: i am gay

Mom says: tell me more

Ryan says: it's just the way i am and it's something i know
Ryan says: u r not a lesbian and u know that. it is the same thing

Mom says: what do you mean?

Ryan says: i am just gay
Ryan says: i am that

Mom says: I love you no matter what

Ryan says: i am white not black
Ryan says: i know
Ryan says: i am a boy not a girl
Ryan says: i am attracted to boys not girls
Ryan says: u know that about yourself and i know this

Mom says: what about what God thinks about acting on these desires?

Ryan says: i know

Mom says: thank you for telling me

Ryan says: and i am very confused about that right now

Mom says: I love you more for being honest

Ryan says: i know
Ryan says: thanx

We were completely shocked. Not that we didn't know and love gay people; my only brother had come out to us several years before, and we adored him. But Ryan? He was unafraid of anything, tough as nails and all boy. We had not seen this coming, and the emotion that overwhelmed us, kept us awake at night and, sadly, influenced all our reactions over the next six years was fear.

We said all the things that we thought loving Christian parents who believed the Bible, the Word of God, should say:

We love you. We will always love you. And this is hard. Really hard. But we know what God says about this, so you are going to have to make some really difficult choices.

We love you. We couldn't love you more. But there are other men who have faced this same struggle, and God has worked in them to change their desires. We'll get you their books; you can listen to their testimonies. And we will trust God with this.

We love you. We are so glad you are our son. But you are young, and your sexual orientation is still developing. The feelings you've had for other guys don't make you gay. So please don't tell anyone that you are gay. You don't know who you are yet. Your identity is not that you are gay; it is that you are a child of God.

We love you. Nothing will change that. But if you are going to follow Jesus, holiness is your only option. You are going to have to choose to follow Jesus, no matter what. And since you know what the Bible says, and since you want to follow God, embracing your sexuality is not an option.

We thought we understood the magnitude of the sacrifice that we -- and God -- were asking for. And this sacrifice, we knew, would lead to an abundant life, perfect peace and eternal rewards. Ryan had always felt intensely drawn to spiritual things; He desired to please God above all else. So, for the first six years, he tried to choose Jesus. Like so many others before him, he pleaded with God to help him be attracted to girls. He memorized Scripture, met with his youth pastor weekly, enthusiastically participated in all the church youth group events and Bible Studies and got baptized. He read all the books that claimed to know where his gay feelings came from, dove into counseling to further discover the whys of his unwanted attraction to other guys, worked through painful conflict resolution with my husband and me and built strong friendships with other guys -- straight guys -- just like the reparative therapy experts advised. He even came out to his entire youth group, giving his testimony of how God had rescued him from the traps of the enemy, and sharing, by memory, verse after verse that God had used to draw Ryan to Him.

But nothing changed. God didn't answer his prayer, or ours, though we were all believing with faith that the God of the Universe, the God for whom nothing is impossible, could easily make Ryan straight. But He did not.

Though our hearts may have been good (we truly thought what we were doing was loving), we did not even give Ryan a chance to wrestle with God, to figure out what he believed God was telling him through scripture about his sexuality. We had believed firmly in giving each of our four children the space to question Christianity, to decide for themselves if they wanted to follow Jesus, to truly own their own faith. But we were too afraid to give Ryan that room when it came to his sexuality, for fear that he'd make the wrong choice.

Basically, we told our son that he had to choose between Jesus and his sexuality. We forced him to make a choice between God and being a sexual person. Choosing God, practically, meant living a lifetime condemned to being alone. He would never have the chance to fall in love, have his first kiss, hold hands, share intimacy and companionship or experience romance.

And so, just before his 18th birthday, Ryan, depressed, suicidal, disillusioned and convinced that he would never be able to be loved by God, made a new choice. He decided to throw out his Bible and his faith at the same time and try searching for what he desperately wanted -- peace -- another way. And the way he chose to try first was drugs.

We had unintentionally taught Ryan to hate his sexuality. And since sexuality cannot be separated from the self, we had taught Ryan to hate himself. So as he began to use drugs, he did so with a recklessness and a lack of caution for his own safety that was alarming to everyone who knew him.

Suddenly our fear of Ryan someday having a boyfriend (a possibility that honestly terrified me) seemed trivial in contrast to our fear of Ryan's death, especially in light of his recent rejection of Christianity and his mounting anger at God.

Ryan started with weed and beer, but in six short months was using cocaine, crack and heroin. He was hooked from the beginning, and his self-loathing and rage at God only fueled his addiction. Shortly thereafter, we lost contact with him. For the next year and a half, we didn't know where he was or even if he was dead or alive. And during that horrific time, God had our full attention. We stopped praying for Ryan to become straight. We started praying for him to know that God loved him. We stopped praying for him to never have a boyfriend. We started praying that someday we might actually get to know his boyfriend. We even stopped praying for him to come home to us; we only wanted him to come home to God.

By the time our son called us, after 18 long months of silence, God had completely changed our perspective. Because Ryan had done some pretty terrible things while using drugs, the first thing he asked me was this:

Do you think you can ever forgive me? (I told him of course, he was already forgiven. He had always been forgiven.)

Do you think you could ever love me again? (I told him that we had never stopped loving him, not for one second. We loved him then more than we had ever loved him.)

Do you think you could ever love me with a boyfriend? (Crying, I told him that we could love him with 15 boyfriends. We just wanted him back in our lives. We just wanted to have a relationship with him again... and with his boyfriend.)

And a new journey was begun, one of healing, restoration, open communication and grace. Lots of grace. And God was present every step of the way, leading and guiding us, gently reminding us simply to love our son and leave the rest up to Him.

Over the next 10 months, we learned to truly love our son. Period. No buts. No conditions. Just because he breathes. We learned to love whomever our son loved. And it was easy. What I had been so afraid of became a blessing. The journey wasn't without mistakes, but we had grace for each other, and the language of apology and forgiveness became a natural part of our relationship. As our son pursued recovery from drug and alcohol addiction, we pursued him. God taught us how to love him, to rejoice over him, to be proud of the man he was becoming. We were all healing, and most importantly, Ryan began to think that if we could forgive him and love him, then maybe God could, too.

And then Ryan made the classic mistake of a recovering addict: He got back together with his old friends, his using friends. And one evening that was supposed to simply be a night at the movies turned out to be the first time he had shot up in 10 months -- and the last time. Ryan died on July 16, 2009. And we lost the ability to love our gay son, because we no longer had a gay son. What we had wished for, prayed for, hoped for -- that we would not have a gay son -- came true. But not at all in the way we had envisioned.

Now, when I think back on the fear that governed all my reactions during those first six years after Ryan told us he was gay, I cringe as I realize how foolish I was. I was afraid of all the wrong things. And I grieve, not only for my oldest son, whom I will miss every day for the rest of my life, but for the mistakes I made. I grieve for what could have been, had we been walking by faith instead of by fear. Now, whenever Rob and I join our gay friends for an evening, I think about how much I would love to be visiting with Ryan and his partner over dinner. But instead, we visit Ryan's gravestone. We celebrate anniversaries: the would-have-been birthdays and the unforgettable day of his death. We wear orange, his color. We hoard memories: pictures, clothing he wore, handwritten notes, lists of things he loved, tokens of his passions, recollections of the funny songs he invented, his Curious George and baseball blankey, anything, really, that reminds us of our beautiful boy, for that is all we have left, and there will be no new memories. We rejoice in our adult children, and in our growing family as they marry, but we ache for the one of our "gang of four" who is missing. We mark life by the days B.C. (before coma) and A.D. (after death), because we are different people now; our life was irrevocably changed in a million ways by his death. We treasure friendships with others who "get it" because they, too, have lost a child.

We weep. We seek Heaven for grace and mercy and redemption as we try not to get better but to be better. And we pray that God can somehow use our story to help other parents learn to truly love their children. Just because they breathe.

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Story copied from http://www.huffingtonpost.com/linda-robertson/just-because-he-breathes-learning-to-truly-love-our-gay-son_b_3478971.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Crisis and Faith: How Losing Almost Everything Can Help You See What Matters


 

Martin Spinelli
Author, 'After the Crash'


My 4-year-old son Lio had been in a coma for more than a week. While his bed was about to be changed, I maneuvered myself around all the tubes and wires and slid my hand under his back up to his head. With my other arm under his knees, I carefully lifted him up onto my lap and sat down in the vinyl-covered chair beside his bed. I wasn't expecting his skin to be so warm and I let myself feel a bit comforted.

After seeing me hold him, his grandmother (my mother) wrote in her diary that the sight of Lio draped in my arms reminded her of one of the most well-known Easter images: The Pietà, that famous Michelangelo sculpture of Mary holding Jesus after the after the crucifixion. She finished by saying, "Lio will come back to us too."

In the past I've often found words like this a bit difficult to take in. It's almost as if that most famous Christian miracle, like the miracle I was praying for (that Lio would defy the doctors and cheat death himself), could be undone or made impossible by speaking about it in such an obvious way. Maybe this is more my problem than it is my mother's. But her attempts to describe the indescribable have caused me a crisis of faith because I know that words are slippery things that often suggest the opposite of what they say on the surface. But sometimes in life crises are really second chances in disguise.

My crisis began 10 days earlier. It was going to be the most important day of my career: I was scheduled to give the keynote address at a huge international media conference in Sunderland, in the north of England. I had worked all my life that moment: I had published journal articles and written reviews; I made ambitious and challenging radio for the BBC and for NPR stations; my work was in museums; and I had just traded in my good academic gig in New York for an even better one at a university in the U.K. I felt like I was at the top of my game, I was driven and striving, with this constant itch to be forever notching up more lines on my résumé.

As it happened, I never got the chance to deliver my amazing talk on new ways of making radio. Instead, I was met at my hotel by two policemen who lacked the usual swagger and who were struggling to look me in the eye. They told me that there had been an accident on the highway and that my wife Sasha had been killed and that our son Lio was very near death in a hospital in London. I collapsed into the chair behind me and, as I struggled to process what I'd just been told, the person I'd been all my adult life simply died too -- and died quickly.

Three hours later I was by Lio's side in pediatric intensive care. The space was dark and windowless, lit mostly by the small red LEDs of medical equipment. There, surrounded by a halo of computer screens, I found my only child with a fractured skull, severe brain damage and a horribly shattered left leg. It was suggested that I consider donating his organs. Doctors told me he would likely not make it and told me that the best, the absolute best-case scenario that I should allow myself to hope for was Lio one day attending a school for the severely mentally handicapped. Absolutely everything I'd ever wanted for my life and for my son's life had evaporated in a matter of hours.

But as I looked at him, bruised and battered as he was on his hospital bed, something began to fill the void. I don't know where it came from or how I came by it, but I was getting something. I had lost my wife, but at least -- at least in that moment -- I still had our little boy. As I stood there, my thumb wedged in his tiny clenched fist, I found myself saying, "I will face this. Nothing will stop me doing what needs to be done, saving Lio and getting him out of here. He will do it." Then I found myself seeing the rest of my life unfolding, and unfolding happily, pulling Lio back from this precipice. I had been burnt empty by fear, but this little meditation that I somehow stumbled onto was putting something back, and while the fear would swallow me again and again I would again and again fall back on a version of this little pep talk.

The next morning Lio was still with us. And with this simple fact in mind the tiny kernel of faith that I had nourished by his bedside all night long stirred and grew a little bit. Gradually, with infinitesimally small steps and in the face of some brutal and devastating setbacks, Lio got better over the next days: He was taken off of his respirator and breathed on his own, unaided, when I'd been told that this might never happen. His brain started regulating his body temperature on its own again. And his muscles, initially as tight as steel springs, began to loosen.

How and why these improvements happened, no one seemed sure, given, as the doctors were fond of saying, "the original nature of his injuries." I like to think that I had something to do with it. I almost never left his bedside. I would read to him from his favorite books. I would spin out for him over and over again the magical stories that his mother and I had invented about elves and dragons and a littler miller boy who lived in the Italian Alps, stories that had been a part of his bedtime routine since he was a toddler. I would trace little lines and circles with my fingers along his face and his limbs four times a day while special brain stimulating music was playing to him in headphones.

With each incremental movement he made in the right direction, I collected another piece of my heart. In those moments and through that closeness I discovered something. I came by a profound sense of meaning and a knowledge of what I was really meant to be: not a high-flying academic, but a father -- the best father I was capable of being. Where the old me was hounded by a non-stop restlessness, an ambition to always be achieving more and having more, there, in those quiet and anonymous moments at my unconscious son's side, I found my purpose. I felt a clarity that had eluded me my whole life. Sometimes today, if I get too distracted by more traditional ambitions, I push myself to remember that clarity.

The moment when I held Lio in my arms for the first time after the crash, the moment that my mother thought looked like The Pietà, will stay with me forever. As I held him warm and broken in my arms, something happened that even I wasn't expecting. He opened his eyes. Like a newborn baby doing it for the first time, he opened his eyes for me. I can't honestly say whether they were focused or not, but he did open his eyes. As I looked at him and (maybe) he looked at me, everything else in the world stopped and I stared transfixed for the first time in 10 days into the blue of his eyes. I was lost in simply their color. There it was, beyond any subjective hope, a sign that Lio was really and truly on his way out of a coma.

The word "rebirth" is certainly a bit worn out, clichéd at best and tedious at worst. But after what we've been through, I find myself making an effort to be more charitable with other people's words, not just my mother's. The crisis of the crash -- six years ago now -- changed me in ways that I'm still coming to grips with. Perhaps most importantly, faith, in both general and specific senses, is now something that I don't shy away from, that I don't seek to avoid either as a sensation or a topic of conversation. In fact, faith has become an odd kind of tether to those terrible early days in the hospital. It's a conduit to the purpose, meaning and love I found there in those dark moments by my son's bedside, days which remain, in the strangest of ways, the most contented of my life.

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Courtesy of  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/martin-spinelli/crisis-and-faith-how-losing-almost-everything-can-help-you-see-what-matters_b_3040028.html?utm_hp_ref=religion