I want them to see me give mercy. I want them to see me accept grace. I want them to see me talking with their mom, in the quiet of the mornings on the porch.
I want them to find me playing my guitar when no one is looking or listening. I want them to know how beauty roots in solitude and blooms as an afront to chaos.
I want them to find me talking to God as if he hears, and wants to talk back, because he does.
I want them to discover the overwhelming wonder of music, from Bach to Led Zepplin. I want them to see me drink it in. I want them to see me singing with it, dancing to it, unafraid of the neighbor’s surprise visit or what our sophisticated society may think.
I want them to hear my laughter shake the rafters.
I want them to hear my sobs resound in the quietness of my closet.
I want them to find me napping, under a tree, in a hammock.
I want them to find me by the fire just looking at stars, way past midnight when they should be in bed but can’t sleep.
I want them to see me heading out on my mountain bike. Cleaning my mountain bike, fixing my mountain bike. I want them to ask me if they can come along.
I want them to see me bleed.
I want them to hear me tell stories.
I want them to feel free to crawl up into my lap, even while I’m working.
I want them never to have to wait until I post something to hear their inquiry.
I want them to be in the world, rather than spending time curating a virtual one.
I want to binge-watch THEM.
As a culture, our attentiveness has succumb to the glam of immediacy. I want my daughters to see me attentive, to them, to our life together, to the moment. I don’t want them to see me rushing it off to the internet.
I didn’t post any pictures from the party. I wanted to keep the images in my memory, private, and special. And the same goes for this Saturday when I planted pansies with my daughters. Life events don’t have to be posted to be special. In fact, hiddenness enriches our lives with the value of intimacy.