Micah,

My dear son. What a privilege and honor it is for me to write this blessing for you on your second birthday. (Funny enough, your favorite song at the moment is "The Blessing" by Kari Jobe.) It's been one of the greatest joys in my life to raise you as your father.

Already I can see how smart, silly, kind, and curious you are to the world around you. There are fun moments when we race our cars or play ball together in the living room. There are also moments of tenderness when you comfort your sister or share a toy you probably didn't want to give up.

In all these little snapshots of life, I get to see the amazing human being you are growing up to be.

In the wake of this past week's events, many of us are feeling a lot of emotions. It's a tragedy when a person—a father, a husband—loses their life so brutally and in public.

The news is filled with opinions and commentary, and it's easy to get lost in the noise. Rather than add to it, I want to pause and just offer a simple prayer for our nation and our world.

Please pray with me if you will:

Lord, my heart is heavy with the brokenness I feel for the world. I lament the violence and bloodshed that has become so normalized in our society. We've become so numb to it all, and I confess my own part in that. Please break my heart for what breaks yours, and give me a softened heart that weighs the injustice you hold.

I saw a clip of Donald Miller talking about one of the benefits in becoming a parent later in life. He said he’s gained greater perspective and wisdom to care for his kids in the right way.

Specifically, he spoke of developing the “eulogy virtues over the résumé virtues.” So early and often in his younger days (as a single man) he would prioritize his career. Building success, achieving results, ascending the ladder and salary scales. In many ways, he was looking to proverbially pad his résumé as he figured it would result in fulfillment and self-worth.

As he entered his early 40s, he settled down and got married and started a family. And he realized, soon enough, that none of that really matters. Especially not to your loved ones.

He talks about death and dying, and how those who will remember us will not speak of us in terms of our achievements (“Wow he made $5 million dollars over his lifetime” or “He became CEO at such an early age). No, they will always share about how we were to them as a human being. Did we treat them out for coffee often? Did we spend time by their side when they were sick or grieving? Were we a good listener? Did we show kindness and love in ways both tangible and not?

It’s been almost two months… but I still feel the pain. The loss.

I know we’ve been through this before. (I’ve honestly lost count at this point.) And I’m usually quicker to get over it and just move on.

But this one feels different. Maybe because I had every hope and expectation that it was going to be different. In my mind I had it all mapped out one way, that this would be the “redemption baby.” That we didn’t have to work through multiple miscarriages again until we arrived to our son or daughter. That this would be the one to go smoothly for once…

Lately, I've been thinking much about the Parable of the Good Samaritan.

In this story, found in Luke 10, Jesus is responding to a lawyer who asks a crucial question: how to gain eternal life. Jesus turns the inquiry back on the man: "What is written in the Law? How do you read it?"

The lawyer replies with the core commandments: "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself.”

Jesus commends him and encourages him to "Do this, and you will live." But the lawyer, looking to justify himself, shoots back with the defining question: "And who is my neighbor?"

Jesus answers with the parable.