FROM A FATHER'S PEN-Feb 2010

I love pens. The collection on my desk next to my computer is loaded with stories. Of course, the Mont Blanc fountain that M gave me, rises supreme among the others. Mark gave me a beautiful green fountain pen that cuddles up to the one JD gave me, which was hand made by a friend. The one I bought in OZ is in convo with the one I picked up somewhere. I love pens.

Actually I love writing. Writing is not always for the reading. It is just the need to give air to the word pictures that flurry around in the soul. Writing is not about words. Words can be cold impersonal and so functional. Writing is about art. When God created, he invested with wonder of imagination in all of us. This heavenly inspired imagination needs to find expression in our worlds. To sow, to draw, to kick, to sing, to play, to think, to talk, to design, to dream... each speak of a creator God who giggles with delight when we 'art'. I am a wordsmith. I see the words as picture stories. They scamper before me like puppies, each focussed on the sheer exuberance of life. Life, that glorious celebration of divine intent, finds words displayed in me.

But I am a father. From the first moment I heard the cry of a fragile little girl as she climbed her way our of her mother's tummy, I knew I had found my highest call. The trauma of a near death at birth galvanized M and me to fight for our little girl's life. She had to live. The toxemia that threatened her mother, was now threatening her too. Stuck in the pelvic canal required an emergency caesarian section surgery. The little girl's heart pounded in phoetal distress as we rushed to the OR.

Tears. We wept when she came into our world. Little, tiny, vulnerable, hurting, bloodied but loved. She was alive and she was ours. Our little "miracle of God" had entered our world.

Heaven celebrates every birth. None are surprises in God's authorship. Piece by piece, he spent nine months putting you all together. The wonder of the womb held you in place as the cosmic artist splashed you with mystery, uniqueness, personality, destiny. Heaven sang their songs of joy. Angels visited your very and every first moments. And there was a Father who laughed. Tears streaming down his face, he laughed as you breathed your first. As the lady in blue, pushed and probed your fragile body under lights and clinical functionality, the angels chuckled. You were celebrated.

How do you know? Well they did it to him. The hidden birth in a manger — probably a cave, heard the chuckle of heaven, heard the angels sing and felt the smile of the Father. That is how I know. I know because they were there when my trilogy of gifts graced our anticipated worlds. They were there because I did not celebrate it alone.

Welcome to our world of wonder. He made you with a chuckle, smile and dance. I remember...