It wasn't long ago that your mom and I found out you would be joining our world in about nine months. We sat in our one-bedroom studio apartment in Northampton and thought about you, crying and laughing hysterically as we tried to wrap our minds around creation and how hearts swell as a family grows.
The next day we went and bought your first pair of shoes. They were brown and so small...I'm not sure they even counted as a size. Now, you're a size 13.
This morning, you got on the yellow bus. You held your friends hand who was scared, and led him up those steps into the unknown. You found a seat. Then the bus drove away and I felt something raw inside. It wasn't fear. I don't fear for you because I've prayed for you for five years and loved you the best I could. No, not fear. Hope.
Not hope like wishing something could happen but it might not. Not that kind of hope. Not false hope. But the real stuff. Hope like iron. Hope like knowing but not seeing. Hope like trust and hope like faith. Hope for what is to come and gratitude for what has been. Trusting that the only way forward is one step at a time, one day at a time, one yellow bus ride at a time.
Someday this will seem trite, perhaps, but not today. It's the biggest thing because something new is beginning and we need to stop and look. What did you talk about on the bus ride, I wonder? How did you feel, looking up at the riveted roof and bouncing on the seats? Are you going to surf the aisles like your dad did when he was a kid? Are you going to make friends today? Will this be easy for you? Will there be tears? That's okay. We learn from those.
So many questions and such a big world ahead. But all you need to know is that we will be there for you when you get home, just like we've been there for you for the past 1,883 days. Don't be scared, because I'm not. Let your intrepid soul explore. Be a pioneer. Don't cling to safety. Go ahead. Take my hand, set your face to the horizon, and let's head into the unknown together. Steady as she goes, boy.