The Divine Privilege

This past week, my family and I celebrated my middle child's college graduation. He earned a degree in computer science. Naturally, my wife and I are proud, but many other thoughts and emotions swirled through my mind this weekend.

As a photographer, I took his graduation photos, of course. My son wanted some of them taken in the computer science building where he had spent so much of his college experience. We walked into the darkened computer lab, its monitors lined up and waiting for next semester's students, and suddenly I was transported back. I had momentarily returned to college in 1989, sweating it out in the chilly mainframe computer lab at midnight, desperately trying to get an Assembler or COBOL program to run correctly before a deadline.

​So, when I walked into that darkened computer lab with my son, a solitary pool of light in front of one monitor drew my eye. I asked my son to sit in that island of light. I wanted to capture the feeling I had all those years ago when I sat in front of a similar monitor—the solitary feeling of task, pressure, deadline, and unyielding requirements that must be completed correctly.

Let me explain.

None of my children followed in my footsteps into the military, aviation, or picked up the pen or camera to become a writer or photographer. I never asked them to, as they have their own destinies to fulfill, and it’s my job to support them in pursuing their own dreams, not to foist mine onto them. Yet, my middle child and I share a common bond: a degree in computer science. Back in the 1980s, I earned a computer science degree, though the technology was markedly different then. Computer science is much like aviation—it's either right or it's wrong. There are immutable laws of logic that must be followed. The code either runs correctly or it doesn’t. I knew my son had struggled in his degree program, just as I had.

When he sat down in front of that monitor, I could see by his expression that he, too, had spent many long, frustrating, and solitary nights in front of a screen, trying to make it all work. I knew my son had experienced the same emotions I had 40 years ago, though his programs were far more complex than mine. I am proud of my son and thankful for this common thread we share. I know his path through life will be markedly different from mine, but I know he’ll be okay.
This "common bond" with my son wouldn’t have been possible if my wife and I had not chosen to have him.

In my youth, fatherhood was a role I swore I would never shoulder. In my teens and early 20s, life was about me, my career, and my own selfish desires. A good woman came into my life, from a good family, and showed me the value of family. Family, especially children, enables true personal and spiritual growth. Children are the divine privilege God bestows upon the fortunate. Parenthood teaches you there are far more important things in life than yourself. It’s a wonderful, heartbreaking journey.

The young man you see in these images was born with a rare cancer. The doctors gave him a 40% chance of survival. As an infant, he underwent chemotherapy, numerous surgeries, and radiation before he was two. He survived. He thrived. God gave him a gentle spirit and an inner strength that is wondrous to behold. During that journey, my second-born taught me many lessons, the most important of which was about The Illusion Exotic.

The Illusion Exotic is the illusion that we, as mere mortals, are in control of anything. We think we are in control, but we are not. It’s a dream many never wake up from. Our only true power is how we react to life’s unexpected turns. We are not in control. All that matters is the moment and who we love and cherish in that moment. That’s it. It’s this lesson that children are uniquely equipped to teach their parents. That’s the secret of life, in case you’re interested. I bet you didn’t expect to discover the secret of life reading this little blog this morning, did you?

My children, including this young man, are my greatest accomplishment. My only regret in life is that I didn’t have more children.

I asked my wife to turn on the lights in the computer lab, and I took one more photo. Sometimes one’s heart cannot contain the blessings the Lord chooses to pour into it. It’s a beautiful heartbreak.