On Tuesday, one of the little princesses in my life will turn six years old. I don’t know where the years went since I prayed with her daddy that Jesus would let us meet her. That rainbow baby is now a curious and intuitive observer of the world and a quiet and tender noticer of people. She melts my heart so often that my therapist knows who Nora is.
But yesterday, she wasn’t melting. She had joined me and her daddy on a cold winter morning, trudging up and down the side of Candlers Mountain while we played disc golf. A big girl now, she dressed herself; and Nate had made sure she was bundled up in a puffy jacket. But Nora’s socks kept slipping into her rubber boots, and the hood of her coat wasn’t conserving enough body heat against the high winds.
I asked her if she wanted my beanie and winter socks. She sheepishly nodded yes. It wasn’t a sacrifice for me, as my feet were overheating in my hiking boots. So, Nora spent the rest of our round in socks that reached to her knees, stopping for snacks every other tee box.
It made me happy to endear myself to a soft heart. I thought her contentment and goodbye hugs would be the full reward for helping her endure the 2.5-mile hike with me and Nate. And I would’ve been content with that.
Then this morning, her daddy sang on stage during the baptism services of our shared church. Afterward, Nate texted me, “Please find me before you leave.” I didn’t have to, because he found me in the parking lot and handed me this 3×5 card.
On her own with no help from Mommy or Daddy, Nora wrote, “Thank you Uncle Ryan for the socks and hat Nora” On the back she drew pictures of my hiking socks, a winter beanie, and a heart along with, “Uncle Ryan love Nora Brown.”
I’ve won more than 250 state and national awards in my career and just about every writing award available from my college before that, and none of them compare to this wrinkled card with blue, ball-point ink. Nora sounded out the words on her heart, rightly assuming my heart doesn’t run spell check.
Like 99% of my social media friends, Nora didn’t know about the family emergencies, disappointments, and hard conversations that filled the days before our morning on the mountain. She didn’t know how weary my spirit was after a 17-hour shift in the office the day before. She doesn’t grasp yet that I’ve been adapting to fatherhood of a daughter I didn’t know when she was Nora’s age.
She just knew she loves her Uncle Ryan and that I would love her thank you card.
I’m as addicted to social media notifications as ever. I still crave those emails from clients that relay how my work made them a bigger commission than expected. I can’t get enough of the messages from people who read my books and tell me they felt seen or validated or inspired. But I’m finding that the affirmations landing heaviest on my heart right now are the work of tiny hands and the hugs from arms that can’t reach all the way around my back.
I can’t tell you how much it means that little hearts and bodies feel safe around me—the son of a serial child abuser. Each note and drawing reminds me that I might share two thirds of my dad’s name, but I won’t share his legacy. Every time little fingers wrap around mine or a little bottom sits in the bend of my arm, I hear a whisper only in my heart: “You are breaking generational chains.”
I’m working hard to bend the trajectory of life, to rewrite the story of my years on this planet. For years, I looked for that renovated legacy at awards ceremonies, in adrenaline-infused videos, on foreign continents, and with the books I’ve written. At this stage of my healing journey, though, I’m growing more content with offline affirmations of a quiet, faithful life.
I don’t know how many books I’ll sell, how big I’ll grow my business, or how many countries I’ll eventually visit. But I know something more important: there are little feet that feel comfortable in my socks.
