I am incredibly thankful to the folks at Venn Magazine who graciously have allowed me to start contributing to their website. (Yes, this means I'm going to start writing again.)
Presented here is the original opening of my piece, which was trimmed due to my ability to somehow write twice the allotted word count. I'm kooky like that. At the end of the intro is the link to the Venn Magazine website where you can continue on reading.
It was the summer of 2005. I was walking around the perimeter of my undergrad institution. I remembered with crystal clarity the feel of the sidewalk beneath my feet as I rushed (late again) to classes, the immensity of the rooms where we limped through lesson after lesson, and the grandeur of the stage where our choir performed. Now? Everything felt smaller.
It was May of 2007. We had spent the previous day in a flurry of preparedness, planning the final placement of flowers, the guest registry, and decorations. But today, on my wedding day, the chuppah we had raised, the crowd of friends gathered to celebrate, and the layout of the feast in the room below us where we would toast and join in a communal meal? Compared to the vision of beauty walking down the aisle towards me? Everything felt smaller.
It was the summer of 2008. I was busy at work. The phone call from my sister started with only three words: "It's lung cancer." Less than five months later, in November, I was packing a suitcase late at night after being awoken with the news that my father had passed away. The work projects and student assignments that were of such importance to the university that needed to be done before the end of the semester? Everything felt smaller.
It was March of 2009. The doctors rushed my wife into surgery for an emergency Caesarian, because the umbilical cord had become tangled around our baby's neck. After what felt like the fastest delivery in medical history, I held a bright eyed, round faced, tiny baby boy in my arms. The worries of how to change a diaper, how to take care of him, and the burden of responsibility I fretted over on an almost hourly basis? Everything felt smaller.
It was June of 2013. In a twist of history repeating itself, my wife and I raced to the hospital because she had begun to go into labor the day of our scheduled Caesarian. A few hours later, a crying, cuddly, joyous little baby boy was in my arms. The worry about taking care of two kids as a stay-at-home dad, the reality of the strain it might put on our finances, the fact I felt like I'd forgotten everything about how to take care of a baby after only almost five years? Everything felt smaller.
Click here to continue on to the Venn Magazine website for the rest of the story.