#joy

In a few months, I believe my definition for this word will be changing. Adam will be a new joy in my life, and he is a shadow made by the object of my joy: Ellen. (Side note: There is something about her in this whole pregnancy journey that makes me giddy.)

Joy is a peculiar thing. In my opinion, it is a lot like humility. If you have to tell someone you are humble, it defeats its own meaning. People who experience joy do not have to actually talk about it. Joy just is.

Adam,

I want you to experience joy. And don't over complicate it; joy should be simple. Not necessarily easy, but simple. I honestly do not know how to tell you to get to a place of joy in your life. I do know this one thing: it is worth the hunt. The Bible mentions joy in a little passage that talks about the culmination of the character of one that knows God. Joy is a gift from God. We all experience joy differently as if joy is the signature of God in our lives. If you can understand that, then you will always be thrilled by the joyful moments in your life. Adam, this is my take on joy… (This is a borrowed comparison.) Joy is like finding a treasure in a field. Once realizing the value of this treasure you bury it. Go sell everything you have, and buy the field so that then the treasure is also yours. Essentially, wherever it is that you experience joy--camp there--because that is where God is.

Here are some things that give me joy:

1. You.  Although you are not here yet, I think about you all the time. I think about what you are going to be. The words you will use. The friends you will have. The hobbies you’ll be great at. The brain you will have. Your creativity. Your expanse of love. The curiosity of your learning. When I think of you it feels like a smile starts curling at the corners of my mouth but then continues until I am wrapped in the warmth of a hug as delicate as the wind and as strong as the thunder. I am pretty sure that is joy. (So just imagine my joy when you are actually here hanging out with me!!)

2. When Ellen says she is proud of me. My goal in life now is to provide for you and your mother. I want you both to be fulfilled spiritually, emotionally, financially, experientially, and lots of other words that end in ly. And when she says she is proud of me--what she is saying creeps right into my soul. It translates to "I am safe." And when you are safe you are free to be yourself, express yourself, and grow.

3. When I am creating (whether that be writing, building, painting, or drawing). These moments give me joy because I feel like I am truly using the gifts that God has given me. I am creative not in and of myself, but because of the Creator. So the expression of my hands and words are like a translation of God's being. (Albeit a good-try-translation. Like when you draw a portrait of your parents when you are three--big circle, no neck, arms all wrong, head like a kite.)

4. Helping someone--especially someone that has the inability to truly help himself. When John the Baptist was in his mother’s womb, he leaped when Mary walked in carrying the child of God. When I help someone that is in need that is what it feels like. It feels good in the gut. Probably the Spirit leaping within us, because we are most like Jesus in those moments. 

My point in all of this is that I believe that joy is similar to faith and love. Difficult to explain, and when you have it--you know it. So how do I know that I am experiencing joy? My soul feels as if it has taken a breath. Like tasting oxygen for the first time. I really want you to live in joy.

Love,

Arguably the Most ADHD Dad in the World

#story

Story is important to me. I want to know that my life told a story--not just an existence. We get caught up in existence so much that we often forget that we are a key character in a story much bigger than our names and two dates on a tombstone. (That is not meant as a morbid thought, but I do hope you stopped to consider your own story.) I think of my own story all the time. I think about how boring it would be to recount days that followed monotonous patterns. No one is interested in why I chose the particular underwear I wore that day, the appointments I went on, the walk I took with my dog, the dinner I cooked, the dishes I didn't do, the time I went to bed... No one—well, maybe a stalker. (And they would tell the story much better than it was.) And then I think about how awesome it is to recount the stories where I take up the sword in my role as the hero (or court jester, or antagonist, or...) Those are the moments I want to capture and squeeze every bit of life out of. I want to make lemonade, or limoncello, or lemon spritzer, or lemon cocktails, or lemon other-delicious-things-made-with-lemon. I want life to be a story.

And I am consumed by the idea of Adam Armour Olive's story. Who will he be? What will he love? What makes him happy or sad? What adventures will he embark upon? Who are his friends? Who will he marry? Who are his children? What role will I play in his story?

I know my role will shift throughout his life. I just want to be a main character. And get ready for your mind to be blown: I will be if I choose the role. In the stories we are involved with, we are not in a casting role. We do not have to wait to be picked. We can pick ourselves. (BOOM.) How many of you reading this are waiting to be invited into a story? And the follow up question: Why? Why succumb to the tyranny of being picked? Pick yourself. You need to know you can live a better story. 

These are the stories / plots I want to play out with Adam:

Adventure-- Two men on a journey. Each armed with nothing but the dependence on the other. Watch as they take on the tallest peaks, the deepest waters, and the most ferocious beasts of wild. Randy teaches Adam what it means to be a man, and Adams shows Randy that life is better together. Their friendship deepens as they realize that letting go pulls them together. 

Comedy-- Adam and Randy were two regular guys until one day everything went right. Laugh along to this wacky adventure of figuring out life. Laugh with Adam as we watch Randy do everything wrong. And giggle uncontrollably as Adam mimics Randy's every move. "The best part is when Adam and Randy dance party (<-- verb) every night before bedtime and every morning when they wake up" says sleepy morning Ellen (she’ll join them for the evening dance). "You need a lifelong roll of corny jokes? Then pay attention to this story," raves everyone-who-knows-Randy. 

Documentary-- Follow Adam and Randy as they put their heads together to make a dent in homelessness. Homelessness has always tugged at Randy's heart, and Adam gave him a new outlook on why it was so important that he continues the fight. We are all only one paycheck away from being homeless and everyone deserves a chance. 

I want dramas to play out in a climactic scene where Adam achieves the success that everyone said was impossible. I want him to chase his dreams--whatever they might be. I want to see him invest his life into people. I want to see him fail and then be amazed at his growth. I want adventures to be a daily occurrence. I want him to look at me with a twinkle in his eye that says, "Let’s do something crazy," as we head out on a road trip.

And all of this will happen because I choose to live a better story. If you know me, then you know that no one gets to stand by and watch when I am in story mode--you have to get in on the action. I will be an example of a good story for Adam. He will be the greatest story I get to tell.

Dear Adam,

Allow me to get cliché: You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching, love like you'll never be hurt, sing like there's nobody listening, and live like it's heaven on earth. Let's write the best story ever told. I will play my lead role until you are ready to take over. I trust you will play it much better when it is yours.

Love,

Arguably the Most Sentimental Father Ever

#imscaredof

Things I’m scared of:

Thunderstorms.

The dark.

Heights.

Thunderstorms scare me, and I pray like crazy during them. I think it has to do with a time when I was around 7 or 8. There was a tornado warning, or maybe it was a tornado watch. (Time out. Is anyone else annoyed by the use of these two categories to let the human populations know about the eminent danger of a tornado? Tornado watch--should I be able to see a tornado at this point? Is there an actual tornado on the ground? Or is it more like a sailor on the crow’s nest watching for what could be? Maybe there is a tornado and maybe not? Tornado warning--is it warning us that a tornado is on the way? Or warning us that a tornado could happen? It’s like a caution sign that you could possibly slip. “Just watch out: there could be a vortex of wind that will sweep you and your loved ones up into a whirlwind of debris--just watch out.” Is it me, or are the defining factors of these two categories seemingly interchangeable? I honestly have to Google which means which every time I hear it on the television.) Anyway, back to my story. The long and the short of it—tornado is coming, get in the basement, cry, pee your pants (literally), exit basement. Naturally, I now need a thunder buddy for thunderstorms. (Thanks Ollie!)

The dark scares me because I watched this ridiculous movie when I was like 6 that scared the bajeezes out of me. Well put that bad juju into the mind of a super creative kid. Guess what? Every imaginable monster and rapscallion was hidden, hiding, and plotting on me. And where is the perception of reality when you are 6? It’s all in your head. So to this 6 year old, that movie created a breeding ground for my imaginative thoughts turning those thoughts in my head into reality which in turn scared the sh** out of me. To this day I am scared of the dark. Although if I have a friend to fight the darkness with, I am okay. Don't tell, but when I have to stay home by myself (like if Ellen’s out of town) I will leave a couple lights on...

Heights scare me in a strange way, and I do not know where the fear comes from. But it is legit. And Ellen would not like me to share the crazy of this fear. Just know that I can watch a movie with a scene portraying heights and my insides flip around and tense up.

So there is my confession. I am an adult male (a husky, manly, adult male), and yet I still am afraid of the same things that irrationally scared me when I was a child. To that end, fear worries me in two ways:

1. My point above foreshadows that Adam will be afraid of things, they will cling to him, and there is nothing I can do about it. I can be near, but I will not fully be able to dissolve his fear. 

2. Something is going to play with his mind and burn fears into his brain that I cannot control.

But I do pray that he does something similar to what I did. Whenever I was afraid of the dark I would sing The Bare Necessities to myself (from the Jungle Book) over and over. I found comfort in that song for some reason. Maybe it distracted my overly active brain, or maybe it was much deeper than that. Baloo is taking little man-cub Mowgli under his wing and letting him in on a little secret of life. Comforting the boy that life will provide and Baloo is by his side. I want to be Adam's Baloo. I will be Adam's Baloo!

Dear Adam,

Life will provide a lot to be afraid of. Look up from that fear and realize a few things. One: you see mom and dad. We are here to protect you as best as we can. Two: look past us into our timeline and realize that we were / are just like you--and we have our very own fears. We’ve just built strength to capture those fears. Trust that you will too. Three: look way past us and into eternity. The greatest source of our strength is God. He is all, in all, with all--his love drives out fear. That is what I trust most of all.

Love,

Arguably the Bravest Dad Around

#christmas

I love Christmas. I am the guy that everyone complains about bringing Christmas celebration to the forefront too early. I start listening to Christmas music in October. I would decorate for Christmas before Halloween if possible. (And by possible I mean if Ellen would let me.)

But why do I love Christmas so much? Let me count the ways… Allow me to fill you in on a childlike explosion of joy for me at Christmas time.

First is the feel of family. Growing up, my family life was a bit chaotic. Mom and Dad divorced when I was in the third grade. But no matter what--during Christmas time there were no challenges. We spent the night at one house on Christmas Eve and would wake up and do a Christmas morning exchange to the other. It was pleasant and exciting and peaceful. Mom and Dad both celebrated only one thing on Christmas day--their boys. They made us feel like the world began and ended with their stair step of three children: Jesse, Randy, and Travis. How could you not want to rush the Christmas season into existence each year when your sweetest memories of family are founded in red, green, spruce, and tinsel?

And talk all you want about the commercialization of Christmas. Talk about missing the reason for the season. Talk about your philosophical/spiritual principles. But for me, I saw sacrifice on Christmas morning through the gifts selflessly given to us. We were not rich by a long shot, but somehow Mom and Dad made three little boys feel like they could own the world. They sacrificed to lavish wonderful gifts upon us--gifts we didn't dare ask for because we knew that it was a stretch for our family. We were content with blocks and off brand games, but on Christmas day, opening the brand new Nintendo Entertainment System meant so much more than entertainment. It was personification of sacrifice and love. Any nay-sayers: your point is moot--it falls on the deaf ears of Randy Olive viewing his Mom and Dad as heroes.

The Christmas Season celebrates life. Now let's track into the spiritual. Christmas for me means life. It is a celebration (however historically inaccurate the date may or may not be) of the birth of Jesus Christ. Highlighting that a little earlier than the rest of those surrounding me will always be okay. Always. I love music like O Holy Night (especially Olive & Willis style), Mary Did You Know, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, etc... singing about and to the child of God. A child who knew from a very young age the sacrifice he would make for mankind. The teenager that wanted to live to please his Father. The man who showed love to widows, children, whores, lost, damned, and broken. Why not celebrate his figurative birthday a bit longer than just a few days. (I mean seriously--we celebrate our own birthdays more lavishly than how we celebrate Jesus coming as Emmanuel – God WITH us!)

I love people. To a fault if you ask Ellen. People energize me. You want to find me relaxing? Let me throw a party. Ellen laughs at me because I am truly energized by people. When most want to come home and crash, I would much rather come home and get ready for ten people to invade the privacy of my home while we share food, beer, wine, laughter, dessert, stories, and love. No other time of the year do more people get out of their homes than during the Christmas season. They get into the busy bustle of shopping and figure skating and seeing Christmas programs. It forces people to respond (even if by force) in a social manner to complete strangers. Sure it gets out of hand at times (i.e. wrestling for the TV special pricing on Black Friday) but force your eyes away from that and onto the outdoor ice skating rink: watch the laughter. To the Starbucks line: check out the joy. To the elbows of strangers rubbing accidentally: embrace the contact of another human. And all with the magical feeling of Christmas. Mmmmmmmmm.

And who doesn't love looking at Christmas decorations? (I know a few of you raised your E-hand, but you don't count--at least for me to make my point. :) ) I love looking at Christmas lights. Get them up early and often. The more the merrier. This is another point of nostalgia to me. (Warning for my mother reading this--see to the point I am making, not the preface to the story.) Mom would drive us to look at lights. My mother looked alive in the slow motion procedure of touring the twinkling houses. She was always so tired. Single mom, working, three boys (crazy boys), a family, personal time, volunteering, searching to not be alone… TIRED!! Which often turned to stress, which in turn turned to a bit of anger. But NOT when we cruised the light parade. Not when little bags with tea lights lined neighborhoods. Not when we chiaroscuro-ed our faces in the night with an overabundant glow of tiny lights.

And lastly: why not? Christmas is the one time of the year when people give to each other. Even if out of vanity, the practice of giving breeds joy. Even if the motives are wrong, when you practice doing what is right, good things will happen. Simple. True.

Dear Adam,


Let's make some Christmas memories that will spur you on to love Christmas the way I do. Let's make these special moments that we cry over the day I slip into eternity. Let's speak of Christmas and the redemption it has brought to this broken little boy--your father. Let's laugh and love it. Let's do everything way too early and spend the count down MONTHS celebrating like it would be our last. One day it will be. And we will be the kings of the world--holding onto a secret that everyone is welcome to. Come and join our Christmas celebration. You will smile. The Grinch's heart would actually grow four times!! I love you son. I love you more than you will ever know. And I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you!


Love,

Arguably Santa Clause

#love

Don't be confused; just know that love will confuse you.

The word comes out of my mouth often. I say I love you to Ellen. I also say I love Chipotle, and I love potato chips, and I love Christmas, and I love sleeping in, and I love Jesus, and I love it just in general speaking.

Surely you realize that I do not love Ellen the same as I love a bag of chips. Or love the feeling of sleeping in the same as the magical feeling of Christmas. And so I do wonder how difficult it is for a child to grasp the concept of love. I feel it would be like someone learning English to differentiate reed, read, read, red. (I need to read the red book you read yesterday about the reed.)

I wonder at what point children feel love. They learn to say the phrase I love you because of the repetition from mom and dad, grandma and grandpa, aunt and uncle, but I wonder how truly they believe that phrase; I wonder how love develops. We are born with the capacity to love, just as we are born with the capacity to do much of anything, but at what point do we realize our experience of love? I cannot remember in my life the point at which love made sense, and yet I know that it did (and does).

My point in this meandering is that love is confusing when expressed by mere words, but it’s pretty obvious when actions are involved. Are the people around you, those ones closest to you, able to differentiate what love means to you? Would a foreigner (non-English-speaking) be totally confused because they see the way you are with your wife, hear the words I love you, and then watch you woof down a pizza exclaiming I LOVE THIS PIZZA! (Because they should believe you are having a love affair with that pizza.)


DC Talk has a cheesy little song called Love is a Verb. That right there is the equation for love. Do. Simple. Not easy. Simple. Do. Because love does. (The phrase Love Does is ripped off from Bob Goff. Sorry Bob... and hopefully you don't need royalties from that because I am not sure I can pay. However, next time you are in Houston I'll chauffeur you around; we’ll barter royalties.) Love really does.

Now let's trip back to the love of a child. Think about the simplest form of love you have ever seen. I would imagine the majority of us think back to a child- unscathed by the world- doing something seemingly unimportant for someone who is in dire need. I think back to a photo that I saw in an exhibition one time. The scene looked like something of a funeral. An old man was sitting slumped over with his hands to his face in grief. A little boy, maybe 3 or 4, was standing with his forehead head touching the old man's forehead. He had one hand on the old man's shoulder as to say: everything will be okay. We are all familiar with the imagery of children acting in a selfless manner to make sure that people feel love. This is the key: love doing is a selfless act, it's pure and without ulterior motive.

I don't know when children realize their capacity to love, but they sure do understand how to give it without selfish ambition. They have the simplicity of life. They don't have a clear model of manipulation quite yet, and so love to them is in its purest form. If we can love like a child, then we are accomplishing much in this world--but even more in heaven. 

So as I reread through my thoughts and add my final touch: I believe I have a lot to learn from Adam. He will be teaching me a lot about love. (And non-coincidentally: a lot about the originator of love: God. Because God is love.)

Dear Adam,

Love never gives up. Love cares more for others than for self. Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have. Love doesn’t strut, doesn’t have a swelled head, doesn’t force itself on others, isn’t always “me first,” doesn’t fly off the handle, doesn’t keep score of the sins of others, doesn’t revel when others grovel, takes pleasure in the flowering of truth, puts up with anything, Trusts God always, always looks for the best, never looks back, but keeps going to the end. 1 Cor. 13: 4-7

I cannot wait for you to teach me what all of this means.

Love,

Arguably the Best Knock-Knock Joke Teller in the World 

#embarassed

So here is the deal. We all have embarrassing stories. They just might be at different degrees of WHOA.

With that being said, let me introduce you to 4th grade Randy. A real doofus of a kid. I was a super shy kid with middle child syndrome leaking all over everyone. I was very respectful to authority--as I didn't like being in trouble; I was too sensitive for all that. I would cry. Seriously though, why couldn't I be like that stone-face kid that got in trouble and just took it? I would get in trouble and blubber like a heartbroken, teenage girl.

Now that the picture is painted, let’s jump into this story:

Music class traveled on a little push cart from room to room. I don't remember our exact schedule, but it was something like every Tuesday and Thursday right before lunch. Our regular teacher, Mrs. Robinson (who by the way could solve a Rubix Cube in like two seconds), left the room to do her thing. Whatever that was for a fourth grade teacher. (All I can picture right now is that scene from Billy Maddison where the teacher rubs glue paste on her face while the kids are at recess.) Our music teacher would roll in and we played with musical instruments: essentially wooden blocks with sticks and bells and a random drum. My point in this is that my regular teacher who knew me well was out of the room. The other woman who literally went to every single room and taught every single kid in the building had momentarily taken my teacher’s place. She knew me not. I raised my hand and asked if I could go to the bathroom. She said no. Oh, did I forget to mention that I was notorious for waiting until the last minute to ask about going to the bathroom? If she would have said yes to that question it would have been cutting it close for me to get to a bathroom. A “no” was like a proverbial axe to my reputation. The inevitable happened. I peed. And peed. And peed. I could feel the puddle in my chair. I pulled my chair under my desk until I might disappear under it. Every bit of dignity I might have had was puddled under me. (To top it off I was probably wearing denim shorts overalls.) Music teacher ?!%@# left (pardon my language, but she cut me deep), and Mrs. Robison cheerful waddled into the classroom. Immediately my hand shot up. "Can I go to the restroom?" (Although technically I had already answered that question on my own.) She granted me permission, and I took my raft to the hallway bathroom to see what could be done. Nothing.

I escorted myself to the principal's office to call my mother. What I wanted: a reset button. Let's go home, pretend everyone forgot, and start over in the morning. What I got: a mom who brought me a change of clothes and an apology because she had to go back to work.

So I changed. Handed my wet clothes to my mom. Cried. And walked back to the classroom. Oh the joy.

I look back and laugh now. I actually tell this story as an ice breaker often when I am at speaking engagements. It's a reality check that, from the beginning, I was never and will never be perfect. It is a story of being human. And I definitely don't think too highly of myself. I'm thankful for all the embarrassing moments in my life: maybe not right away, but eventually. They teach me a little something every time. Sometimes real deep truths, and other times just simply: don't wait until the last possible minute to ask to go to the bathroom. 

Dear Adam, 

I am going to embarrass you. A lot of those times will be on purpose. That's kind of my right as a dad. :) And other time you are going to be the fit of your own folly. Learn to laugh at yourself. Don't worry too much about the opinion of the masses. Stick to your friends that love you and watch out for you. Now, they are going to laugh at you too, but they will also love you in spite of you. And that is a very cool lesson to learn.

Love,

Literally the Most Embarrassing Dad Ever ;)

#myearliestmemory

I wonder what Adam's earliest memory will be. 

Mine is 3 years old at my grandparent's house. I was in the kitchen with Papa (that's my dad's dad). We were getting lunch ready. This memory is a shadow, but the details that stick out to me are: trying my hardest to peek over the counter to see what he was doing (I can sense myself even now struggling on my tippy toes to get a glimpse into his secret recipes) and asking very directly what he was making. He gave me a very indirect answer… “Recipe Beans.” He was making lima beans, but from that day forward I would never refer to them by anything other than recipe beans. I have no idea why that memory is so sticky, and I can still see it in my projector brain like an old reel-to-reel clip. My Papa loved his grandkids very, very much. Maybe this is so sticky because it was truly a memory that was held just between him and me. We were the secret holders of the recipe beans. To this day my favorite bean dish is recipe beans. (Ellen loves them too.)

It is memories like this that are so incredibly peculiar to me. There is no big moment, no truly memorable circumstance, but my mind latched on to it. And then I think about if Papa was still alive: and I would ask him, “Want to come over for lunch? How about I make some recipe beans?” He would laugh and smile and feel love because that tiny insignificant piece was just for us. 

This 3-year-old-boy-recipe-beans memory is a memory that floods my Papa's presence into the moment. It is a trigger to a smile every time I have a pot of lima beans on the stove. 

We never know what will be the sticky memories in our lives. Sure, the milestones will be vivid. But what about the little things? 

What are Adam's little things? I don't know, but I do know one thing: I will cherish every single moment of "recipe bean” memories while we are together. 

And since I mentioned him, let me tell you about my Papa. He was not full of words, but he was full of action. We were always doing: planting trees, raising rabbits, salvaging and repurposing bicycles, growing elephant ears, cutting grass, hauling dirt, drinking cokes, getting snacks, fishing, fishing, and more fishing. He told the dumbest jokes that got the best laughs out of me. He could talk like Donald Duck and growl like a dog. He could fix and "fix" anything. He inspired me often to try at things I was not so sure of. And I was his Bubba. 

Dear Adam,

I cannot tell you what your earliest memory will be. But I can tell you this--the little things that fill in between the milestone moments of our lives, well they tend to be the sweetest things that compound into our character. And make you cry later when you recount them in a blog to your unborn child. I love you!

Love, 

Arguably the Strangest Dad Ever

#80thbirthday

I have a hope for you today. Really a hope for you and me. I was at a birthday party today when the guest of honor, Damon, stood up to share a round of thanks. It was his 80th birthday. He first said in jest, “When you're 80, you just get excited for one more day.” (Cue laughter.)

And then he said something incredibly profound. He said:
“Every morning when I get up to read the Bible and pray with my wife, I only have thanks to be said. I look at my life and all I can do is thank God for it.”

What an amazing statement. I think of my own prayers right now as a 33 year old child. I pray for and towards things: direction, enlightenment, hope, strength, perseverance, love, peace… all with a little elaboration. My point is that I am continually praying towards and for the journey that I am on. What was super neat today was to hear a mentor of mine say- I pray thanks. He looked at the room full of people there to celebrate with him, and I bet all he saw was his journey. He saw the faces and milestones of the people for whom and with whom he prayed throughout his life. In his heart he whispers thank you with each breath. 

Wow. I do pray thanks. I have a lot to be thankful for. But I confess the words thank you are not always on the tip of my tongue. I want this 80th birthday revelation to be mine every day from now on. I want to always be thankful first. 

I fast forward in my mind. I envision the future. My own 80th birthday. I am sitting on the porch, coffee in hand. I am smiling. I am thinking of the day's festivities. Ellen greets me with a kiss. I tell her I am 80 today and without a beat I move into a cliché joke: "80 of my best and your worst...bahaha" (old man humor is the bees knees). She says: "I know. Happy Birthday sweetie." We then talk. Probably for hours. About everything and nothing. And life is good. And God is good. And tears form in the corner of my eyes (because I have turned into a cry baby. That's a current statement not an 80 year old statement). I look at her and simply say, “I have so much to be thankful for.” Then we start sharing lots of stories of half-truths because our memories are more like fog, and I have made up so many outlandish stories to get a rise out of our grandchildren and great-grandchildren that there is a very blurred line between reality and fiction.

Our hope--that story. It starts today. Every single day: Be thankful.

Dear Adam,

First of all, when I am 80 I better have a sweet set up. I put up with you for a looooooooong time. Just saying. And second, thank you for 80 years of memories. Thank you for the snuggles (future snuggles because obviously you aren't here and your mother would be really sick and tired of me if I curled up to her belly all the time)- they really are my favorite. And thirdly, be thankful. Every day. Even the bad ones. Find something to be thankful for. And be thankful to God. He has put things in motion that we cannot fathom. It will be hard some times to be thankful, especially to God. You will most likely want to blame him for things. Look past that. Look for the blessing. Look for the thanksgiving. (Mmm, Thanksgiving.) Here is a short list to start with. Each day, think on these things and smile and be thankful.

1. Your mother and I. We love you. We want the best for you. Our goal is to provide for you in every way.

2. Today. Because we are not guaranteed tomorrow.
3. The people you get to share life with. Someone needs you. Be ready. And be thankful.

4. Your toys. Because they are going to be a lot of fun.
5. Your acute skills of manliness that your father has bestowed upon you. (For those of you who know me, stop laughing. For those of you that don't, let’s just pretend I am like Old Yankee Workshop meets Bob Goff meets Gas Monkey meets Bear Grylls meets Wolfgang Puck meets personified Bow-and-arrow.)

Thank you, Adam. You have opened my eyes to a whole new meaning of life. 

Love,

Arguably the Future Sexiest 80 Year Old Alive

P.S. Hurry up (but not really) and get here because I want to hang out and your mother is desperate for someone else to be my audience to entertain. 

#itsaboy

It's a boy!

Ellen is going to be so tired of potty humor that she just might just explode. And I will be loving it! 

May we introduce: Adam Armour Olive. He will carry a name that holds three generations of family history. Adam which is his maternal great-grandparents' roots (Ellen's mom's maiden name), Armour which is his grandparents' roots (Ellen's maiden name), and Olive which is his own roots and the long list of Olive sprouts that have come before him. 

I am getting pretty pumped about a few things:

1. Teaching him (by example) to love

2. Teaching him (by example) to respect - especially his mother

3. Boy trips: camping, fishing, sporting games (Ellen just asked if she could be invited.)

4. Showing him God is most important in our family

5. Being his hero (and living up to it)

6. Sweet little prayers from his heart

7. Tears and triumphs (both are super important)

8. Helping him develop skills: perfect spiral, building things, painting & drawing, music (Come on Ellen! We need your genes for this!!)

9. First beer together (many moons from now, don't worry!)

10. ETC...

Things I am not pumped about:

1. Poop everywhere

2. Nose picking (and eating the boogers)

3. Puberty (cause boys are gross)

4. High School Graduation (I already miss him so much)

5. A little more etc... (shorter list)

What I am most looking forward to is the faith legacy that is being born into my family tree. I grew up and could not tell you the difference between Jesus and Santa Clause. I actually liked Santa WAY better because he brought me presents. (I believed until I was like 13 because I refused to not believe in Santa. Christmas is just the best!) And now I have a little boy who will carry the Olive name into the future with the banner of Grace and Love that his dad found as a 14 year old boy. That is a cool statement for me. That is a legacy piece that I am looking forward to. He will know and see how important God's love is in our household. It is truly what has held me and Ellen together. He will hear his mother sing songs of praise. He will be involved in conversation with me and my buddy Matt about the struggles of faith. He will understand that everyone deserves love and grace and mercy. He will know that our measure of goodness is only in our ability to take care of the widows and orphans. He will know God. 

I hope he rests in the safety of being in his daddy's arms. I will teach him everything I know about Jesus because this family tree, this branch, it is grafted into the kingdom.

And he will have awesome friends like Annabelle and Claire that will help him memorize his Bible verses, friends like Zoë and Preston that have parents with the same desires, "big kid" friends like Neely and Little Bonte and Carlee that will watch out for them, the fullness of the Finn crew that will love him like a brother, and life-long memories and continued traditions with his three adopted McBeth aunties!

He will have cousins like Cooper and Addie for all family functions to just romp around with, J. Crockett who will be his protector (and possibly the person who gets him into the most mischief. I can just hear him: Hey Adam. Do _________! It'll be hilarious. And he will do it because the Olive blood never backs down, unfortunately), he will have Jaxon and Lily that will inspire creativity and wonder (because they are choc-full of it), and then there is Brook who will be the best big cousin because somehow she has already learned how to love unconditionally, and finally Bailey who will inspire him that faith is real as you learn of her battle with cancer (AS SHE KICKS ITS ASS!!!!). 

Dear Adam,

I am excited to meet you. I want to show you everything I know - which scares your mother. But I truly hope you carry all the best of us in your being. The creativity of your father, the love of your mother, the discipline of your mother, the beauty of your mother (okay really I hope you get most of your mother's genes and a few of my really good ones). But most of all, what I want you to see in us is that Jesus is alive in our household. Faith is real. Life is fun. People need you, and you will be an example of faith and love for them. So I commit to you that we will be the example of faith and love for you to follow.

Love,

Arguably the Manliest Dad on Earth!