The Gift of Reassurance

8:23 AM 29 Dec 1993. A third generation only-son arrives healthy, loved and ready to carry on the family name. “We got our boy,” his mother states behind tears and a tired smile — and we name him Anthony.

Mothers do most of the raising in a lot of families, and ours was no different. I worked long hours to provide and build a home, but it never seemed like enough of a contribution and I envied the closeness she had with the kids. Our two girls and new baby boy were her heart and her life, and sometimes I felt like “all” I did was provide. I wished I had that closeness with our new son that sometimes escaped me in my overriding focus on building a career. I thought maybe I wasn’t a good dad at all; maybe I wasn’t capable of the type of love she felt and gave them. Maybe I didn’t have the right heart for my dear son who was now already past his second birthday. But then life changed.

It was a normal Saturday afternoon, summertime in the Midwest. The duplex we shared with our young landlord was on the last block of a dead end which transitioned into a nice city park which we were planning on going to a bit later. Maybe the city would be giving free ice cream to the kids again. Our little kitchen was at the back of the house, with a small window overlooking the backyard that needed mowed. I was preparing lunch today since Mom was at work — spaghetti again. The kids and I were all in the kitchen, discussing who knows what and enjoying the rare togetherness.

The conversation fades and we all begin doing other things and focusing on our own immediate needs. My own thoughts drift off to work for just a minute, and I step to the table to review bills that need paid. In an instant my focus is ripped back to the room — “TURN AROUND!”

Some believe in a parent’s inherent instinct and connection when it comes to their children. Others of faith believe in a guardian Angel. My wife was alerted the year prior in a parking lot, that same thundering yet silent voice told her our daughter was in immediate danger (which she was). Our middle daughter had wandered just a few feet away — but directly behind a car just getting ready to back out. We’ve always believed the voice saved her that day. Whatever the voice, perhaps the same one, it pulled at me intensely at that moment there in the kitchen.

I swept around to see our little Anthony reaching up as high as he could with a big stirring ladle and pulling the pre-spaghetti pot of boiling water off the ledge of the stove towards his…