Dear Elliot,

Happy Birthday! Six years old, huh? That's pretty incredible. You know, I don't think I can refer to you as a "little boy" anymore. Somewhere, somehow, sometime within the last year or so, you crossed a threshhold -- albeit vague and ambiguous, as it often is with the vast majority of life's various threshholds -- and you ceased to be a "little boy." You became a regular, full-fledged, out-right boy. A big boy, even... Of course, all of these terminologies are relative and basically irrelevant in the grander scheme of things. People will always call you what they want to call you -- based on their preconceived notions, their personal perceptions, their prejudices -- but for whatever it's worth, Elliot, I think you ought to be called a big boy now. A gen-u-ine, bonafide, certifiable six-year-old boy. And not just any boy: my boy.

I sure do love you, Elliot. I'm so proud of the boy that you've become (and are becoming). You're tall, lean, fast, tough, intelligent, spirited, and fun. I cannot help but marvel at your intelligence and maturity. You're a good, responsible kid who just seems to "get it," understanding the complexities of life -- on two continents, in two cultures, no less -- in ways that even I cannot fully comprehend. Truly, your innate sense of understanding is a wonder to behold. I hope and trust that this will be a blessing from God that will serve you (and others) well throughout your life. At the same time, though, it's unfortunate to note that your giftedness can seem to work against you at times. You notice hurtful comments and actions that others might not notice. You feel the weight of emotional events on a level that many of the other kids your age do not, or cannot. You can become so frustrated at your own personal imperfections -- simply because you're self-aware!

I'm glad that God made you this way. I really admire these traits about you. However, please be careful not to let your quest for complete comprehension block your view of the great beauties of life (even the painful parts of life) and the incredible strides that you've made along the way. I hope you can grow to realize (in all these things) that you are a highly capable, very special boy, who is still very much at the beginning of a lifetime of learning -- whether it's building the ultimate Lego mansion, or sketching the most intricate Superman portrait, or racing your bike around the Bikoplein, or tying your shoelaces, or practicing fast-listening to me and Mommy. You're doing a great job, Elliot. Go ahead and keep asking questions if you don't understand something (I know you will anyway!). Go ahead and keep practicing, getting better, improving your techniques in all these (and other) various disciplines. But give yourself some grace, too, OK? Imperfection and pain is a part of life. Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody hurts sometimes. Just don't forget: I'm proud of you, and I love you just the way you are. And even more signficantly, God is proud of you, and He loves you just the way you are.

I know that all of this is easier advised than applied. Easier said than done. I know from personal experience. But maybe we can work on it together. And as we can learn to accept our imperfections and accept God's grace (like it says in Ephesians 2:8-9), we'll be able to walk comfortably and confidently in the good works which God prepared in advance for us to do.

Ah Elliot... my boy... you simply cannot comprehend the affection in my heart, the smile on my face, the warm thoughts in my mind -- when I think about you, as I'm sitting here, writing this letter. You simply cannot comprehend it -- not because of your inability to accept it, but because of my inability to fully articulate it! How can I verbally summarize your frownish/smilish "game face," which signals you're about to tackle me, or show me a new trick on your bike, or bust into rhyme about Ned, who's dressed in Red, and lives in Bled?!? How can I speak of the scintillating softness of your heart, when you sob uncontrollably upon the realization of the way you've wronged your mother, or when you respond (unprompted) to the spilling of your sister's appel-vier-bessensap with a slosh of your own precious portion, or when you meticulously manufacture incredibly thoughtful gifts for your friends and family members?!? How can I explain the depth of respect and admiration for a boy who is 25 years my junior?!?

You've truly become a beautiful boy, Elliot. I can't take much credit for it, though. Your people skills and linguistic abilities already show signs of being far beyond my own. Your dashingly smooth good looks, clearly, are thanks to your mother. And above and beyond all of this, as the first-born in our family, you're working against the dubious distinction of being our family's proefkonijn. You know, there's a pretty steep learning curve for parents -- and I've only recently been realizing how much it's had to come at your expense. We were, I'm afraid, far too rigid, too regimented, too principled in the beginning, with you. We've never been -- and (I hate to break it to you) never will be perfect parents. And yet, I have no doubt that you're turning out to be a terrific kid in spite of it all. I guess it's just one more reminder of God's grace in the face of our imperfections. Apparently, God even gives grace for children (such as you) to deal with our parental (and personal) shortcomings. Wow. Hallelujah for that...

I sure do love you, Elliot. My boy. My big boy. Six-year-olds sure can do a lot of cool stuff -- and what's coolest is that you've still got gobs of potential for the years to come -- but remember that none of us can do it all. That's why we've got each other. That's why we've got Jesus.

God bless you, my boy. Happy Birthday!

Love,

Dad