Dear Olivia Corrinne Asp,

Happy Birthday!  Did you notice that I called you by your full, official name just there?  I didn't try any of that silly nicknamey stuff like I sometimes tend to do -- none of that "Livi-girl" or "Little Chippy Chuppy" ridiculousness -- no, not on an occasion as special as your fifth birthday.  I've got to say that you have a unique sense of decorum, Olivia.  Just like a princess raised with the finest manners of court.  It's really amazing to see.  Yes, of course you still have your crazy-silly moments (and even times when I can get away with some little nick-name!).  But you are remarkably aware of your surroundings and the coordinated sense of propriety for each sphere.  In school, we speak our "school language" (known to the rest of the world as "Dutch"), and we meticulously follow the classroom procedures set forth by your teachers.  At home, however, we speak "our language" (a.k.a. "English") and have our own ways of doing things like setting the table, brushing your hair, and such.  When we're being silly, just about anything goes.  But when we're not in a designated silly zone, I should just call you your "real name."  And now that you're growing up so much -- now a whole five years old -- well, I suppose I need to take your sense of decorum seriously.  And this little concession of sticking to calling you Olivia Corrinne Asp (which is, truth be told, a fabulous name) is the least I can offer to you, as a birthday present.

If I may say so, Olivia, you are remarkable.  You really are like a majestic little princess.  Not just your sense of decorum -- but your exquisite beauty, your sparkling charisma, your incredible power and energy... just the way you carry yourself.  Do you remember the way you looked at Claudia when you first saw her in her wedding dress -- gleaming white, swishing and swirling like a fairy, beaming an impossibly-wide smile, and (oh, the breath-taking joy of it!) a delicate silver tiara (which you called a "crown," of course)?  Do you remember that feeling of wonder and awe?  That's how I feel about you, Olivia.  Pretty much all the time.  I'm totally serious.  If I ever stop and think about it, Olivia, you take my breath away.

There's one moment every day when I take special notice of your magical magnificence.  It's on the stairs at school each morning.  After the loud bell rings and the children all tumble into the building, after dropping off Elliot in his classroom on the second floor and ducking through the crowds of kids from groups 3 and 4 hanging up their coats and chattering like monkeys, after passing back through the door to the stairwell and starting to descend to the ground level via the broad, red steps of the school's central hall.  It's in that moment that I freshly realize how wonderful it is to have a girl like you, Olivia.  It feels like it's just the two of us (nevermind the stragglers still traipsing up to their classrooms).  It feels like we're arriving at a royal ball.  I take your hand, and you hold onto the black railing with your other hand, and we float down to the main atrium.  Your mouth is closed and relaxed.  Your blue eyes soak up the light from the big windows overlooking the school-yard.  Your golden-brown hair, too, reflects all available light.  And I am simply in awe of the tremendous treasure that God has entrusted to our family in the form of our little girl.  Though you may not be able to articulate it, Olivia, I think that you, too, sense the sacredness of that daily descent of the school stairs.  You hold my hand gently-but-firmly, letting me guide you freely.  You let me speak to your briefly in "our language" (even though we're at the school).  You let me whisper, "I love you, Livi-girl" and you don't chide me in the least.  You let me ask, "Did you know that you're my little girl, Olivia?" without any cross reminder that yes, you already know that.  You just let me behold you.  It's probably one of my favorite moments of the day.

Then, of course, we reach the bottom of the stairs.  You jump the last two (sometimes three) steps -- and then we're off and running into the rest of the day, the rest of our lives.

I love you, Olivia.  I hope you know that.  Indeed, I know you know that.  But I desperately hope that you can always remember it.  Now that you're a five-year-old, and for the rest of your days, too.  I hope you'll always remember that God loves you, too -- even more and better than my love for you (which is pretty hard to imagine!).  I know that God is for you and with you... yet I have to admit that I worry sometimes, when I see you noticing, more and more, the world's insidious lack of decorum -- causing you to worry about pock marks and sweaters that make you "feel too fat" (your mother and I were floored when we heard you say that last month).  It's ridiculous for anyone in the world to so much as insinuate that an old, rapidly-fading scab from your chicken pox could in any way obscure your remarkable beauty!  But it seems like, somehow, these pressures are already creeping in.  Resist them, Olivia!  Resist them with everything you've got!  Please listen to me, your father, instead -- and to your Heavenly Father, who has made it abundantly clear that you're pretty-darn special (see Ephesians 1:3-8, if you want to read it for yourself).  We know better, Olivia.  It's clear that the ways of this world can be quite messed-up (whatever did happen to people's sense of decorum, anyway?).  But don't let their insistence and invasiveness be mistaken for truth.  I thank God for your clear-headedness, Olivia -- that you usually have your wits about you.  I just hope and pray that you can hold tightly to them for all of your days.

You're a wonderful daughter, Olivia.  I'm so glad that you've been a part of our lives for a whole five years now.  Happy birthday, my girl.  I love you a million, billion, jillion.

Yours,

Daddy