I open the front door and my two-year-old daughter comes running towards me, full speed, shouting “Daddy, Daddy!” I can see the big smile on her face as I scoop her up into my arms. As she wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a big squeeze, she contentedly says “Daddy’s home.” There’s no place I’d rather be.
As soon as I put her down, my six-year-old is there with a hug and a kiss, already telling me all about her day at kindergarten. She hands me a beautiful drawing and sweetly says, “I drew it just for you Daddy, because I know you like tigers.” I feel honored.
In the next room my fourteen-year-old son looks my way and smiles a greeting as he demonstrates “sixteen-hands,” the latest kung-fu form he has learned. He is so fluid and graceful and I wonder at how talented he is.
I look into the bedroom of my eleven-year-old daughter and find her, typically, reading. She looks up, smiles, and then leaps to show me her latest scholastic triumph, a perfect score on last week’s math test. I am so proud.
And there, in the midst of all this, is my wife, my best friend and love of my life, sharing my pride and joy. Of course, she also has to share the chaos and bedlam that occasionally (okay, frequently) overtake our happy family.
Things are not always sweetness and light in our home. The decibel level often rises above the pain threshold and it sometimes seems like they aren’t four children, but the four horsemen. Yet, I wouldn’t trade any part of this life for fame, fortune, power, or glory.
You can have your robes and harps. The 24-hour all-chocolate, zero-calorie buffet is not for me. I am not yearning for the halls of Valhalla. I don’t need to dream of paradise. I don’t have to die to go there. I enter paradise every time I go home.