You Big Baby

A short time ago, after a short courtship our son was married.

“The time is short,” he said. “We’re thirty.”

So he married Dallas, a short girl. Actually, she’s not short at all. She’s a world-record holding power lifter. That’s right. She carried our son over the threshold. I, on the other hand, am not built for lifting large objects. In ninth grade I lay on my back, hoisting barbells straight up above my face, and somehow the whole contraption got away and fell on me. I’m the only person I’ve met that dropped barbells on his nose.

A short time after Dallas and Steve tied the knot, they informed us that they had an announcement to make.

“You’re gonna pay my mortgage?” I asked.

No, it was even more exciting. They were pregnant. Well, Steve wasn’t. But Dallas was. They set about planning the perfect delivery. They found a midwife. They prepared for a home water birth. Infant baptism, you might say. Finally the day came. It stretched into night. We waited. And prayed. Things rarely go as planned and, strong as she is, Dallas needed help. She was rushed to a hospital.

Finally the proud papa texted us. “He’s arrived.”

My wife, Ramona, let out a squeal. A boy.

“How many pounds?” I asked.

Steve texted back. “Guess.”

“Seven?”

“Higher,” he said.

“Eight?”

“Higher.”

“Nine?”

“Higher.” He was an auctioneer’s dream.

“Ten?”

“Higher.”

Ramona was in hysterics now.

“Forty-five pounds?” I asked.

“No,” said Steve. “10 pounds 5 ounces.”

As the child emerged, the doctor kept saying, “Wow.” By day two, another doctor dubbed him “The Toddler.” Nurses marveled. They’d never seen a baby with a head like Charlie Brown’s.

And so it was that we found ourselves saying a very excited “Hello” to the first Callaway male child, heir to my fortune . . . cookie.

Seth Callaway. I’m holding you as I write this, you big baby. I think your face is so wide because your smile is too. You’ve made us laugh since day one. I wish the readers could see your smile. It would make their day.

Seth, I want you to know a few things. First, you are deeply loved. Your mama and papa light up like Christmas trees around you. Except when you’re screaming or have a ten-pound diaper.

Here’s the thing about real love. It doesn’t lessen when hard times come. It remains. It multiplies through the years. You’re my fifth grandchild. I’d take a bullet for any one of you. Hopefully it would be a rubber bullet, but whatever, I’d take it. And here’s something else: nothing you ever do will make me love you less.

Yours is a good old-fashioned Bible name. Seth was Adam and Eve’s third son. It means “placed” or “appointed” in Hebrew. That’s you, Seth. You were born for such a time as this. Jesus said to His disciples, “You did not choose Me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit and that your fruit should remain . . . .”

Your grandma and I have prayed for you every day of your life. And we’ll keep it up. We pray you’ll grow in wisdom, in body and spirit, in favor with God and others. We pray you’ll find God’s will and do it. We pray you’ll come to love Jesus with all you’ve got.

I plan to laugh with you, play pranks on you, and saw off some golf clubs for you. But my greatest hope is that we’ll spend eternity together. I love you, Seth.

Now, I’d better set you down. I’m getting a little winded.

Phil Callaway is a speaker, best-selling author, and host of Laugh Again Radio. Check it out at laughagain.org