Why I'm Dreading March 4

It's strange knowing the exact date that could mean a big moment in your life.

There are weddings, funerals, that first day at a new job and the births of children and grandchildren.

I knew when my son, Gabriel, would be born. He arrived via a C-section and his birth was like a routine doctor's appointment. No surprises. Just a blessing.

That was in 2001. Never would I have guessed a little more than 11 years later he would be growing up as my ex-wife raises him in Lidingo, Sweden. Nor would I have believed that in 2013 I would have to fight in a South Dakota courtroom to see him.

That's what will happen on March 4. I am pursuing regular visitation to see Gabriel, even though he lives 4,500 miles away.

Finances, schedules and work are obstacles. But, to me, they aren't obstacles that are insurmountable.

Neither are the irreconcilable differences that led to our divorce.

I am pursuing time with my son in the summer and during Christmas. It's time I deserve as his father.

I'm sure it will get ugly in court. I'll get slammed over my struggle with depression, my ability to handle my finances then and my lifelong struggle with diabetes. Reasons, I guess, that could be taken as ways to write a boy's father out of his life. And, to leave.

I'm not leaving. I've changed for the better. I'm certainly not perfect, but I'm not the man I was when Gabriel was a baby. I've changed for the better because I had to -- for him.

But a civil court in Sioux Falls will decide that on March 4. The worst that can happen is that things will continue as they are and have been, and that's not good. The best that can happen is that my ex-wife will be forced to work with me so that I can see our son.

It'll be a benchmark in my life. A ruling to say that more must be done on my ex-wife's part to see him. And I will be thankful and grateful for that ruling. Or, the court could disregard who I am and what I have done for myself and leave me out of the picture.

That's why I am dreading March 4. But what I would dread more is knowing I didn't do anything to make things better. Either way, I will walk out of court that day knowing I did try. It's a date that I will recount with my son when he's grown up and anticipating a big date in his life.

What I Am Losing But Continue To Hang On To

Today, I was looking at old photos. This is one of my favorites:

The photo struck at that term "faith."
Sometimes, faith seems to fade. Like it did when I was a teen trudging through confirmation full of doubts.
Like it did when I was in college learning about that great big world - and a world of big ideas - outside of my hometown in Iowa.
Like it did when I saw my mom's health grow worse over the years.
Like it did when I got divorced after 6-1/2 years of marriage. And like it did when my ex-wife moved to Sweden with my son more than 2 years ago.
And like it has as my dad's health is compromised by a failing liver - a failing liver that also is compounded by the early stages of failing kidneys. He found out about that issue this month, just as his placement on the list for a liver transplant was secured.
Is there time? Time for my dad to get the treatment he needs? Time for him to know that my brother and I have appreciated all that he has sacrificed for us? Time for him to see his grandsons before they grow older, unrecognizable and into adults?
I'll never know. But the adage "You've got to have faith" came to mind.
"You've got to have faith"? No, I don't. Why should I? After what's happening now and in my past? Why would you? Why should you?
Because, sometimes, it's all you have.
My dad will get a transplant within six months, which, judging by what surgeons are telling him, is the average wait for the procedure. After having it, he will see my son and my brother's sons. And it may be for the last time.
And he will improve after having the transplant. He will be able to spend more time with my mom, and his wife of 44 years as of Feb. 22, 2013.
He will know that my brother and I love and respect him. And thank him for showing us what strength is.
Then again, maybe not.
I started working at The Evangelical Lutheran Good Samaritan Society in 2012. It's a not-for-profit organization that serves those ranging from assisted living to hospice care. My parents are moving into an independent living facility on the edge of Iowa City in early April. It's not a Good Samaritan property, but it is a place where they can feel valued and at peace.
It's comforting to know. And, along with the culture and environment tied to my work at the Good Samaritan Society, it's one of those mileposts in life that beg you to look inward, assess where you are and where you are going in life, and reevaluate faith.
Because, again, sometimes it's all you have.

A bittersweet holiday

My loved ones gathered in the living room at my parents' home to open Christmas gifts. Before Christmas as 2012 came to a close, my parents requested that my brother, Trent, and I make it to their home in Robins, Iowa, for a last holiday celebration as a family under a roof that they had put their blood, sweat and tears into shaping.

My dad's liver is failing. He takes care of my mom 24/7 because she is battling scleroderma. Because my dad needs a transplant, and the care my mother requires, my brother and I were told this would be the last Christmas as a family in our family home. Sometime in 2013 they will be moving to an independent living facility in Iowa City, Iowa.

Knowing this didn't curtail our joy or appreciation of being together. My girlfriend, Bretta, met my parents for the first time. My brother also brought his girlfriend Melanie, over for the first time and also my nephew so that his grandparents could feel like grandparents.

They haven't had that opportunity much. And it became a more fleeting feeling after my ex-wife, Jen, moved to Sweden with my only child, Gabriel, after we celebrated Christmas with them in 2010.

Unfortunately, my son couldn't join the celebration.

However, I was excited for my parents to open their gifts. I gave them framed photos of my brother and I and of myself and my son taken during my visit to Sweden at the end of summer in 2012. My mother opened the photo of my brother and myself. Smiles from my mom and dad appeared.

Then, all of us sat and watched as my dad opened the gift showing my son and I. This was his reaction:

It hurt. It continues to hurt. And it's a moment in my life I will never forget.

My dad was never one to show a ton of emotion in front of my brother and I, nor the people close to us. He broke down. He became more human to me -- not just a father who teaches, leads and works for his family.