A love poem to the haters

To the haters,

It’s tempting to want to hate you back. But that’s useless. 

It won’t help anything. All it does is perpetuate the hate between us. And that’s foolish. 

Instead, I will say that I love you. I feel for you and with you. I sense your pain. 

Isn’t that what causes the hate within—the pain?

I’ve been there—full of hate and fury—and it’s contagious. You can’t help but spread it to others. It’s all you have to give; it’s what you’ve been given. 

No, I will not hate you back. I will fight myself, my reactions, my need for justice, my hate. It won’t be perfect. In fact, I will be terrible at it. But I will aim to love. 

For I was loved with a divine love even when I hated, rebelled, writhed. 

I tasted a goodness that transcends hate and heals pain, freely offered in the Son of God. 

For he was hated by those who should have loved him, rejected by those who should have embraced him, killed by those who should have worshiped him. 

Love loved me when I hated him. 

How can I not love you? 

What is the greatest greatness in life?

In the process of becoming better, it’s easy to think we are greater than we really are. And it’s one of the worst mistakes we can make, touting our strengths and toting our accomplishments. 

But the answer isn’t to think we are lesser than we are. That won’t do; it does no good. 

For we may be great. And we can become even better. And that isn’t accomplished by looking down on ourselves or thinking that we are unworthy or incapable. No. 

So what do we do instead? 

We ought to think others better than ourselves. Hold them up, serve them, care for them, and use our greatness to help them become greater than they imagined. 

Service and love subdues pride. 

And what is interesting is in doing that, you will find that people will tout your strengths and tote your accomplishments for you. 

They will do it out of love. 

And the reward you will reap may or may not be riches, but it will be fullness. You can feel whole, blessed, rich, connected. 

Loving others is the greatest greatness.

Surprising love in a city of strangers

Silver doors quickly slide open, and my family and I piled into the subway car with everyone else. All of the seats were taken: It was morning rush hour.

But, our five year old whined, “I waaannt toooo siiiit.”

Mortified, we tried to hush him thoroughly. But before we did, a man in his fifties of a darker hue wearing a baseball cap got up without a word and moved aside. And my son plopped down in his place.

That man stood before me smelling of cigarettes and alcohol, and I wondered what his story was and what caused him to give up his seat to a demanding boy he didn’t even know.

I looked at this man, amazed, and said: “Thank you.” And he glanced at me and nodded with a sense of understanding and then went back to gazing at nothing.

Every time we enter a subway car, what happens is this.

People get up.

Once they see my wife wearing our three-month-old, walking with my five-year-old, they automatically surrender their seats to strangers—to us.

Women, men, young, old, light-skinned or dark, white collared or blue, it doesn’t matter. All rise to the occasion—to this unspoken rule—unspoken but followed.

Love thy neighbor, especially if they are small and helpless, by sacrificing your comfort so they can be comfortable. It’s living art. It’s small but great. It’s humanity shining.

Surprise takes me every time, and I marvel at the generosity of these people in this city. We are strangers, yet we are friends, maybe family. And in that moment we are connected, loving and loved. We are grateful for you.

We love you.

All of you.

Fatherhood: Reflections on the last days of summer with my son

Popcorn, beer, and fans in blue surrounded us. Summer sun was beating down; a cool wind comforted us; and the crowd roared when a homerun soared over the back wall.

His face glowed with hope and joy as we sat: My son and I perched in the Bronx. 

He knew that I didn’t like staying for a full game, but he asked me, “Dad, can we stay till the end?” 

Usually, I said no, giving a reason like we needed to get home to do something important. 

But a realization slapped me, hard. And it was this. The only summer I have with my son as a five-year-old is ending. 

“Make the most of it, fool,” I thought to myself. 

Making as many happy memories as I could with him became my aim, doing the things he wanted, even if they went against what I preferred. 

So we stayed. 

The innings were exciting. But witnessing the wonder and excitement in his eyes brought me the greatest joy. My son smiled, cheered, clapped, and laughed. And I couldn’t help but join him.

And I found myself not wanting to leave the game even after the last out. 

But we both left satisfied, hand-in-hand—father and son. 

How New Yorkers react to our five pound baby

New York can be a hard place. People are rushing around you, treating you as if you weren’t human, only something in their way. The bustle can be overwhelming. You can get lost in the shuffle and feel like a number. But living here with a family has been very different, especially with a newborn.

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The Saturday afternoon we lost our son

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and we were in Washington Square Park, the iconic park in downtown Manhattan. The large marshmallow clouds marched in rows over the skyline; there was a slight breeze that brought comfort from the warmth of the sun shining down on the sea of humanity. The fountain was spraying water in the air, while kids danced and frolicked in the water. The landmark arc was white and seemed to glow as it towered over everything and everyone. People were everywhere: around the fountain, on benches, milling around, walking through, watching entertainers, on the grass in bathing suits. Dancers were dancing, musicians were playing, and the audiences were paying. Every creed, color, nationality seemed present. It was a collage of park, people, art, music, city, and nature. It was truly humanity at its best on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. 

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Have you ever considered a prenup?

On an episode of the Tim Ferriss Show, one of his guests, Ramit Sethi, talked about prenuptial agreements, or prenups, which are contracts signed before people get married that dictate rights to property and what happens after there is a divorce. They were both in favor of them.

It was interesting.

I don’t mean that in a snarky condescending, self-righteous way. I mean it was truly enlightening and helpful to consider.

As much as I am a huge fan of Tim Ferriss (and really enjoyed Sethi), on this subject, I disagree.

There is business in marriage. There are financials, income, taxes, losses, gains, spreadsheets, etc. Money plays a large part in the relationship and often is one of the main topics couples fight about. All true.

But marriage is not a business.

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