Dear Chris:

You were most special because you were the first:  first child, first grandchild, first nephew.  I couldn't help it; I've always loved you best.

You were such a longed-for baby in a family that loves children.  I was so excited when I got the phone call that your mom was pregnant with you that I started yelling, "I'm going to be an AUNT!" in my apartment behind the front desk of the residence hall I was running at NSU, and the girl working the desk brought me a little congratulatory cake to celebrate the next day. 

You looked so much like your dad when you were born, but it was obvious from the start that you were your own man.  I remember a day when you were less than a year old, sitting on your dad's lap, your mom on the couch, and me in the floor, in the living room at the old house.  You had just discovered the word "duck," and we were repeating it over and over.  You belly-laughed every time one of us said, "Duck!" and we couldn't keep from laughing, too.  I think this was around the same time that you liked to pop your tongue off the roof of your mouth and could entertain yourself for quite a while with that.  One of the things I remember best about when you were just a toddler was how you'd say, "Train goes!" every time the vehicle went over railroad tracks.  Even if you were asleep, when we hit those tracks, you'd lift your little head and mutter, "Train goes, Papa!" 

You were a worker from the minute you could move a stack of blocks.  I'd guess you plotted, planted, and harvested about a million square miles of carpet farmland before you could ever see over the dashboard of a tractor.  If you wanted a square peg in a round hole, you would by golly work yourself ragged trying to make it happen.  It made for some frustrating activities when you were trying to work with blocks and such, but it gave you an understanding that things don't always go as planned.  I teased you a little too much in those days, and you let me know in no uncertain terms.  I remember once when you were about 2 or 3 and I was at your house; either Dad or Papa asked if you wanted to go to the pasture to check the cows, and of course you were right on it.  But before you could leave, you walked over where I was sitting, put your little hand on me knee, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, "Caffy, you not come."  I laughed then and now because it was such a little adult expressing himself to me in that baby voice.  But you kept your own counsel in most things, and I was a little too silly much of the time for your businesslike view of the world. 

Unlike anyone else I could name, you spoke to me frankly and with smart, sweet questions about Laura after she died.  You knew her because she was such a big part of my life, and you were here in Oklahoma when she died.  I don't remember what we were up to, but you were with me in my car in Tulsa, and you asked me if I was OK, and did she hurt before she died, and if I was sad, and did she go to heaven.  No 12-year-old boy that I've ever known was ever as expressive about death and loss as you were.  It was a wonderful gift to me that I'll never forget.  I was so very glad to be able to tell you that she didn't hurt anymore and that she was most definitely in heaven, where we'll all meet again.   

I've worked with enough teenage boys to know how hard those years are for both the teenager and his world, and you had a double dose of it.  Always stubborn, you fought so hard to be your authentic self and to bow to no one.  And nothing seemed to settle you but farming---or just being outside roaming your world, whether at home in South Dakota or here in Oklahoma.  I watched as you went through those headstrong days, celebrating your strength and praying for your peace, because I know a little of that kind of struggle too.  Your years in football, so unexpected in a family that puts more stock in work than play, were a surprise and a pleasure to me.  I wish I'd been able to see you play, but I did see the beginnings of the quiet confidence of a man developing there.  Your time in school was a torment to you, I know, but a necessary one, because it gave you the time---and the challenges---to grow into who you were meant to be. 

Now I see you as a calmer, self-confident young man of 22, having passed that birthday this week on the 21st, and I can hardly believe all these years have gone by.  I long for the earnest boy who could name every farm implement under the sun and how and why they were used.  I want to capture and never lose the memory of your phone call as a three-year-old telling me proudly, "We going to have a baby," when your twin brothers were on the way.  I miss the older brother who proudly bore his 13-years-young baby sister in his arms like a little princess, coming in the back door of Grandma and Papa's house for Christmas.  But I love to see the man grown and coming into his own life.  You were first, and I loved you first, but never forget that I loved you not for who you could be, but for who you are.  May every day bring you more peace and contentment.

Love,
Cathy