Fatherhood

          I was tired from travel, but not exhausted like she was. When labor started I was frantically trying to leave Egypt. He came early and I arrived late. When I saw my beautiful wife and tiny son I was home. I was with my family for the first time. 

          I held him, he was so small, we laughed and kissed and I gave her flowers. She never forgave me for being late, because she never needed to; this is our crazy life where there's no room for grudges. What shocked me the most was that I did not recognize him–my son. I had thought about him for years, prayed for him for months, and anticipated this day more than all the others before. He had been on my mind and in my dreams, but I did not know him very well and he knew nothing of me. He had spent the last nine months with his mother. I was his protector and provider, but not his nurturer. That was her honor. 
          I don't know how it happened but I loved him both paternally and fraternally. We were together and  we now shared the same world, the same name, and for a time, the same journey. He has been my small disciple for these past two years. He has taught me much and I have kept him close even through the fire. I am an odd man and strange type of father. We live in a land not our own and teach a message we received from another. I sow what I will not reap and I reap that which I did not sow. 
          We are together this small band of three, he, his mother, and me. And some day he will look at me and say, "Father where was I raised?" and I will grin and point to the crook of my right arm.