A Valentine to My Eight-Year-Old Self

I was in love by Grade Two. Having decided which of my classmates I would marry, I prepared a marriage license for us which my big brother discovered in my room and found useful for endless harassment and blackmail. I dreaded the day my intended groom learned of its existence, but I don’t recall having to endure that humiliation. Maybe my brother was more merciful than I thought.

Valentines Day would not expose my secret since Mom insisted I give a valentine to every person in my class, regardless of my feelings. The only thing under my control was deciding who received which one. I’d agonize over who got my invitation to “Be Mine” and who received the skunk picture declaring, “I’m scent-imental over you!”

I loved those press-out valentines. I loved a little less the envelopes that had to be folded and then glued together with flour and water paste—a method you’ll remember if your parents survived the Great Depression.

In the lead-up to the big day, we decorated our classroom with pink and red streamers and paper hearts. Our teacher brought in a large box and cut a slot in the top. We covered The Box with crepe paper and more hearts and cupids. On the morning of February 14, we diligently hid our valentines until our turn came to insert them into The Box. Little was learned during our morning lessons as we stared at The Box, envisioning all the valentines inside.

When we returned after lunch, cookies and cupcakes in hand, it was party time. Games were played, treats were shared. Finally, the big culmination: the opening of The Box and the distribution of the valentines within.

At home, I’d review them over and over, hunting for clues to a secret love the sender may have hidden between the lines, hope and heartache racing side by side through my little core.

Fifty-six Valentines Days later, I decided to write a valentine to the little girl I was then. Since I don’t have a time machine so I can drop it through a slot in The Box, I’ll share it here.

Sweetheart,

I know you’re dying to know whom you’ll one day marry. I’m not going to tell you, except to say it’s neither of the boys you take turns having a crush on these days, so maybe hold off on writing marriage licenses. You will marry a good man, but he won’t be perfect. Neither will you. Together you’ll have some wonderful, imperfect children. They’ll bring you joy, laughter, and love. This may come as a shock, but they’ll also hurt your feelings sometimes. You’ll disappoint them, and yourself. There will be days you’ll feel unloved and forgotten, betrayed and alone.

Here’s another shocker: your parents don’t have everything figured out. They’re doing their best to love and care for you, given the tools they’ve been given. They’ll fall short sometimes, too. Even when you’re grown, they’ll second-guess the choices they made for you. If you can understand that, it’ll be easier both to forgive their mistakes and to forgive yourself when your own kids are adults.

What I need you to know more than anything is that you are loved, perfectly and just the way you are, by the One who created you. The more you practice running to Him with your hurts and allowing His love to comfort you, the greater will be your ability to love the people He brings into your life—even when they don’t return your affection. You have a long life ahead, with countless people who will move in and out of it. Only One will be constant. You won’t regret pouring every effort into getting to know Him—Jesus, the Lover of your soul.

Yours truly,

Your 64-year-old self.

Favorite TV Dads, Part 3 of 4: Charles Ingalls

As a little girl, I had a huge crush on Little Joe Cartwright of Bonanza. When I grew older, I was smitten with Charles Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie. Are you sensing a theme here? By the time Highway to Heaven came along, I had my own real-life husband and was too busy chasing three young children to watch television. One summer, however, a friend loaned us a complete set of Little House VHS tapes. The kids and I watched an episode or two every night before bed to unwind after a long hot day of work and play.

Who could wish for a better husband or father than Charles Ingalls? I read the books. It’s not possible that Laura Ingalls Wilder’s real pa was as handsome or as consistently wise and thoughtful as the TV character—in fact, the man’s wanderlust would have driven me crazy. Still, I was not immune to falling in love with the on-screen version, fictional though he was.

The real-life actor, Michael Landon, experienced his share of tragedy in his 54 years with us. His birth name was Eugene Maurice Orowitz. If having a Jewish father and Catholic mother wouldn’t present enough challenges, his mother suffered from mental illness. According to his unofficial biography, Michael Landon: His Triumph and Tragedy, the childhood stress of worrying about his mother and her frequent suicide attempts caused Landon to wet the bed. The stress was compounded by the humiliation of having his mother hang the wet sheets outside his bedroom window in full view of his friends.

His adult life certainly wasn’t without strife, either, despite the colossal success of his show business career. A chain-smoker and heavy drinker, he divorced twice and died much too young of pancreatic cancer in 1991.

The Little House on the Prairie show ran for nine seasons, from 1974 to 1983. Although it had its comedic moments, the show was primarily a drama that succeeded in bringing viewers to tears nearly every episode. Set during the 1870s-90s, it covered many of the same topics the books did, like poverty, blindness, death, and faith—and many that the books did not: adoption, alcoholism, racism, drug addiction, leukemia, child abuse, and rape. Michael Landon not only starred as Pa Ingalls, he wrote, directed, and produced many of the episodes—some of which were remakes of episodes he’d written for Bonanza. In each one, Pa’s character shone. He modeled hard work, humor, contentment, courage, and selfless concern for others. Besides, who can resist a guy who can both play the fiddle and build things out of wood? Or a life where problems are solved within the span of a one-hour episode?

Apart from Michael Landon’s looks and charm, what was it about the character of Charles Ingalls that so appealed to viewers of every age and gender? Could the heartbreaks of Landon’s childhood have helped him tap into something we all long for—a father who is not only humble and down-to-earth but dependable, consistently loving and good-natured, while maintaining integrity and valuing family above all? Whose wife and children can rest secure in his unconditional love? Perhaps deeper still lies the desire to be that sort of person, even though every single one of us falls short. Ironically, at the time of his death, Landon was working on a new series about father/son relationships across three generations. I bet it would have been a hit.

Regardless how much we all long for it, I have a hunch nobody on this planet has ever had or been a dad as perfect as Pa Ingalls. Could it be that the deepest part of our hearts recognizes its need for our heavenly father, our Creator—the only one who can or will deliver?

This Father’s Day, take time to consider your relationship with your earthly father, for better or worse. Then ask God to show you a little of his own character as a loving parent. See what he reveals.