Richmond Park

A Saturday spent chasing deer and helicopters - only in London. Enjoy!

eyes

Anne will be four months on 24 August. One of her most significant developments to date happened two weeks ago when she realized how to incorporate her neck, together with other parts of her body, with the ocular communicating that she began soon after birth. Some poses follow here.

Home Made

A little bit of collateral joy courtesy of little sister's bathtub, a gift from love in Houston. Share the happiness.

Bea's Baptism

At the end of May we were graced with the joy of Bea's baptism and of her Godmother's visit on the feast of Pentecost. Father Peat presided and was especially gracious to Lina after the celebration.

We were overcome by the time and did not plan much of anything properly. Lina, however, was typically brilliant and recorded much of our time together. Bea is blessed.

Treasure

Treasures are by definition rare and difficult to obtain. They are usually either discovered or grasped after great effort and trial, and once obtained they are typically held with immeasurable care, cost, and sacrifice. All of the great stories are in a certain sense treasure stories, Odysseus is to Penelope as Atticus Finch is to truth, as the Almighty in a way is to humanity.

Even rarer than one treasure is the idea of many treasures. One is willing to believe that Edmond Dantes found, kept, and disposed well of the long-lost Spada gold. But if in the sequel to his modern epic Moctezuma’s gold were added to his portfolio, then the whole thing would be rubbish –both books would be burnt together and their author rightfully blackballed. Treasures are singular, and singular they ought to remain.

The typist descends not from the credible Dantes but from his improbable, never-written, and never-wanted sequel. Today, my father collects his eightieth treasure, his eightieth year. On this day in 1929 he arrived in Mexico City in the form of a baby boy. Fortune later carried him away, first to the United States, then to Asia, and then back to the States where grace united him with my mother. I, my six brothers and sisters, and nine grand-children follow from that union. Eighty years in a day, today. Eighty years in a word, a name, Miguel.

We believe that God’s love for human kind is universal. We also believe that He loves each person individually, and that that love is no less love than His universal love for humanity. If God’s perfect love can embrace such a multitude, unfathomable to any one of us, perhaps it is not too hard to believe my father’s human love has spanned these last eighty years and yet endures. It abides even in such a small and vulnerable vessel as this family. It is one of our treasures.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

P.S. - Manda, Mando, I stole some of your photos. Please forgive me, they were perfect.