MY JOURNEY BETWEEN THE TWO GATES
On a December morning in 1988, Sam arrived not with a cry but with a gasp, as if the very act of stepping into this world demanded more than his tiny body could bear. Born through a C-section, his entrance was dramatic, a harbinger of the vibrant, unforgettable soul he would become. But those first moments were fraught—he swallowed fluid during birth, and I watched helplessly as he was whisked away to the neonatal intensive care unit. For two agonizing days, he lay surrounded by the hum and beep of machines, his fragile body tethered to monitors that seemed to mock my helplessness. All I could do was hold his impossibly small hand, his delicate fingers curling instinctively around mine as if to tell me, “I’m here, Daddy. I’m holding on.” In that silent connection, a bond was forged—a vow that no force in this realm or the next would ever sever.
When Sam finally came home, his strength belied the uncertainty of those early days. Healthy and full of life, he melted into my chest as I held him close, his breath soft and steady against my skin. His warmth seeped into me, and in that moment, time paused. I felt the unshakable truth of our connection: this boy, my son, belonged here, against my heart, where he was always meant to be. Every worry dissolved, replaced by an overwhelming tidal wave of love.
As December 11th draws near, I find myself adrift in the vast, luminous sea of memory, each wave carrying fragments of a life so vibrant it could never truly fade. Sam would have turned 36, his laughter mingling with mine if fate had allowed it. It is tempting—achingly so—to let the shadow of his passing on that unthinkable day in January 2021 blot out the radiant light of his birth. But I will not surrender to that darkness. Instead, I choose to hold fast to the brilliance of the day he first entered this world, a day that etched itself into the fabric of my soul like the first rays of dawn after a long, cold winter’s night.
I was there when he took his first breath, cradling him as his tiny chest rose and fell with the rhythm of new life. I was there, too, when he exhaled his last, my arms a refuge for his departing spirit. The symmetry of those moments—birth and death, the surge of joy, and the abyss of sorrow—is a truth that defines my journey as a father and has become the essence of who I am. It is a paradox of love: to hold both the weight of grief and the lightness of memory, to mourn and yet marvel, to ache and yet give thanks for the miracle of having known him at all.
Sam’s childhood was a symphony of laughter and discovery; each notes a melody that sang to my soul. I was honored to be its conductor, guiding him through the rhythms of life’s earliest lessons. On the baseball field, I watched him shine, his natural brilliance turning every swing and sprint into a masterpiece that left me bursting with pride. I steadied the back of his bike as he wobbled, teetering between uncertainty and triumph, my cheers carrying him forward until he found his balance. In those moments, I tried to teach him what it meant to be a man—to be kind, resilient, and unwaveringly true to himself. But in truth, Sam was my teacher. He showed me how to love with abandon, laugh so deeply the world seemed brighter, and view life through the vast, curious eyes of wonder.
Every milestone was a treasure etched into my heart, and every heartbreak was a weight I willingly shared. I promised to be his anchor in the fiercest storms, his steady compass as he navigated life’s uncharted waters. Yet, even as I held him steady, he became my guiding star. His light illuminated my path, even in the darkest moments, a beacon of love and purpose that could never dim.
Sam’s presence is etched into the fabric of existence, a gentle reminder that our love transcends the fleeting nature of physical life. Even now, the number 444 appears like a sacred echo, a cue that Sam is near, his essence woven into the rhythm of my days. When the clock strikes 4:44, when a license plate flashes the numbers, or when they appear in the most unexpected places, I pause, and there he is—a reminder that love endures, unseen but deeply felt.
In writing Between Two Gates: A Young Man’s Quest Toward Birth, I sought to capture this truth. The story of Sam is not confined to the limits of a lifetime but stretches infinitely, connecting moments past, present, and yet to come. It is a testament to the eternal thread that binds us—a bond not severed by time or space but alive in the signs and whispers, in the sacred moments where our worlds meet. Sam lives in the 444s, in the gentle cadence of nature, and in every breath of love that transcends this earthly plane.
A portion of Sam’s soul resides within me, in the sacred space where my tears blend with joy, where my grief is a reflection of my love. It’s here, in the depths of my heart, that I carry him forward. He is the best part of me—the part that loves without hesitation laughs without fear and finds beauty even in the shadows of sorrow. And so, on December 11th, I will light a candle not to mourn but to celebrate. I will honor the tiny hand that first gripped my finger, the unshakable presence that transformed my life. Through the veil of tears, I will smile, for Sam will always be my boy, my heart, my everything—the center of my world, my guiding light, and my eternal love.
Happy birthday, Son.
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