This has been a momentous and joyous week. Thursday morning, your father called to tell us you were born. Grandma came to pick me up at work (boy, did she get impatient when I couldn’t come right out), and we rushed over to Sutter Memorial Hospital to see our first grandchild. It was a rainy but not particularly cold day. When we arrived, you were still in the nursery getting the once-over and a picture from the nurses. But I could see the top of your head and your long dark hair. Your mother looked worn out. She had dark circles under her eyes but a big smile on her face. When they finally brought you into your mother’s room, I was one of the first to hold you. You weren’t more than four hours old.
I can’t say I looked into your eyes and saw the future because you wouldn’t open your eyes. You were sleepy and comfortable, all wrapped in a blanket. Twenty years ago, in the same hospital, your mother looked just about the same way, safe and comfortable. But we had a few anxious moments before she was born. We lived in Davis at the time, and the rain had been unusually heavy. The waves were lapping up against the Yolo Causeway, where the overflow from the Sacramento River goes when there is too much water to accommodate in the normal channel. The clouds had cleared, so the fog thickened in the valley. Grandma went into labor in the evening, and we weren’t sure, with the fog, how long it would take to get to Sacramento. So we decided to go to Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa Hogge’s home in Sacramento until it was time to go to the hospital. On the way, I could barely see the lines on the freeway as we crept along slowly. We weren’t at my parents’ house long before Grandma was pretty sure it was time to get to the hospital.
At the hospital, things were going well enough, but then the nurses started noticing that, when Grandma had a contraction, your mother’s heartbeat would slow dangerously. The doctor wanted Grandma to stand up to try to move the process along. Her legs were weak, though, so I did my best to hold her up. When Grandma was ready to deliver, they took her down to a delivery room. (They used to have separate rooms for labor and for delivery.) It wasn’t long before your mother was born, with her umbilical cord tied in a knot. Apparently, every time Grandma had a contraction, it pulled the knot tighter -- hence your mother’s slowing heartbeat. Despite the distress, your mother was born healthy and strong.
I have probably described it better elsewhere, but there was a unique and special feeling in the room when your mother was born. The Spirit of the Lord bore witness to Grandma and me that this was a very important event, from an eternal perspective. I am sure that had something to do with the fact that this little girl would be the mortal mother of some of our Heavenly Father’s most valiant children.
Your mother introduced Aaron Clift to us in April 2005 when we went to Provo to visit. Before long, she told us they intended to marry. And in August of that year, we had a son-in-law. We liked your father from the beginning (although I must admit I was amused at his ill-at-easedness in our presence -- he eventually overcame that).
By the time you read this, you may have brothers or sisters. I don’t know what the Lord has in store for your family. But I am tempted to write at length about my brother, Andy. He passed away in September, just about five weeks before you were born, and I miss him. I hope you will take some time and read the eulogy I gave at his funeral. It reflects how I feel about eternity and about our Heavenly Father. Your great-grandfather, Joe West, also passed away while your mother was pregnant with you. You may not believe it as you read this, but this mortal life is fleeting. We live an eternity, making choices and developing, before we come to this life. Then we live here for a very short time before going on to another eternity. Yet our time here is the most important because we make choices here that will affect us for eternity.
Always remember the importance of the role you will play in this life. We all have roles. Recently, the role of women in society has been denigrated and redefined. Because success is measured by affluence and possessions, it has become stylish to demand productivity from mothers -- worldly productivity, the kind that produces material wealth without regard to eternal consequences. With that measure of success, stay-at-home moms can’t compete for respectability. The answer is to correct the measure not to compete better under the worldly measure.
In our family the role of mother finds the prominence it deserves. Almost 100 years ago, Roa Kelly was born into a family that had left the LDS Church but not Utah. Her parents did not insure that she was baptized when she was eight years old. But she made that determination as a teenager, seeking baptism and taking upon herself the name of Jesus Christ. It was a commitment she kept the rest of her life, even though the man she married was not active in the Church. She took her three boys to church and taught them to keep their commitments to their Heavenly Father. Each one of those boys, including your great-grandfather, Wallace Hogge, followed her example. We revere Roa because, were it not for her, we would have only worldly measures of success. Instead, we strive together for eternal goals. It is a good name you bear, and your role as a daughter of God is celestially important.We are pleased to welcome you to our world. It is not the easiest place to live, and there are many who would say we have not taken very good care of it. But I like this place. It is full of sorrow, deceit, ugliness, and sin -- it is true. Without this, however, there could be no happiness, integrity, beauty, and righteousness. It is the nature of mortality that we must see them all to appreciate the best. Don’t be discouraged that there is adversity in the world. Just be resolute in following Christ.
We love you, perhaps more than you will know for many years. Your mother and father are dear to us. And we hope to have many years of seeing you grow and develop and have a happy life, like we have had.
With much love,
Grandpa Hogge (or whatever you will end up calling me, like “hey you”)
