I’ve called you my Renaissance boy. You are good at everything you’ve done. Excellent at some, even. You’ve been athletically coordinated from the time you first walked. You get mostly straight-As in school. You can sing and play the piano by ear. Latin rolls off your tongue beautifully. You’ve been continually praised for your joyful temperament by many adults since you were very young. You are extremely social: ready to play with anyone who’ll take you up on it. Mr. Martin, your Godfather and Confirmation sponsor, described you perfectly by paraphrasing an old adage: “For CJ there are no strangers; only friends he hasn’t met yet.”
You can turn anything into a game. I once had to confiscate 14 different balls
from your room on a school morning to keep you on track. You can play alone, but you don’t prefer
it. We’ve played together since you were
born. You loved to be held close in a
baby carrier, and back then it was peek-a-boo.
As you grew we began to play sports: baseball, basketball, soccer, and
kickball. We’re probably hilarious to
watch. I never have to get a rebound or
run after a ball—you fly around the yard doing it for me. When I fall too far behind in the score you
never fail to keep, you lighten up the rules.
I guess you don’t want me to feel bad about myself.
You have had your struggles.
Your birth and adoption stories are chock full of supernatural
experiences that I’ll one day explain to you.
But for now it’s enough to know that you’re growing in your faith. You recently became an altar boy and served
for the first time on Palm Sunday 2026.
For three years in a row you received an award for the virtue of
cheerfulness at your school. I look
forward to seeing what other virtues emerge in you most strongly over the years
to come.
You are the baby in the family and the shortest in stature
on most of your sports teams: you
are small, but you are mighty, and I love you very much.
A joyful heart is more easily made perfect than a downcast one. –Saint Philip Neri
