I contemplated publishing an open letter to our new baby, Anthony Francis Crawford. That felt too personal. I love you all, but some things should stay between father and son.

I did want to write a reflection on my hopes for this beautiful child and for the world that welcomes him.

Some people ask why anyone chooses to bring children into “this world.”

Well, to hope; to imagine the world more fully, and future more clearly. Above all, to love. God creates all things out of His love for us. Anthony’s tiny fingers, toes, button nose, and even his powerful little digestive system are made from love. He is called to love, in turn.

I suppose this is my first hope: That he is loved well and that he loves well. I resolve to make this my highest priority as a parent: to teach my sons what it means to love—with my actions even more than with my words.

I hope he is filled with curiosity. I want him to see beauty—even when it is hard. I want him to spend time contemplating the beauty of nature—especially little things. I want him to see the beauty in other people and to feel gratitude when he sees the ocean stretch out beyond his vision or a mountain rise up in front of him.

I hope he is resilient. Parenting Joseph (our four-year-old) has taught me that this is actually one of the hardest parts of parenting. One day your actions suddenly have to shift from providing for comfort and happiness to having to set boundaries, give space, and let your child become their own person. I can only imagine how much harder this will get. I want my boys to eventually not need me anymore. My heart struggles to do this—and might never get there.

I want his life to reflect lessons from the two saints for whom he is named.

Saint Anthony of Padua

Saint Anthony of Padua has been a source of comfort for my wife and me. The shrine named after him in Ellicott City, Maryland is where we attended Sunday mass during COVID. It’s where we went to church when we struggled to have a child. It’s where Joseph was baptized—and where he loves to pick asparagus and spinach at the Little Portion Farm. I hope Joseph will teach him his method: to load the vegetables into the toy truck and haul them over to the larger container used by all of the volunteers. It’s not the most efficient way, but it’s the most fun. There’s a message for us, tucked in the tiny Caterpillar dump truck.

Anthony of Padua lived a life of service. He was determined to join in the service of God in the most radical way possible— even against the wishes of his parents.

He immersed himself in the daily work of the hermitage—a dedicated but quiet life—and became one of the world’s greatest preachers only after filling in for someone else. So great was his faithfulness that he was given the most precious gift—the gift to hold the Christ Child during a powerful experience of prayer. This is what I hope for baby Anthony: that he is open to God’s call to him, even if it is not what he expects, and that he holds Christ close throughout his life.

Francis of Assisi

Francis did not have an easy relationship with his own father. His father was absent when Francis was born. His mother gave him the name Giovanni, after John the Baptist. Francis’ father renamed him “Francesco” in honor of the country of France, where he was making his money as a cloth merchant. I once heard a priest note that the name “Francesco” became a sign of the fact that Francis’ father was not present.

Eventually Francis denounced his father altogether. He stripped off his clothing, handed them to his father, and declared he no longer would call him his father, and instead would serve, “Our father, who art in Heaven.”

I pray that my son and I will be on better terms, and that I will be open to his vocation wherever it takes him. Indeed, this is my hope for my sons. I want them to spend their life searching for God’s purposes for them, and to open their hearts to that call.

It is said that when Saint Francis was on his deathbed, he told his companions, “I have done what was mine to do. May Christ teach you what is yours.”

When I was in Assisi earlier this year, I prayed in front of the San Damiano Cross. I lit a candle for my goddaughter and her sister, and for Joseph and Anthony. I asked the Lord to give them the same level of clarity and conviction that he gave Saint Francis when Francis prayed in front of that very cross, and I asked that he give them the courage to follow His call wherever it leads.

My final hope

I hope that one day, when it becomes clear that the Lord will soon call me home, that my wife, sons, and I will all feel like we squeezed every ounce of love out of our shared life—that we will have memories that inspire traditions and know that nothing was left unsaid or undone. I pray that we serve the Lord and our neighbors well.

This is—thank God—not an ending. It is the beginning.

Adventures await.

Saint Anthony of Padua, pray for us.

Saint Francis of Assisi, pray for us.