I Don't Know. I Hope So.

I don't understand things sometimes. I don't get it.

And I'm scared. There, I said it, I'm afraid. And every time I open a news website or a newspaper, my fear increases dramatically.

It makes me sad to hear about terrorists attacks. It makes me cry to see a four year old girl running through a Kenya mall trying to escape the hoards of gunfire happening behind her.

It literally hurts my heart to see pictures of students covered in blood while they mourn the loss of over 50 of their classmates in a senseless act of violence.  

Will they bounce back in Nigeria and Kenya? I don't know. I hope so.

I don't understand why a Dodgers fan is stabbed to death after a game against the Giants.  Or why a Giants fan was beat to within inches of his death last year and left with brain damage after a game against the Dodgers. 

Will we ever have a sports season where people see it for what it is? I don't know. I hope so.

Why does a guy go on a killing spree at a navy yard?

Will mental illness and disease awareness and treatment become something we fight for as hard as we fight each other over politics?

I don't know. I hope so.

Iran's President takes a phone call from the United States' President. People line the streets to chant "death to America."

Will our two countries ever be friends? I don't know. I hope so.

Don't even get me started on Chicago or Detroit.

School shootings. Kidnappings. Murders. Molestations.

And I'm supposed to let my little Etta out of mine or Annie's sight for two seconds--much less a full school day? I can't even sit on the bench at the mall and let her go around the treehouse, a roundtrip of three seconds, without freaking out--a reaction that usually leads to me on her heels everywhere she goes.

Will I ever feel comfortable with Etta out of my sight for longer than a blink of an eye? I don't know. I hope so.

Then I got to thinking. With all of these terrible things happening across the world, including our own country,  all we want to do is fight about insignificant things. All we want to do is point fingers at other political parties. Other religious beliefs. Other races. Other whatever.

All we do is continue to fuel hatred amongst each other. We just breed it.

Then I think even more.

And  I look in the mirror. Then I wonder if the greatest challenge for Etta is staring me right back in the mirror. Someone should write a song about the man in the mirror.

Am I doing everything I can for Etta? Am I the father she needs, and more importantly deserves?

I don't know. I hope so.

Am I prepared to tell her that bad things sometimes happen to good people? Am I prepared to tell her about a school shooting if, and more likely when, it happens again? Am I prepared with an answer when she asks me why people don't like where she lives or what she or her family believe?

I don't know. I hope so.

When Etta thinks of her daddy, will she think of someone who always showed her just how much he loves her? Will she think of how she makes me smile--a real, genuine, uninhibited smile? Will she realize that the mere mention of her name makes me tear up and any further thought of her makes me full on cry?

I don't know. I hope so.

Will she turn to me as someone who can be there to help her through difficult times? Will she trust me enough to talk to me when she's scared? Nervous? Anxious?

I don't know. I hope so.

The news makes me sad. Yes. But what an amazing opposite effect little Etta has. I hope I am what she needs. I hope she senses right now at just 15 months just how incredibly special she is to me and to her mommy.

Will there come a day when I open a newspaper, and all I see are stories that make me smile? Stories that make me happy? Stories that make me cry Etta tears--happy tears?

I don't know. I hope so.