I wish I had a photograph of my husband’s face as I handed him his daughter for the first time. I had been in Vietnam for almost two weeks, and he had been home caring for our three young sons, running the house and still finding time to hold down his job.

He had driven the three hours that night to pick Maggie and me up from the Salt Lake City airport. We were coming off of a 24-hour trip…we started in Ho Chi Minh City, then on to Hong Kong, then to Los Angeles, and then finally, Salt Lake City. I was oh-so tired as I walked through the terminal carrying my tiny nine-pound, fourth-month old baby girl, and as I neared the corner that I knew once turned, would let me finally see my sweet husband, my eyes filled with tears. There would be no large welcome home crowd, no balloons and signs, friends and extended family. Just one extremely anxious husband and father.

I turned that corner and there he was…gosh how wonderful it was to see him after being gone for so long. He’s my best friend, my true love…my rock. I handed him our daughter, who was quietly awake, taking in the world around her. She was dressed in pink…after having three boys and now finally a girl, I bought a lot of pink. Her jet black hair was all over the place, some standing up straight, some headed every which way. Her beautiful dark, almond eyes were checking him out, and her perfect little pursed lips were starting to look for a bottle.

I stood back and looked at the two of them…she looked so small in his arms…her extra-small frame against his extra-large frame. He stood there holding her, staring at her, caressing her, oblivious of the hustle and the bustle of the baggage claim all around him. His eyes filled with tears as he gently kissed her forehead and something in his face softened permanently that night.

Yes, I wish I had a picture of my husband, that night he first held his first daughter.