A Daddy Like That

My nine-year-old daughter has learned that Daddy goes to bed before Mommy most nights. She knows that if she follows my husband down the narrow hallway to our bedroom and asks for ‘the cuddles’, she will get to sleep in my bed. The other night, I went to bed, and there she was – snuggled with her dad, lying sideways across my side of our California-King. I pushed her gently back towards the middle of the bed, and then climbed in. It wasn’t more than two minutes later when her knees hit my aging back. I didn’t have the energy to move her again. In surrender, I tossed my pillow to the foot of the bed, and fell asleep there. When I woke up, I was completely uncovered. My husband was cozily wrapped in the blankets that he pilfered while I slept, and my daughter was snuggled right up next to him. She woke up, and the first thing she said was, “I’m so glad I have a daddy like you.” I wanted to say, “Hey, kid – look down here. It’s your freezing momma at the foot of the bed – where I slept, uncomfortably, all night so you could cuddle with your daddy. Aren’t you glad you have a mommy like me?” But as she snuggled closer to him, closed her dark brown eyes, and rested her head on his tattooed chest, all I could think was, “Me, too. I’m glad you have a daddy like him, too.”

Moments like that always pull my emotions in different directions. My heart overflows with joy for her – joy that she gets to experience pure love, that she feels secure in who she is, and that she feels safe, protected by her daddy’s arms. At the same time, the nine-year-old inside of me is grieved; heartbroken that she never had the opportunity to rest her head on her daddy’s chest and feel loved or safe. The nine-year-old me was full of shame, broken by this world, and she wanted more than anything to feel secure, loved. Before I knew what innocence was, I was without it.

Somehow, I feel like motherhood has helped me heal from the wounds of my past. Years ago, when I watched my husband teach my daughter to ride her bicycle in the empty church parking lot across the street from our two-story house, the five-year-old inside of me came alive. She (the five-year-old me) used to drag her hand-me-down bicycle down the concrete stairs of her second story apartment. Having no one to teach her, she sat on the blazing-hot curb under the Arizona sun and stared at that bike, never even climbing on. As I watched my husband run behind my little girl, the child inside of me ran, too. We cheered them on – him for holding the seat until she felt safe, and her for having the courage to pedal away. Somehow, being able to give my daughter the things that I lacked as a child helps to silence the cries of the little girl inside of me. Somehow she knows that it was because she suffered that my little girl never will, and she finds solace in that.

To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.

Friedrich Nietzsche

It has taken many moments like that – where the little girl inside of me got the chance to experience love, or hope, or joy – to heal the wounds of my past. It has been so important to offer that little girl a voice, to hand her a tissue, and allow her to cry, sometimes reaching back through time to squeeze her hand.

Nearly ten years ago, my husband found out that he had an eight-year-old daughter. While that is not my story to tell, I can tell you that from that day there was a piece of his heart that was missing. Circumstances, distance, finances – and quite possibly my inability to see the heart of that little girl – have made it impossible for them to meet all these years. Several weeks ago, the seventeen-year-old inside of me whispered in my ear. She reminded me of the emptiness in her heart, and all of the ways she tried to fill the void that her father should have filled.

Thursday evening, the eve of my husband’s thirty-ninth birthday, I told him we had a reservation and it was time to go. Although he always drives us places, I ran over to my sister’s house just for a minute, so that I could be in the driver’s seat when it was time to leave. When the freeway split was upon us, I asked him to look up the address of the restaurant he had picked for his birthday celebration. While he was preoccupied, I went North when I should have gone South. When he looked up from Google Maps, he said, “Um, you went the wrong way.” I admitted that I had, and that I would turn around at the next exit – which just happened to be the airport exit. Wouldn’t you know, I missed the first chance to return to the freeway, and ended up at the departure area? I pulled the car to the curb and ordered everyone out. Confused, my husband sat in the passenger seat. I popped the trunk and began unloading luggage, and then, one by one, my husband and all three of our children emerged from the car. I handed them each a carry-on bag and a boarding pass.

The first leg of our trip landed us in Denver, Colorado. I just happen to know a guy near Denver who is a hunting guide. My husband and I talked back in August about sending him to Colorado for an elk hunt over his birthday weekend, and he and my son were pretty excited when they saw the DEN on their boarding passes. They asked where the guns were – which I quickly shut down. If you say gun too many times in any airport, you are bound to cause a stir! I politely asked them all to wait while I checked the bags, and we headed to our gate. The kids knew I had more up my sleeve, and asked a hundred questions before the first plane took off.

It wasn’t until we were standing in the Denver airport that the real destination was announced. I gathered them all in and said, “I have good news, and I have bad news. The good news is that this is not our final destination, and the bad news is that we have an hour and a half layover.” Then, I handed them all their next boarding pass. This one read Tampa, Florida, which is about forty miles south of my husband’s, now seventeen-year-old, daughter’s home. Because I had been looking at deals on cruises over the past couple of weeks, my daughter shouted out, “We’re going to the Caribbean!” They all began shouting out destinations, and eventually, the cat crawled out of the bag.

That afternoon, after we were all settled and rested from our red-eye flight, there was a knock at the door. We all knew who was on the other side of the door, but she had no idea who was inside. When my husband pushed the white curtain from in front of the sliding-glass door, it took a few seconds for her to realize who she was looking at. And then came the wail that spoke to the seventeen-year-old inside of me….”Daaaaaaaaad!” And with that, she fell to her knees, and the tears fell from my eyes. My husband knelt down, put his hand on her arm, and immediately, she leapt into his arms – her small frame nearly knocking him down. She said it again, her voice shrill, “Daaaaaaaaad!” Her mom cried, I cried, my husband cried, she cried – but the seventeen-year-old inside of me smiled. She knows, more than any of us, that this moment will forever change the life of this child.

During my evening prayer, I was giving God praise for the changes he has made in my life, in my husband’s life, and as a result in the lives of our children. I was thanking Him for that sweet moment, weeks ago, when I slept at the foot of the bed, and for giving my daughter a daddy like that. I thanked Him for the suffering that lead me to the foot of the cross, and for the healing that has taken place as He has leads me beyond the cross. As I rested my head on my pillow, I heard that still, small voice whisper, “You have a daddy like that.”