I grew up a Daddy’s girl and thought that would never change. But life happens. Events happen. Relationships change. Things become complicated. Silence takes on new life. Absence becomes customary. Relationships with parents are not shielded from these realities. My relationship with my Dad definitely isn’t. If I am to be honest, this has probably been one of the single most life altering experiences I have had, the source of much anguish, frustration, and anger. Though I have not always been able to give voice to it , my sense of Daddy-loss has been the primary fount out of which much of my own rejection issues flow. What I know is that my Dad is not the bad guy in this story. I am not the heroine. Life doesn’t allow any of us to get off that easily with neatly checked boxes.
But this is not all that I have. In the midst of the sense of loss that surfaces like weighted floating devices (under water for a moment, but seemingly appearing out of nowhere, popping up in surprising places at surprising times) there are other memories that rise to the surface as well. It is because of these other memories that I blog this day.
The Memory: I am in the first grade and I am getting ready for school. I am dressing myself. Everything is in place and I am ready to go until my Mother sees my shoes. Those darn shoes. They always seemed to trip me up. She can’t understand why I don’t seem to be able to tell that they are on the wrong feet. Again. And so I sit on the edge of my bed, lights off with the light of day streaming in. Dangling my feet over the side. Holding one of my Buster Brown navy blue tie up shoes with the rubber soles with the crunchy bottom in my hand. Not moving. Not trying again. Just sitting. Just looking. In walks my dad. He kneels beside my bed. Gently takes the shoe out of my hand and says, “Feel the inside of this. See how it goes in?” I feel the inside curve of the shoe. “Now feel the inside of your foot. See how that goes in the same way?” I feel the inside of my foot. Wow, that makes sense to me. I can really tell the difference. I put on my shoes, this time on the right feet. Tie them up. Head out the room to get my coat. Thanks to my Dad I am now ready for school, maybe even a little more ready for life.
So to the man who took the time to read me Bible stories “Tell me the one about the salt lady again daddy!”, to the person whose laugh (even in my memory) still makes me smile, to the man who took time to talk to a teenager on a pay phone about absolutely nothing in the middle of his work day just because she called and wanted to know what he had for lunch, to the person who let me win sometimes when I begged, “Daddy let me win, please let me win!”, to the one who made me fall in love with Gladys Knight and Sam Cooke in the 4th grade, to the one who told me to not allow life and the anxieties of life to wrap me up so tightly that it made me sick, who said work hard, but work smart, to the man who sent care packages my freshmen year of college that fed me and most of the floor, to the one who didn’t really believe in women preachers but believed enough in me and the God that made me to say that I needed to obey what I believed God was saying to me, and yes for the man that taught me how to put my shoes on the right feet I say thank you.
Today, as I put my adult shoes on, I smile and think of you!
Love, your daughter!
Becoming... 