For Christine

I have been thinking a lot lately about a father’s love for his daughter(s).   It seems to me that all true loves are strong in their own way, and that this uniqueness is heightened by the shared history and experience of each particular love.

I have never known how to capture such loves in words, and so I sometimes find myself writing or saying to those I love that “words cannot express” how deeply I care for them.  And though that is true, it does not (of course!) stop me from trying.  Nor should it.

Today is my older daughter’s birthday.  How I tell her that I love her is between the two of us; it is her choice to share those words if and as she chooses.  But how would I tell you how much I love her?

I’d tell you about worshipping with my little girl (who is now neither little or a girl) yesterday.  She’s a kid who burns the candle at both ends, and does so long into the night.  Between her studies, her activities, her friendships, and now a boyfriend as well, she pretty much always has something going.  She is tired, and in unguarded moments the weariness shows for those who know how to look for it—and sometimes even to those who don’t.  But she makes time for her old man, and for the Old Man (to use an ageist and sexist reference to our Creator that I hope you will grant me the grace to pardon), and both are gifts I do not take lightly.

She is also old enough now to have learned the hard way at least a little bit of something about life’s disappointments, heartache, sorrow, and loss.   She has learned these things because she has cultivated the ability to care deeply; to be mindful of others, of what is important in the world, and of how the two intersect in her relationships.  Ours is one of those relationships, and though our relationship could easily take a back seat at this stage in her life, she is careful (care full) to do more than conveniently work me in as she can, making the effort and sacrifice necessary to share her life with mine and allowing me to share mine with her.  Is there any greater privilege one human being can give another than that?

She is still every bit as full of life as she has always been, and there are few things in life that I am as deeply thankful for as I am for that.  Despite the last paragraph, in virtually every picture I see of her she is smiling, and I believe that smile come from the heart.   I see her smile as she sings Gospel music, as she hangs out with her friends, as she talks about her boyfriend.  But I also see her smile when she sees me, when she greets me after not having seen me more for awhile or even just a few hours, when she says, “Love you, Daddy.”

The very first time she smiled at me was during a church service.  I was so taken that I became disoriented, forget where I was and what I was doing.  The whole service came to a halt because my whole world had just come to a halt, totally reduced and expanded to that single moment.   No matter how many times I have seen it, I have not ceased to be taken with her smile to this very day.

I could go on…and on… and on.  But there comes a point when going on is actually unproductive, overkill, and when it sounds like trying to convince rather than honest celebration.  And so I think I’ve said enough.

I love you Christine.  Happy Birthday!

Comments

[riddle]

amazing post Rob.
Happy Birthday Christine!

[Kris]

Happy Birthday, Christine, from Kris and Scot!

[Coral]

Happy birthday Christine!

I think the way your world comes to a stop when your first child smiles, is so poignantly explained by you. It is a memory that is indelibly left in your mind.