Sunday, March 01, 2015
While the early light stretches across the living room, dancing across Bibles and journals spread in laps, little hands place a tiny blue post-it note into his hands. Its zig-zagged lines read like faux-cursive script. He looks at it, then at her, wondering.
"Daddy! It's your present! It says, 'I love you!'"
A tiny scribbled post-it note.
He smiles big and wraps his arms around her, pulling her up on his lap. "Thank you!" And then with the tenderest look into her eyes - "Oh, I love being your Daddy."
All day long she asks him if he has it with him, looking for assurance that he values her gift, that she is important and her love-gift is important to him. I am torn between laughter and tears at the joy she has in this precious gift that would have no value apart from the love behind it.
And then - oh then -
I receive a gift from Him, a picture of this same event, only suddenly now I am the child, and I am offering up my silly gifts, my imperfect, illegible acts of love. I want Him to know it says "I love you!" I am anxious that it should please my Daddy, sometimes hilariously proud of how well I have written my scribbles. And He pulls me onto His lap, He picks me up like I am a child because to Him, that is all I am, and His breath catches and he whispers with the same unsearchable, tender look in His eyes -
"Oh. I love being your Daddy."