Posts Tagged ‘daughter’


She searched for three days.  She pillaged through every toy, underneath every seat in the truck, and even in the garage.  Still, her iPad was nowhere in sight.  It wasn’t until three days of rain had passed, the sun emerged, and I submitted to picking up the yard in preparatory duty before mowing that the discovery was made.  Here sister had left her beloved electronic toy in the tree house.  Soaked and soundless, it was quite obvious that this gadget had given up the ghost.

Surprisingly, my seven year-old did not cry.  She didn’t pout or fight or fall on the floor flailing.  It almost seemed as though she was completely unaffected.  Puzzled, but somewhat concerned knowing that this is the same girl who, when she is physically injured holds all emotion inside until she is positively certain no one can see her, I went back out to my yard duties.

Later, when dinner was ready and Daddy entered from work, the mystery of my mini-me was solved.  As her father greeted her, she grinned from ear to ear telling the tale.  She disclosed the item she was holding behind her back, and with unwavering confidence she handed her rain-soaked iPad back to the one who gave it to her.

“Addie left my iPad outside,” she said still smiling like it was the best news in the world, “and I can never use it again!”

Bewildered as any dad might be given the situation he replied, “I guess you can’t play your games anymore then.”

Then the key to her strange behavior was revealed as her eyes moved toward the kitchen.  “But you have another one, Daddy!  You have two other ones!  Maybe I can use that one!” she said as she pointed at the unopened box that had been lying on the counter for the past two months.

Upon changing phone companies we had received a free iPad that no one was using.  She was happy when her old broken screen iPad was left in the rain because she was counting on her daddy’s incredible generosity.  She was was depending on his unbelievable grace.  She was altogether certain of her I-can-melt-your-heart-because-I-know-exactly-who-I-am place in his great big can’t-help-but-give-you-everything heart.

As if pretending that making her wait a week would fool any of us.  We all knew he would give it to her eventually.  We knew because we know him and he’s probably the most generous man we know.  That and having four little girls does not do much for the hearts of even big tough guys who try to pretend they aren’t soft.

She did whisper the occasional, “Mommy, do you think he’ll give me that iPad?”  throughout the waiting week.  I just encouraged her.  I reminded her that Daddy would most definitely do something.  “Don’t you worry.  He will not forget about you,”  I told her.

Oh, to have that kind of hope!  To be that confident and certain of my Father’s goodness!  If I could just get a glimpse of the position I hold in his heart!  Surely I would stop crying when my favorite ideas and plans are left alone and forgotten.  Surely I would stop hurting when what I long for is washed completely away by the waters of loss.  Surely I would understand my place in His heart even when I feel altogether unnecessary in this wide world.  Surely I would stop struggling to be what I already am.  Surely I would stop wondering why I have to wait so long to be used by His perfect power.  Surely I would simply whisper my fearful doubts to my brothers and sisters and trust their reassurance.

I know my heavenly Father and he knows me.  I just wish I could be like my daughter.  I wish I could stand smiling with complete confidence while I wait for glory.

Maybe I am whispering now.

Maybe I just need what Maylee needed during the long week of waiting.  Maybe I just need my brothers and sisters to encourage me.  Maybe I’m asking.  Please.

 I know Daddy is so, so good.  I know how outrageously generous He is.  I know my place in His heart.  I know he had great gifts lying on His shelf that already belong to me.  But like Maylee’s toy, I am often desperately broken.  I often feel very alone and abandoned.  I often do not feel needed or useful and I do not know why.  I feel like I am forever reaching and rarely being reach for.  Thankfully, I do not live by feelings.  I live by the Truth.  So I’m asking.

From one who is real good at looking put together when I’m falling apart, help me.  I need you.  Be my real friend.  Tell me to persevere.  Share your struggles.  Correct me.  Help me hear His voice.  Reassure me with His words.  Encourage me with your joy.  I just want to wait faithfully.


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Today, the third day since the healing began (just like the last time)  the pastor spoke about a prideful king whom God brought low, stripped of his securities and idols , and afflicted with a mental disorder.  I am that king.  I am the prideful one who worshiped self.  I am the violent one who sat on a throne of anger against God’s people.  I am the arrogant one who oppressed His anointed.  I am the lowliest one whom he has chosen to use and restore after a time of severe judgement.  I was prideful and angry at God and his people.  I was humbled and brought low by his judgement.  I have been miraculously restored by his amazing grace.  I know this is true.

When the sermon came to a close and pastor spoke the name “Jesus” many times in the conveying of the gospel, each time I felt the Holy Spirit physically act inside my body.  The power I felt as the name of Jesus was spoken at this time is inexplicable.

It is no coincidence that today, the daughter that was not to exist was dedicated to the Lord.  This one – who came years after a physical surgery preventing her.  This one – who came just one year after a marriage thought surely lost.  This one – a Son-ny whom God promised before she was even physically possible or logically believable.  This one – who moments after birth fell silent at her Daddy’s calm voice.

Neither is it a coincidence that afterward I saw my spiritual father at a picnic where I brought blackberry pie and picked wild ones.  Daddy was there.  Father God was there.  Redemption is here.  Restoration is complete.  I am free.  That, friends, is how God heals the broken.

As I write, my 11 year old daughter cries because she thinks her Daddy is sleeping.  She thinks he has forgotten about her and all their plans to finish building a chicken coupe.  She does not know I have already told him to attend to her.  She does not know he is awake.  She does not know he has not forgotten and cannot wait to go outside and work with her as long as it is Day .  “Why don’t you go wake him up?” I ask.  “He won’t.”  “How do you know?”  “Because I know him.”

No you don’t.  I did not know either of my fathers the way I wish I would have.  One slept for sickness and one I thought was sleeping for neglect.  I was wrong.  I have learned not to presume upon His grace or lack thereof any longer, though.  My Father is not, nor ever was he sleeping.  He wants me to come jump on the bed and tell him how much I cannot wait to do with him every single day.  I will be silent at his calm voice.  I am, after all, the daughter who was promised to a Son long before it was either logical or believable.

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My ten year-old walks into the room with a smile.

“What happened to your hair, Mia?”

“I cut it.”


“I wanted to look like you.”

My heart smiles.

“You do look like me.  You looked like me before you did that.  You can’t not look me.  You are mine.  But your hair is crooked.”

“I know.  I tried.”

“I will fix it.  Next time ask me to help you please.”

I read Proverbs 31:10-31.

An excellent wife who can find?
    She is far more precious than jewels…She seeks wool and flax,
    and works with willing hands.
14 She is like the ships of the merchant;
    she brings her food from afar…Strength and dignity are her clothing,
    and she laughs at the time to come…Her children rise up and call her blessed;
    her husband also, and he praises her:
29 “Many women have done excellently,
    but you surpass them all…”

I am the little girl holding scissors not meant to cut hair.  As my days begin I take to cutting.  Oh, how I long to look like her!  At day’s end I see only a crookedness when I face the mirror.  Another poor attempt to emulate her.

I study the exemplary woman with my husband.  He reminds me of my crookedness.  We fight about past failures.  I feel defeated.  I find my scissors and attempt to fix my long-lived faults once again.

I sit sewing and the antagonist whispers repeatedly, “What happened to you?”

“I tried to cut off what was ugly but I did it wrong.  I wanted to look like the woman in Proverbs 31.”


“I wanted to be like Jesus.”

He laughs at me.

“Your path isn’t straight at all.  Look back.  It’s crooked.”

I begin to cry knowing I am about to go and face her again; knowing she is all that I am not.  I want to close the book.  I want to forget what she looks like.  She is like the photo-shopped models on the magazine cover.  How can I ever become her, Lord?  Maybe the Enemy is right.  Maybe I don’t look anything like her.  Look at me.  I just wanted to be like her.  I wanted to be like you.  So often I’m nothing but a crooked mess.

His grace smiles on me.  He face shines on me.  He lifts up his countenance upon me and gives me peace.

“You do look like me.  You looked like me before you did that.  You can’t not look me.  You are mine.  But you have some crooked places.  I will fix it, child.   Do not worry.  Ask me for help.  You can’t do this by yourself.”

I wipe my tears and I go to hear more of her; to see more of her.  I hand him the scissors and I pray.

“Make my way straight.  I want to look like you.”

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God’s Words


Once upon a time a man told me I did not know God.  He said I had no love.  I looked like a bad tree as far as he could tell and telling was just what he thought he ought to do to the likes of me.  He didn’t stop with telling me the terrible tale of who he thought I was.  He believed it so much he told everyone he knew about the danger of a stained sinner such as I.

That man was right that I am a sinner, but he was wrong about me.  I am not Satan’s spawn.  I am my Father’s daughter.  I was bought with blood, buried, and born again by a Savior who knows far worse things of me than he.

Still, the wolf’s voice echoes and antagonizes me.  Today his accusations seek me once again.  I cry out to God.

I walk to the mailbox and find a letter.  “Contents mailed from a correctional facility” read the outer envelope.  My heart warmed as I thought of how very often God uses the foolish to shame the wise.  Inside I found flowers drawn with a poem instructing me to count my blessings.  Also, a letter which read this way:

My child…

I know everything about you.  I know when you sit down and when you rise up.  I am familiar with all your ways.  Even the very hairs on your head are numbered.  For you were made in my image.  In me you live and move and have your being.  For you are my offspring.  I knew you even before you were conceived.  I chose you when I planned creation.  You were not a mistake, for all your days are written in my book.  I determined the exact time of your birth and where you would live.  You are fearfully and wonderfully made.  I knit you together in  you’re mother’s womb.   And brought you forth on the day you were born.  I have been misrepresented by those who don’t know me.  I am not distant and angry, but am the complete expression of love.  And it is my desire to lavish my love on you.  Simply because you are my child and I am your Father.  I offer you more than your earthly father ever could.  For I am perfect and I meet all your needs.  My plan for your future has always been filled with hope.  Because I love you with an everlasting love.  My thoughts toward you are countless as the sand on the seashore.  And I rejoice over you with singing.  I will never stop doing good to you.  For you are my treasured possession.  I desire to establish you with all my heart and all my soul.  And I want to show you great and marvelous things.  If you seek me with all  your heart, you will find me.  Delight in me and I will give you the desires of your heart.  For it is I who gave you those desires.  I am able to do more for you than you could possibly imagine.  For I am your greatest encourager.  I am also the Father who comforts you in all your troubles.  When you are brokenhearted, I am close to you.  As a shepherd carries a lamb, I have carried you close to my heart.  One day I will wipe away every tear from your eyes.  All I’ll take away all the pain you have suffered on this earth.  I am your Father, and I love you even as I love my son, Jesus.  For in Jesus, my love for you is revealed.  He is the exact representation of my being.  He came to demonstrate that I am for you, not against you.  And to tell you that I am not counting your sins.  Jesus died so that you and I could be reconciled.  His death was the ultimate expression of my love for you.  I gave up everything I loved that I might gain your love.  Nothing will ever separate you from my love again.  I have always been Father, and I will always be Father.


Your Dad

Almighty God


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Daughter Up


He has me in a headlock.  Not an I’m-about-to-kill-you chokehold.  It’s more like an I-just-beat-you-at-freeze-tag-and-now-I’m-gonna-drag-you-by-the-head-before-giving-you-a-dutch-rub headlock.  Yes, it’s an I’m-about-to-tackle-you-and-tickle-you-unless-you-say-uncle-and-tell-everyone-who’s-boss.  It’s that moment right after a knock-down, drag-out play-boxing fight where I either tap out or I’m toast.  My white flag is waving and my release is downright dependant upon Daddy’s mercy.

Take note, family members.  If you are related, rest assured that your turn is coming, too.  Daddy plays rough inside this house.  It’s a rite of passage around here.

Sometimes I don’t want to play, though.  I’m just a little girl, after all.  Dutch rubs mess up my hair and too much tickling makes me tinkle.  Play boxing leaves real bruises and the white flag finds me flat on my face eating the humble pie.  Playing with Daddy is fun, but it is outrageously fierce.

Sometimes he has to drag me head first ’cause that’s the only way I’m goin’ with him.  Sometimes I’d rather just sit in the dark with my fisted hands over my as-tight-as-I-can-shut-them eyes wrapped in my homemade fig leaf jammies.

Daddy doesn’t leave, though.  He will not.

Perhaps the most profound miracle of all is that, after all I’ve done to shut out the light, quit the game, and pretend he isn’t there, I can still see him.  I can still see him.  He stands waiting like a father in front of the imaginary monster magnetized closet door waiting for his fear-filled, wet behind the ears whippersnapper to fall asleep.

With crossed arms and pouty lips she pretends to want him to leave when she most desperately needs him to stay.  He will not leave until she trusts him enough to rest.  Peace.  He waits for her.  Patience.  Father may be as fierce as he is wild, but he is also insanely patient.  When she finally lets go, he lets go.  He releases her from his humble-making headlock and he holds onto to her hand instead.  She is finally free.  Despite all her fear, he names her “Valiant.”

I hear her voice in my children.

“Let’s play ‘Joker’ Daddy!”

He turns out the lights and attacks.  Laughing…then crying.  “I hurt, Daddy.”

He scoops her up and wraps her in his arms apologetically.  He knows her wholly.  She trusts him fully.  At the end of the day, he stands in front of the scary door and he makes her secure.
She falls asleep again.

In my Father’s house, he often plays rough.  If you come in, do not close your eyes.  Uncross your arms.  Unhand your fear and expect to learn how to trust Him alone.  You will be attacked.  You will be bruised, branded, and abased.  But you can bet the bad guys that you will be better.  You will be broken.  These are the effects of being loved.

Daughter up.

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