The gate outside clangs and my little girl wobbles her run toward the door. She thinks it’s Daddy on his motorcycle, coming home from work.
Really, it’s the guy who brings the gas bottle for my stove balanced on his moped. Her “Daddy” call disappears unanswered into the hot afternoon
Renea also runs to the door anytime she hears an airplane, waving high at the sky with pudgy fingers, “Daddy” on her lips. She returns to her play, waiting for the next chance to look for her father.
I love watching her day, a dance between absorbed playing or eating or napping and being interrupted by her ever-constant waiting for Daddy.
She shows me how live out this Father-Daughter relationship with the Eternal. Living out my day, busy with life. But still, waiting, hoping, expecting to see Him right outside the door, or up in the sky or pulling me into His arms. His name resting on my lips.
My kids do this all the time—teaching me life’s most complicated lessons from a three-foot-high perspective. Showing me how to hope for God’s touch even as I live in the dirt of this world.
Finally, the clang of the gate and the roar of the motorcycle actually is Renea’s Daddy. She presses her face against the screen door and he pulls it open, bends down and welcomes her into his arms.
I watch from behind as they snuggle and she giggles and pokes him in the nose with her finger, her daddy’s head thrown back with laughter.