|My Pop and My Girl, 2006|
(He would drown to save her.)
Every child deserves to be loved. Every. Single. One.
Every child is loved. Every. Single. One.
Every fleshly human should know what this feels like. To be the apple of His eye. To have big strong hands holding her up, white whiskers scratching her cheeks, sweeping adoration seeping from his skin onto hers.
But not everyone knows. Not everyone has experienced this.
This is the love of a Daddy.
There are so many things in my world, in our world, I'm unsure of. Things I fear.
The death of my husband.
A thief named dementia.
That someone I love might get cancer, and I might have to walk them through the valley.
That I might get so comfortable I'll stop chasing life.
That he won't want me, or need me, someday.
That I won't be able to shield them from very real dangers.
But there are a few things I AM sure of. And one of them is this:
Every person needs to know this love, this Daddy.
But not everyone does.
Her vulnerable frame, 16 months-young, nuzzles into his broad shoulders. He holds her ever so gently. She's fragile, and delicate, and treasured--like the Lady Slipper lily--He draws her unto Himself, pulling her to his chest for a snuggle.
He stares into her face and smiles. He delights in her, as she is. Darling. Lovely. Child of the King.
She doesn't feel smothered, suffocated by His bigness. She doesn't question His authority, His ability to carry her. She doesn't doubt His love, but receives it, that which He gives so freely.
She's bare skinned, open to Him. She's completely safe. She is too young still, to think she needs to earn His love, nor is she capable enough to try. She just lets Him hold her.
She is happiest in His arms.
I cannot imagine not knowing.
We've got to tell them. In our most sincere, authentic, honest way.
There's a Daddy out there for them. A Daddy who loves them.
I hang it on my refrigerator. Each time I reach for the milk I see it, and it reminds me.