Tender

He was born yesterday. 53 years ago.

I called him. I sang to him. He admitted that my rendition sounded better than little sister's. {Neither of us can carry a tune in a bucket.}

It was his day.
It was his day, and I wanted to write.
But with a play-date, a toddler who never naps, a teacher-husband who must quarterly conference with parents, and Kentucky basketball, where was the time?

So, I write today.
In his honor.
So, I write today.
Because he matters.

I must admit that this post will likely require many disclaimers, parenthetical/clarifying statements, and grace.
We all have hard stories.
Some of us choose to tell them.
Some of us choose to conceal them.
Neither coping mechanism is wrong, but at the end of the day, I am a storyteller.

My daddy was born 53 years ago yesterday.
This event changed the course of world history.
Completely unique and eternally handsome, I know nothing about his entry into this world, but I am certain he's always been his own man and he's always, always been good-looking.

I know that growing up he faced a few struggles.
Not unlike everyone, but also so unlike everyone.
I daily choose to give struggles their due knowing that they are gifts from God and (contrary to popular pull-ourselves-up-by-boot-straps-philosophy) that they shape us.
This was true for Daddy.

I know that growing up he was a stud.
Capital S - T - U - D.
On the likability scale, he's a 10.
Charming.
Smart.
Good with his words.
Fiercely athletic.
Ruggedly handsome.
Perfect in so many ways.

He won a girl's heart who I affectionately refer to as Mama, and I'm so glad he did.
They got married way young.
Suffered the catastrophic event of a miscarriage.
Built a business. Bought some land.
In time, I was born. (In today's infant loss terminology, I was their rainbow. Yes, I was.)
Then we built a house.
{I was two, and I "helped" Mama paint.}

Like most little girls, I worshiped him.
I thought he was perfect.
I have hated bananas my whole life long, but when I was a wee girl, I ate them because he did.
I also ate so many hot dogs. (Blessed food I don't eat while pregnant; someone please grill me a juicy one as soon as we coax this babe out.)
I also was certain that I was a basketball fan.
And now that I'm grown, I truly am. Go Big Blue.

I want to stop here and tell y'all something I'm passionate about.
I am passionate about daddies.
All of them.
The ones you call "sperm donors." Yep, them too.
The ones who are strung out on drugs.
The ones who cheat, cheat, cheat on your mamas. Especially them.
The ones who cheat, cheat, cheat on you, mamas.
The ones who make every excuse.
The ones who never call.
The ones who don't have to call; you know, because they live here.
The ones who work too much.
The ones who are self-righteous.
The ones who forgot to teach you to hunt, fish, fight, cuss, change the oil. {Also whatever it really is you boys do.}
The ones who come home and drink every night. Then pass out in the recliner.
The ones who make you cry.
The ones who give up too easily.
The ones who legally aren't daddies anymore.
All of them.

One thing I wish that everyone would go ahead and wake up to (because it took me more than twenty years to see) is that your daddy (whoever he is) just might be the most important man in your life.
I know that mine is.

Yes, I am married to a wonderful man who I literally cannot imagine doing life without. Most days he is like oxygen to me. Must. Have. Josh. Or. Will. Suffocate. Yes, he is a big deal. My life is survive-able and often even rich because of my sweetheart.

And then there's John. I cannot describe his influence in ten thousand words. And I think he's the big one. He makes chaos and sense of it all in a five minute period. He wrecked me. And continues molding me like no one else ever has.

But. 
The stage was set by a man who held me for the first time just shy of his twenty-fifth birthday.
I made him Daddy, and he very literally made me a girl. His girl.

{Disclaimer: I, in no way, intend to slander my daddy. I speak in truth only words which I hope will give life. I very much respect the man I sang to just yesterday. I want only the best for him and to be the best daughter I can toward him.}

As the years passed, the polish wore off.
I started to notice Daddy's cracks.
For a few days, I even hated him.
He did things that no one is proud of. So did I, but since he is the daddy, I guess his counted more.
I still love him fierce.
But it stung.
Sometimes I just felt weird.
Other times I felt pitiful.
Ultimately, I felt really sad.
He was shaping me.
The little girl with all of her innocence was ripped away.
Everything got hard.
I never realized this was a gift - not until recently.

To put it plainly, my parents got divorced.
I was very young.
Nine to be exact.
Very impressionable.
I didn't know God, so I certainly didn't know Ashley.

She was a good girl. 
But she was now broken. 
Foolish young one thought that a bad thing. 

People told her that parents were supposed to be perfect. Or if they did make any mistakes, they were only allowed small mistakes like yelling too much or making you late for dance lessons. They were not allowed big mistakes like leaving their little girls. 

She would learn in time that God ignored big mistakes everyday. 
In time, Jesus would make her free.

Even after he left, there was still no one like him.
One compliment from his lips made me float on air.
I did strange (no stranger than what you're imagining) things to get his attention.
One ill word from him deflated me for weeks on end.

He could break my heart more completely than anyone on the planet.
He still wields this power.
Thankfully, I now have a Protector and a healing heart capable of Love.

After he left, though, something in me changed forever.
I knew that I was needy.
I was vulnerable.
I was a girl without a daddy (at least for the 20+ days per month I did without).
I had a heart with hate (however stationary or fleeting) in it.
Somebody had to help me.

About nine months after the divorce was final, I called upon Jesus.
I told Him in very child-like words with very child-like trust that I was not good and I very badly needed His help if I was to do anything good with my life.
Because, from where I sat, everything looked bad, bad, terrible.
Or something like that.
Amen.

His leaving and their divorce was redeemed from the second it was announced.
For I realized the fragility of human relationships and the necessity of placing my trust in God first.
In other words (to quote one of my favorite bloggers), the gospel is all I have.
I praise God for divorce.
I hate it. Oh, I hate it.
But God uses the crap out of it.

I wish I could write that things got easy and I forgave him immediately.
Unfortunately, that isn't the case.
He hurt me.
Again.
And again.
And I hurt him.
Again.
And again.

Isn't that what life is?
We continually hurt one another.
And then, by grace and with severe trust in God first, we forgive.
It's the only way I've found to live truly abundantly: to forgive daily.
(Just yesterday, I had to forgive John for stealing half of my ice cream sundae with sprinkles. And then, I had to forgive myself for CRYING ABOUT IT! #pregnancyisweird)

So, where are we today, the day after his fifty-third birthday?
God, the Protector of my heart, has given me the direction and the heart to pursue a relationship with my daddy.
I pray that it'll be more than the typical divorced father-daughter relationship where Daddy is but a box on a long checklist of places to go/people to see.
I desire a real relationship with him.
One where I know him and I allow him to know me.

In twenty years or so when his health fails him and his grandkids are 'bout grown, I do not want to regret not following God's leading in this sacred relationship. I owe it to him - the first and (arguably) most important man in my life - to give him moments and hours and days of my life. I owe it to myself too.

There is something healing in the way he still rips me wide open.
God uses Daddy to peel back my layers.
He uses him to keep me tender.

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18

When I was young and childless, I attended a yearly conference called Passion.
One of those years, a speaker named Andy Stanley challenged us students to consider the future. He asked us to be intentional with our lives and consider now how we hoped to be remembered after we're gone. He gave us the homework assignment to compile a list of descriptive words that we hope will be on the lips of those we leave behind as they remember us. What do I want people talking about at my funeral?

This message is still bearing fruit in my life as I often consider for what I want to be remembered.
My most recent addition to my list is the word tender.

I see, throughout the Scriptures, instances where God was hindered from working most effectively through people because of their hardness of heart. I also call this hardening of the heart a lack of trust in God. (See examples in Matthew 13:58 and 19:8.) The opposite of hard is soft/tender/trusting.

I praise God for my daddy who often makes me want to harden my heart. To protect myself (as if that's possible).
But with Jesus's help, God uses my daddy to produce a soft, tender, trusting heart.
Please, God, continue.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.
I will always adore you.