I see it when I wash my face at night, when I’ve scrubbed the make up off and I’m looking at nothing but my own skin. It’s in the eyes, mostly–the pale blue color, the way they are situated just so. When I look up from the towel, after washing the day away, it will catch me by surprise and I’ll think, “Well hello, Dad.”
I’m happy to see him there. It’s a simple and subtle reminder that I am his, and he is mine and that is something special.
I could write sentence upon sentence about why I love my Dad. He is extraordinary in so many ways. He is kind and humble and gentle. He has a sense of humor that will make you groan and roll your eyes. He is steady and reliable and unshakably faithful.
(While typing this I just looked up and said to my husband, “You know, I’ve said it before in passing, but I’m trying to think back to really see if it’s true, and it is. I quite literally, in all my life, have never heard my father yell.” And so I should add to my list, he never yells.)
Those are all perfectly wonderful reasons to love someone. But mostly, I love my Dad because he’s mine. I attended a church training meeting this afternoon while Josh stayed home with our children. After the meeting, my Dad took my bag, and walked me to my car. With a hug and a reminder to be careful, he sent me on my way. It was a simple gesture, but profound in that I realized, as I pulled out of the parking lot, how grateful I was that he was there.
We all need people. Not just any people, but people that will always be there, that will step in and be and do whatever it is we need. We need family.
My eyes tell me that I am my father’s daughter. That’s simple genetics. But that isn’t what makes him my Dad, what makes him one of my people. It’s his heart that does that.