The Choice of Joy: Day 24, Fathers and Daughters

Daddy died when I was twelve years old.  It was good that I was at least old enough to have some special memories of him that I could store up.

Chief among those memories was a gesture he had toward me.  We would be walking along, and he would put his arm around me, his hand resting on my opposite shoulder.  He would say, “Sweetheart, how about. . . .”  Then he would bring up the subject that he wished to discuss or suggest or explain.  At six years old, or seven or ten or eleven and having your father put his arm around you and call you “Sweetheart,” that was so very special.  Sometimes I can still close my eyes and feel his hand on my shoulder and hear his voice. 

The memory gives me joy.

I hope for all daughters that they have moments like that with their fathers, a special touch and being called by some pet name.  I grieve for those who cannot because their fathers are absent from their lives.

But for those daughters who can, I hope the opportunity is not missed to feel the touch and hear the voice and then to tuck the moment away in some part of memory where it can be treasured and retrieved.  For fathers, I hope they find their gesture and special name for their daughters and use it well.  Our memories are really all we know for sure of immortality.  For me, my father’s arm around my shoulder and his voice calling me “sweetheart” has lived these fifty years.