Letters To My Daughter by Dear Dad
For over two decades I've enjoyed the most fantastic relationship with my little girl. Nothing but pure joy to Her mother and I, it was inconceivable when in a matter of weeks "what we had feared" came rushing upon us. While still close, our hearts break a dozen times a day over her abrupt change in behavior and lifestyle. Often engulfed in grief and fear, we continue to pray and trust that what sin means for evil God will turn to good.
After thousands of hours of relationship and training throughout my daughters lifetime, and many conversations concerning her recent decisions, I've found writing a helpful and hopeful release. The following represent the whole or parts of letters I written. Some I've sent, some not. All are from a heartbroken dad scanning the horizon for his daughter to come to her senses and come home...
Memories by Dear Dad
Good Morning Baby. Happy Fourth of July.
Wish I could tell you that in person like I used to.
I’ve been remembering... how we loved having you as our baby girl. Your beauty brightened our days. At night we’d hold and kiss, pray over and sooth you. When we gently placed you face down in your crib you gave your little mattress a hug with both arms. Twirling your hair with one hand and sucking the thumb of your other you drifted off to sleep as did we knowing you were safe and happy.
I’ve been remembering... kissing you awake in the mornings. A precious little angel, you were never a morning person. A fact I capitalized on to enjoy some of the best snuggles of the day.
I’ve been remembering... that all our kittens and cats loved you. Sleeping or playing quietly, your sensitive spirit was soft and gentle. They were drawn to you. Now everyone’s older. Lately Snickers lays in the hallway between our doors. I wonder if she misses you too.
This week I’ve been remembering my favorite Fourth of July’s. Fresno’s sweltering hot summers days are best spent in and near water. In the early years we took you, Derek and your friends to Blackbeards. After playing miniature golf or some arcades you’d ride on my lap down their six long but slow water slides. I’d hold you over my head as we splashed into the pool below. A bathing cap covered ear plugs protecting tubes in your ear surgically implanted because of infections. For years you’d only ride with me. Growing up you began to ride alone if I went first to catch you at the bottom. I wish you would let me catch you now.
Latter we graduated to Wild Water Adventures and played the days away on a dozen giant water slides. After a few years your brother got too old to hang with us so I bought season tickets for just the two of us. On the Fourth we’d all go. We’d stay cool riding the slides, except the scariest one, get BBQ, rent a big inner-tube and float in the massive wave pool packed in like a family of happy sardines. At nightfall it was beach towels and lawn chairs, sodas and glow beads under a canopy of explosions and colored lights rain down on us from the stars. Admittedly cheap thrills. Wild Water's hardly a day of sailing or dinning on the Bay watching fireworks light up a waterfront. Still, it was a great way to spend July 4th. How I wish we could do it again.
But so much has changed in just a few months. You’re not with us. You’re almost never with anymore. You’re out living your life. But it’s the kind of life we spent ours shielding you from. Now, not what we hoped but what we feared is coming upon us. Without you here pretty much all we have are our memories and fears. Sad when even your happiest memories hurt to remember.
Grandma suggested I take mom overnight to the coast. Feel and smell the sea breeze, have a nice meal and watch some fireworks. It’s a nice idea but it wont work. As you’re about to find out you can’t “get away” from misery. You bring it with you. Pain cast dark shadows. Broken hearts tag along. Fear packs a bag. Spending hundreds of dollars we don’t really have to drive in sorrow for three hours, from purgatory to paradise and back again, would hardly be refreshing. In our shock and loss, the ghost of your absence and specter of your future would haunt us. As would the memory of our family trip to Monterey a couple of months ago. You’d already abruptly moved out and we knew your faith and purity were at risk but we dared hope the best.
Now those hopes are dashed. We didn’t know it then but that would be the last little family vacation ours would take before continual sorrow would move in to eclipse joy. Today your camping in the mountains celebrating your independence. Beyond cell range, and that of my influence, the best I can do is remember what you’ve meant to us and wish you a Happy 4th of July. If only in my heart.
I wish you could hear me. I wish you would listen. I wish wishing would make a difference.
Love,
Dad
Should you be interesting in submitting your own letter for consideration please contact Paying Parents at Rob@PrayingParents.org by calling (559) 305-2229.