Dad

I remember the first time we danced together. I think my mom must have bribed him to take me, or maybe it was because one of his friends was taking his daughter. It, the daddy daughter dance, was led my the guy who wrote the song Butterfly Kisses, which i always thought was a touch too emotional since my childhood memories were trying to braid my dads armpit hair early in the morning when we all climbed in bed together and naming his moles, because like me, he has a few. There was no eyelash kisses. sorry. 

The guy made us hold hands during his speech and I could feel the rough callouses that had hardened over the years on the front of dads hand as it, sort of, clasped mine. I knew, even at that age, how awkward he felt since he didn't really know how to hold me or my hand... It had been since I was so small. Probably the last time was when I'd pretend to fall asleep as he read the Holy Word to us at night as a family. I'd pretend to fall asleep because I wanted him to scoop me up. To let my head fall on his shoulder. For him to carry me up the stairs that curves like a canes handle at the top and put me in bed like in the movies. I don't remember if he'd kiss my forehead goodnight or pull the covers to my chin. I know he didn't whisper "I love you." 

At age 18, I decided it wasn't normal. Startling him one day, I yelled it out as he left for work. The words came out like stickato, he hadn't said them in years. Not to me. Not to my brothers. Not to mom. I decided it was going to become normal. I forced him to hug me by hugging him in a way that to others it looked normal. I plopped down on his lap like a daddy's girl and I could feel him not know really what to do with his hands. He'd tap me with his palm when I hugged him like he was typing the morse code for HELP. 

It is normal now. To say I love you. 

He hugs me first. He mentions getting coffee or coming over for a beer. The words I love you are still hard for him unless I've said them first. But I am glad. I'm glad that I forced myself through the walls and made them crumble. I'm glad I yelled at him an challenged him and begged him to tell me WHY hadn't he ever told me about how God loves me. I'm glad he said sorry to me for a few things. For not hugging me more. I'm glad when we danced the day that he gave me away, the second time he danced with me that I said thank you to  him for not letting me marry the wrong men. For being a great, the best dad. For giving me away to the right one. 

He still didn't know what to do with his rough hands and kept laughing awkwardly because he had no words to say back. He never really was a man of many words. But. He said I love you. And  " yeah...." Over and over again, awkwardly. His back was stiff. He patted my back when I hugged him because he never really was a very touchy affectionate person. 

I guess I'm writing all of this because it helped me to know when we step toward someone or something that feels out of our reach, we might find something beauiful. And even though my dad never knew quite how to express his love for me with words or affection the way I needed it, he does it now by texting me every Tuesday asking me if I'm out drinking coffee because he knows I love coffee. Or by calling me and asking max and I over for a beer that he's brewed himself which doesn't have enough carbonation it in yet but we tell him it's good because it is, and bc it is more worth making his eyes light up and enjoying his company and his stepping toward us/me than wishing anything were different. 

[and God can bring redemption.]