Goodbye, Daddy
My friend Christina sent me a very short email on Monday. Four words. “My daddy is dead.”
That was all she said, and it was all she had to say. Chris is a poet; she’s used to letting a few words tell her story. You can understand or not understand. She's fine either way.
Poets are strong like that.
I understood. I know about the rainy night her mother pushed her down into the tall grass while her father raged about the yard in a drunken fit, firing his pistol over their heads while the lightning split the darkness.
I know about the little African American church near her home where she would hide from him. She spent a lot of time alone at that church. I think that’s where she learned to pray. On Sunday morning she was a sad little white girl in a rolling sea of black faces. They loved her and let their little clapboard building be a refuge and a sanctuary. They are why her father could not destroy her faith in God.
He hurt her but could not drag her down. He twisted her, but she never snapped. For a time he owned her body, but never her soul.
He never apologized or admitted the great evil they all lived with. Neither did the rest of the family. So Chris left them. She left them all. She grew up, and she made good, in spite of what they said about her. She worked hard and made her own way in the world. She walked herself down the aisle and married one of the kindest, gentlest men I know.
She became very strong. As strong as a person can be who never had a daddy.
She stayed tender too. She has a very delicate and soft heart. That’s where her poetry comes from. She writes from the back pew of that wooden church. She writes on the days when her legs won’t reach the floor. She has managed to stay in touch with that lonely little girl. Thank God for tender mercies.
She is a little rough on the outside. She had to be. She’s blunt, competitive, and a little suspicious. People misunderstand her at times, but if you will hold onto her and refuse to let go, she can lay a blessing on you for sure.
Last year she told our church family that God was leading her to pray for her father. She admitted she didn’t want to, and she assured us she wasn’t going to seek contact with him. But she did make an agreement with God to pray. Even after all he did, she was willing to give him a smidgen of her sacred time in front of the little shrine she built in her home.
There was no miraculous change in him. That was not the point of her praying. He didn’t change, and that wasn’t a surprise.
I think the prayers were getting her ready for Monday.
When he died he took his final shot at her. Even as he breathed his last, he found a way to twist a knife in her old wound. She said it this way, “I never had a daddy, and now I know I never will.”
She flinched, but did not bow her head. She did not curse his name. She gave him one last prayer and said, “Goodbye daddy.”
And I tell you he will not be permitted to hurt her again.
She will be fine. She and her husband have a strong marriage. They share their faith in God together. They are good parents, and they have not passed his curse to their daughter.
Chris will not read this tribute. She doesn’t know about my weblog. She doesn’t know that a lot of people will say a prayer for her today.
The next time I see her, I’ll walk straight up to her and give her a hug. I’ll tell her what a blessing she is, and I’ll let her know that a lot of people are thinking of her this week.
We are the very body of Christ in this gosh-awful world. To my way of thinking, that means when I hug Chris, it will be you hugging her as well.
And with all our arms around her, it will be Jesus holding her close, whispering that it’s going to be okay.
The Preacher
8:47:24 AM 
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