Not "Father", but "Daddy"

When I was little, I had these pajamas that said "My Heart Belongs to Daddy."  I was only 2 or 3 when I received that first set of those pjs, and because I loved them so much, my mom went back and bought several pairs of them in different sizes so that I had a set of them until I was probably 7 or so.  I loved those pjs because my dad and I had this little game we played everytime I wore them.  I would come downstairs in my pjs, and my dad would scoop me up, hold me close and say, "Now what on earth is that on your pajamas?"  I would snuggle even closer and say, "My heart belongs to Daddy."  Dad would say, "And why does your heart belong to Daddy?"  and I would respond, "Because my Daddy loves me."  And Dad would say, "That's right. I love you and my heart belongs to you."  At that point, tickles or a kiss and a good night would send me off to bed, safe and secure in the special love and bond between father and daughter.

When I was little, I knew my dad cherished me.  He delighted in me.  I would run to greet him when he came home from work, and he would toss me high in the air and catch me.  I loved the thrill of flying through the air, but it was only because I knew I would land safely in my daddy's arms again.  There was such joy for both of us in those kinds of moments.

My dad was proud of me too.  I think he was more excited than I was when we discovered that I could read.  He bragged to all his friends about how smart and precocious I was as a little girl.  He kept a picture of me and my first fish (4 nice perch) in his wallet to show all his coworkers.  He'd slip me a pack of baseball cards and tell me how proud he was of the way I helped mom around the house. 

My daddy wanted to spend time with me.  He would play games with me.  He would take me fishing - just the two of us out in the middle of Pymatuning.  He would curl up in the bean bag with me and read me stories.  He was patient when teaching me things.  I learned how to bottle feed a calf, and then how to get that calf to drink from a bucket.  I learned how to cast a fishing line.  I learned how to hit a baseball and throw properly.  I learned how to batter and fry fish.  I learned how to drive a tractor.  Dad wanted to show me places that were special to him, so we hiked through the "Big Woods" (Allegheny National Forest) with my daddy carrying me on his shoulders when I got tired.  When we took a family vacation through New England, Dad took me to the top of a cliff overlooking the ocean in Maine, and we sat and watched the sunrise together. 

These are some of my best memories of childhood and of being with my daddy.

Somewhere around age 9 or 10, things started to change.  My dad quit spending all that special time with me.  When we did play ball in the backyard, it was because he wanted me to improve my hitting or my fielding.  It became drills and demanding perfection rather than special time with daddy.  We quit taking those hikes through the Big Woods.  He never curled up in the bean bag with me to read or played Legos any more.  We rarely went fishing alone, and if we did, he was always correcting me.  I managed to catch a snag one day, and instead of patiently helping me or simply cutting the line, he ripped my favorite fishing pole out of my hands.  The next thing I knew, my favorite pole and best reel were at the bottom of Lake Wilhem.  I think that was the day that I knew something had changed.

Mom started referring to dad only as "your father."  Interaction with him was limited as he was silent, withdrawn or angry most of the time.  I kept trying to get my daddy back, or at least my daddy's attention back, but I was never quite successful.  What I didn't know at the time was that his work was eating his soul (something I understand quite well now) and that he and my mom weren't getting along.  "Your father" was this angry, unapproachable, demanding man who somehow made "my daddy" go away.

As I said before, I had this all out with my dad long ago.  We sat in the boat one day and I told him all of this.  He was upset and angry - but not at me.  He later came back to me and apologized.  We talked about why he had changed, how unhappy he had been, and began the process of reconciling.  Now, I often call my dad "Daddy" (which freaks many people out).  We like to escape to the lake early in the morning and go fishing together - just to be with each other and do something together.  In the spring, he takes me out in the woods with him turkey hunting.  We sit and watch the sunrise together, and we're just happy to be in the woods together once more.  He goes geocaching with me, and we still cook fish together in back of the camper like we did when I was four.  My daddy cherishes the time spent with me again, and we have a different "game" we play now when we talk on the phone, but it's the equivalent of those "My Heart Belongs to Daddy" pjs all over again.

But with God...?  So, this week I spent some time working on thinking of God as I recalled how I felt with my daddy.  God as "Father" still brings up those less than helpful images, but God as "Daddy" is good.  God as "Daddy" is more inline with my images of Jesus.  God as "Daddy" is my protector who cherishes me, delights in me, wants to spend time with me, wants to teach me things.  It's not all warm fuzzies as there is still correction and some uncomfortable guidance involved.  There's still that element of uncertainty, but thinking of God in terms of "Daddy" is a lot like flying through the air as a small child and knowing that after the adventure, I will land safely in my loving daddy's arms.