Hopping out of bed, I scuttle to the bathroom then slide my feet across the carpet to warm my toes up before making the long voyage downstairs along the twisted staircase.
Grabbing onto the banister, the wood feels cold against my hands; still warm from the night under my giant white duvet cover.
I tip toe across the hard wood floor and peek my head around the corner and into the kitchen. The rich smell of coffee leads me to my destination and the navy blue plaid bathrobe confirms my initial assumption. I look up and climb into my daddy's lap as he kisses my head and slides over my designated Saturday morning reading material: the funnies.
At 8 years old, this was my weekend routine.
Wake up and read with my dad, just us two partners in crime before the rest of the house awoke.
He would fix me a cup of warm milk and honey-always served in his ceramic mug with the whale tail as a handle-and we would start our day as this; the father and his child.
12 years later and on the rare occasions my dad and I share our mornings together, we still read the morning paper. But instead of the funnies we read the front page and community sections and my milk has been replaced with a styrofoam cup filled with coffee. Black.
12 years later, I am still his daughter and he is still my dad. That doesn't change no matter what age we reach, yet the duties alter as our age increases.
He can still set up a tent and make a mean breakfast sandwich and continues to teach me how to fix my car. He knows how to diagnose my sister's illness across the globe and can steer me home after getting myself lost, all with a simple phone call.
I was reminded last night, however, that sometimes daddy-daughter days are better to reminisce about than to look forward to.
See, as a child I, along with many other little girls, thought my dad knew every answer to any question I asked him.
Why? Because he's my dad.
And that's the only reason I ever had to know.
That simple word, "dad", that could solve math equations and dry tears, the word that could build a fire and tuck me in super tight was the answer to any question I would ever have to ask.
As the world would have it, however, children age and start to learn. We learn about the world around us and our desired paths in life and we realize that our parents may not know the answer to every little thing.
Does this change the fact that he is my dad and I am his daughter? Of course not.
It does, however, help illustrate the fact that let downs occur and circumstances change and no matter what happens on earth, there is always a Father who knows every answer to any question I ask.
I will always be a child.
I will always have a father.
And I will always have a Father.
When circumstances are out of my control and words are misplaced and used to hurt rather than heal, questions arise that seemingly no one will have the answer to.
When placed in these situations, I have no other choice than to turn to the one Father who never fails to provide answers in a time of such scarcity. Scarcity of knowledge, scarcity of power, scarcity of tangible solutions.
We are all children, so deeply and passionately loved on that it wouldn't make sense not to embrace all that we are intended to have.
The most beautiful duo in all of history is the father and his daughter and I am blessed to have both a father and a Father who deeply love on me.
I can only hope and pray that I continue to constantly reach out beyond my knowledge. When I can't seem to find the answer among the bear hugs and table talks, I can only pray that I remain a child to a Father who is here to be asked questions that only He can answer.
