Daddy Loves His Girls: Discover a Love Your Heavenly Father Offers that an Earthly Father Can't

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Chapter One

DADDY LOVES HIS GIRLS

DEAR GIRLS,

I am writing to you from the heart of your father, who sees you as twinkling stars in the night. You glimmer in the dark places, and you brighten my nights. I write to you to tell you my perspectives on who you are. I write to you to reaffirm that you are special and unique, each one beautiful in your own uniqueness. You are always special to me, never ordinary. This is my opportunity to share the relationship a father has with his growing daughters. I will tell you about days you will not remember. I will speak of smiles and gurgling baby sounds you could never recall. These are moments etched into my mind forever. I will never forget them. You are beacons of light shining in the stormy days of my tempestuous youth.

My dear daughters, this is a tribute of life for you, a message that you will hear later and enjoy longer than I can stay around to watch. As your life continues may you always know your earthly father’s thoughts and your heavenly Father’s heart.

My daughters, though I write for you, this message explodes in my heart for all of the Father’s daughters, every woman and every girl. So, dear reader, I invite you to listen as the Holy Spirit weaves a warming blanket under which all may snuggle and be blessed. This is a rare opportunity to examine the inner channels of the Father’s heart.

I also write on behalf of every father who ever heard the sound of his daughter’s voice erupting into that harmonious blend of pitch and praise, as she gleefully greets him at the door, saying, D-a-d-d-y! I never knew one word could have so many syllables. It is the sound of rushing waters gushing across rocks in a stream deep in the mountains. It is the wondrous dynamics of an expectant heart that seeks little and gives much.

My daughters, my girls, what a gift you are to me. Thank God, He let me know you and nurture you! You should never feel unloved or unwanted, for you are the fountains of your mother’s youth running free, reminding us of who we were. You are the silky satin in my grandmother’s finest handkerchief. You are my pulse; my blood warms your veins. You are my heart!

As I write these gleanings gathered from the harvest of my heart, perhaps in some small way they will reflect a fleeting glimpse of God’s heart toward you. He is the everlasting Father of which men are just poor imitations. We are flawed and cracked, our virtues paling in the brilliancy of God’s divine character. Yet in some small caricature we may slightly trace His heart with trembling hands and broken crayons into some recognizable form of how much He loves His children and, particularly today, His girls. I am created in the image of God as a man and as a father. I love all my children equally, but I do not express love to each one the same way. In the same way, the God we serve loves His children, but perhaps, if I am at all like Him, He loves them equally but differently.

Anyone who knows anything about love at all will tell you that love cannot be copied, duplicated, repeated, or forced. Each feeling is unique, just as the dripping colors of finger painting bear the uniqueness of the artist’s own fingerprints. It is shaped into a moment and mood that could never be recaptured quite the same. Perhaps the daughters of Zion would stop their weeping if they knew how dear they were to their Father. Perhaps they would rise up out of the ashes and cast their fears to the wind if they knew that the Father assigns angels to their charge and gives such attention to details that He has numbered every strand of hair that caught in their combs.

It is a mother’s privilege to carry in the warmth of her own body the squirming, wriggling embryo of life, a capsule of promise and a child of the future. She shares her own body heat, her food, and the very air she breathes with a child that we as fathers cannot feel or feed. It is the mother’s privilege to feel in her own womb the turning body of the child whose only blanket is her heated flesh. She lays her hand on her abdomen and speaks to the child she harbors and feeds within the chamber of her own loving space.

Fathers stand by, clumsily meandering along, assisting when we can, feeling a little foolish, perhaps a little left out. From morning sickness to mood swings, we can see the effects of the baby, but like the wind we cannot see it! Our nervous pacing serves only to make tense the expectant mother as we both realize the nearness of birth and the greatness of responsibility. Your mother has carried you, my seed, in her pouch like a mother kangaroo, so you have done everything together with her before you were even born. You climbed steps together, ran and walked together, slept in the same bed, and ate the same foods. You bonded!

But, before you excommunicate fathers from the festivities of parenthood, let me speak on our behalf. My wife carried you, but I waited for you. I was your first audience. Your first performance was for me. I beheld your first entrance. It was a grand entrance indeed. No distant waiting room for me. I waited right at the spot in the room like a catcher at home plate. I stood perched, waiting to see you come forth out of your dressing room into the light.

I remember a moment your mother couldn’t see. Her strength had been expended in pushing, her hair disheveled and her body stretched wide. Her eyes were wide, her jaws filled with air, her legs gapped like the curtains opening to a Broadway play. The star was coming; the room was charged. I had to remind myself to breathe. She pushed; I coached. She labored; I encouraged. And then—ugh—it happened. She was without question the one who birthed you. But, little girl, when you first stepped on the stage, I saw you!

Peek-a-boo, I saw you, still easing your way from the pockets of birth into the mainstream of life. I saw your crown, you princess of potential, a goddess of grace. You were created in the image of the Lord Himself.

I will never forget that moment that you, my first daughter, were born, wide-eyed and gazing. Now, I know they say babies cannot see clearly, and maybe they can’t see detail, but I could have sworn you were looking right at me. That blissful moment seemed to last at least a week. Time got sucked into a vacuum; silence filled the room; tears came into my eyes. I had seen a miracle. I had seen God face to face.

You haven’t lived until you have seen Him appear in the form of birth—miraculous. It reminds your heart of the great possibilities of new beginnings.

His handiwork was upon my seed. It was His work all right. His seal of authenticity was all over you. It seemed to me that the angels had patted your face and heaven was somewhere in your eyes. When I looked at you at that moment, God felt closer. When all had left the room and your precious mother, who had done the real work, was sound asleep, I just came where you were and watched over you. I will always do that. Wherever, whenever you need me, I’ll be watching over you. They finally dragged me away from the window. Smiling deep within, I walked down the hall humming a soft song. I thought to myself as I hummed down the hall, Peek-a-boo, little girl, I saw you!

You cannot recall this moment, although you were center stage. But I will never forget it. I see it every time I look at you. I see it at every stage of your development—your eyes gazing at me, obviously intrigued by me. One look won me forever; you are mine. Wherever you go, whatever you do, you will always be mine. My seed is lost in you. I cannot retrieve it, erase it or deny it. You will always be my girl. Right or wrong, weak or strong, you are mine!

As ages and stages collide, and your hair increases while mine decreases, I reflect on the moments that you will never recall. It is that moment of birth that reaffirmed in my mind that I was needed. My protective nature was stimulated, my provisional instincts started wanting to provide. Whatever you needed I wanted you to have. Never doubt that the Father wants His daughters to be blessed! It is His joy to see you flourish and succeed.

Women who approach God nervously, uncertain of His response to their problem, may know motherhood, but let me share with you how strongly a father wants his daughters to be blessed. If you understood a father’s heart for his little girl, you would run into your heavenly Father’s arms gleefully. No matter what He is doing, He is glad to see you come, your eyes praising Him, looking at Him as if He could move heaven or hell. Don’t you realize that your approaching Him is a praise all by itself?

So don’t be afraid, little flock. For it gives your Father great happiness to give you the Kingdom.

—LUKE 12:32, TLB

A real father is giving and generous. He is wise in that he will not give to the point of destruction. He doesn’t want to damage the character of his child, but he longs, nevertheless, to bestow gifts lavishly. In fact, most men express love through giving. If you ask a man, Do you love me?, he will always make reference to what he gives you. The giving of things is one of the ways we men express affection and ascribe value. I realize that there are other gifts, such as time and attention, that to you may seem more beneficial. But remember, if a man is not dysfunctional or disadvantaged, he loves to give.

Giving opens for us an avenue of expressing affection without being encumbered with words. If you knew your Father’s love, you would run to Him. He gets as much out of giving as you get from receiving.

It is sad to say that many girls will never experience firsthand the love of an earthly father. Somehow they have been denied the privilege of cultivating a wholesome relationship with their natural father. However, even they will recapture what they lost as they come to know their heavenly Father.

Do you know Him? I mean, really know Him? Or is He a stranger, a foreign concept with no point of reference from your past to which He may attach Himself for definition? If you don’t know your heavenly Father, you are missing a wonderful chance to touch a loving father. He is not irresponsible. Neither is He insensitive or selfish. Curl up in His arms, and I know you will be safe and secure from all alarms.

It is wonderful to realize that the Father stands ready to reveal His love in your life. He is the real Father whom the rest of us poorly imitate at best, and probably frustrate as we stumble through our machismo trying to achieve the gift of relationship! He is the reality of which I can only be abstract. But I hope, dear daughters, that in some way I will help to make it easier for you to perceive Him through this abstract attempt I have made to portray Him. If I have been a good father in any way, He is all of that and more. If I have failed, blame me—not Him. He never fails!

Shhh, here comes the pitter-patter of little feet and the gleam of the trusting eyes. The words fill the room: Daddy, could you open this for me? I clothe my response in my deepest, most masculine voice, filled with all of the gallantry of history: Give it to me. I open the container as she gazes with wide eyes and obviously thinks, My daddy is so strong. I am her hero. When she is impressed, I feel strong and important, invincible and needed. I never knew I could get so much self-esteem out of a bottle of catsup!

We nourish each other. She gives me praise; I give her safety. She gives me adoration; I give her affection. Even the hardest of men melt when they give away this kind of affection. It can reduce the most conservative entrepreneur to crawling on the floor playing horsey and neighing with his head back as if he were a young colt. Even bigots smile at babies. They will smile at a baby and then not hire the father who needs a job so that he can feed the baby they just embraced.

It is the ultimate release for a man to enjoy the feminine heart without all of the hunting and conquest. Our ego is never threatened through this love. It is wholesome and holistic. It is like a deep breath of clean air. It fills us with fuel and eases the tension of tough days.

You see, darling, it is the love that makes it special. Your love is pure and unpretentious. It gives a man a love he can trust without intimidation or suspicion. No wonder Jesus said, Unless you … become like children you shall not enter the kingdom of heaven (Matt. 18:3, NAS). A child’s love feels no threat of rejection, no fear of reprisal. It is born out of an unconditional appreciation of who we are. It is not laced with all the complications that come from erotic love. It is the love a man can have for a woman without the complexities of sexuality. Besides, it is so easy to impress someone who is so easily satisfied.

Today, I am her hero! That is what most men need, to feel like they are somebody’s hero. In her eyes I am a knight in shining armor. She gets excited if I fix a bicycle. She gets worried if I scratch my hand. I am Superman without the blue tights. I am Captain America without the shield. What a feeling she emits from her wondrous eyes and smiling face. She believes in me. The feeling we fathers crave is the feeling that comes from knowing that someone affirms us and appreciates what we have to give. There is no fear of failure, no anxiety to perform or impress. There is just love!

You miss so much of God’s power when you parade yourself as being self-sufficient. He longs to be your hero. He longs to open things you cannot open and move things