His girl

She was his girl.

Theirs was an easy camaraderie that bypassed the selfish agendas and mistaken communication that derailed so many relationships. They understood each other. They accepted each other with ease. They agreed. Their friendship required little analysis; they just got on with it.

They went on dates

They made plans for pleasures that cost nothing and followed through: walks to the park and library, visits to the playground at a nearby school. They knew the joy of swinging side by side. Her confidence grew when he followed close behind her up the steep, open ladder to the old metal slide. His philosophical musings and brooding doubts about life purpose dissolved when her four-year-old hand reached for his on their way home.

“That was fun, Dad,” she said.

They collected treasures . . . stones with colors that deepened instantly when dropped in water, families of acorns in graduated sizes, a blue jay feather. They talked together, explored together, wondered together.

They explored nearby woods on Sunday afternoons, first trading their church clothes for jeans and boots – his tall lace-up work boots and her cheery, yellow, zippered galoshes. Anticipating downed branches and briar along the soft, muddy path, they chose sweatshirts that wouldn’t fuss at snags and tears.

This was another time and place, before the complete family of five, before the distraction of younger siblings vying for attention. This was dad and daughter number one steeped in a joint adventure: she, slipping from toddler to little girlhood and he, treasuring the discoveries they made along the way.

He remembered cradling her newborn body in one arm not so long ago, her little head resting in his palm, her back supported by his forearm, not quite six pounds of delicate beauty, sighing in her little sleep. She was the most beautiful baby he had ever seen, the most beautiful baby ever born.

They played games

Go Fish. Chutes and Ladders. Old Maid. They read together at bedtime, whatever seemed good for that day — Mother Goose, Robert Louis Stevenson, Winnie the Pooh, The Bible, Cars and Trucks and Things That Go.

They sang together.

“Clap your hands all ye children shout unto God with a voice of triumph. Clap your hands all ye children shout unto God with a voice of praise!”

And, they gave each other gifts.

This was her area of expertise. She crafted treasures from fabric scraps, glue, crayons and glitter, packaging discards and nature finds. She created new uses for duct tape, buttons, laundry detergent boxes with flip-top lids, and Styrofoam packing peanuts. She dreamed and planned and worked her plans. She transformed fledgling ideas into absolute delight. Armed with creativity and ingenuity, she discovered that a serious shortage of funds didn’t matter. She was never at a loss when it came to making gifts for dad.

Noticing what he loved

Observing his love of the Bible, she made him one. It’s black cardboard cover and white adhesive B-I-B-L-E letters echoed the solemn look of grown-up, leather-bound versions she had seen. On the inside though, she chose to tell God’s divine love story with colorful papers and bright drawings in electric green, hot pink and neon orange. Her liberal use of smiley faces on every page dispelled any doubt that this was a joyful story.

She dictated the captions to her amanuenses, mom.

• Stick figures Mary and Joseph smiled broadly over their cheerful stick baby Jesus.
• Happy wise stick men with green crowns, sought direction from a skeletal but cheerful King Herod.
• Jesus, the savior grinned from the cross just above the happy stick soldiers that put him there.
• A smiling Jesus on the Mount of Olives ascended into a huge heavenly cloud. Surely His smiling stick Father awaited Him on the other side.

Her minimalist editorial approach captured the essentials of God’s divine love in six pages. Its simple characters with jolly dispositions pointed to the mysteries of His saving grace. The gift made her dad smile as well.

No such thing as too much happy

She observed his frequent use of white cotton handkerchiefs and decorated a little box in which to keep them.

She watched him polish and buff his black wingtips before church, and felt inspired to help with the process. She covered a shoebox in white paper and decorated it with rainbows and the words DAD, DAD, DAD, DAD, DAD all over it. She used different colors on the letters so they looked like rainbows too. She placed his flat, round tins of black and brown shoe polish in the box, the little round brush applicators — one for the black polish and the other for the brown — and then the big brush that made leather shine.

She rolled out sugar cookies and biscuits to share, and decorated cupcakes with green icing, his favorite color. With heart and hands she made and gave. She was hard-wired by God’s grace for connecting the dots between his needs and her ideas, skills, and resources.

And in return . . .

He could not match her creative flair, but gave careful thought to gifts for her nonetheless. Early on he gave her record albums, A Bach Festival For Brass and The Nutcracker, choices from the cheap record bin, but sufficient fuel to kindle her love of music.

She was his date to a live performance of The Young Messiah, the youngest attendee in a group of adult couples from their church. Handel’s glorious music repeated itself in her head long after the evening ended, long after little girlhood gave way to womanhood.

He took her to Chicago where he attended a board meeting for the mission he helped. She conversed with the adult board members, shared a meal with them, and observed their work. This was a new and bustling urban world and there was so much to take in. She counted that daddy-daughter trip as special.

He took her to a White Sox game at Comisky Park – a prize she had won for reading lots of books. He wasn’t afraid of the big city, navigating a way through crowds of strangers, or understanding this new bustling place. Little would they know that this seed planted in her would blossom into her own confidence years later to ride Chicago’s trains, navigate its crowded streets and tap into its big-city treasures.

She was his girl.

He gave her his time, advice and experience. He gave her his listening ear when grown up decisions came her way. He helped her think through investment questions, real estate issues, big ticket purchases. She gave him a ride in her new car. She served him dinner in her new house. She took him to hear the Chicago Symphony Orchestra play Beethoven’s Ninth. She bought him shirts and matching stylish ties, beautiful clothes that he postponed buying for himself over and over and over again when music lessons and school trips and braces and church camp filled the years.

More than 20 years later he retrieves a tin of shoe polish from the kit with the words DAD, DAD, DAD, DAD, DAD, DAD crayoned all over it, and places freshly laundered, neatly folded handkerchiefs into the little white, paper-covered, custom-designed box. He remembers his girl every time, and smiles.