I’ve been remembering what it’s like to look through the eyes of a child.
The beautiful ignorance.
The unfailing trust.
The light of joy that literally pierces through their eyes.
The thing I find I’m most often missing, when I look in the mirror.
Tired eyes, a hint of strain.
An adult, and there’s this pressure.
Have I forgotten what I need to remember?
When I was young, maybe four, five years old. My best friend… was my Dad.
I used to ride next to him in his car, music flowing around me, the wind blowing in through the pulled down windows.
A little girl never feels so safe. Then with her Dad at the wheel.
We’d pull into the parking lot of some local home improvement store, and he’d come around the side to unlock my car door.
“Hey bud, you ready?”
Reaching out that big Dad hand, that only little girls know so well.
I think about this.
That simple act of trust…
Of holding his hand through the parking lot.
The clunky metal vehicles pulling in and out around us.
Remembering how safe I felt.
Not even the notion to watch out for cars, because he was doing it for me.
Not concerned with what we we’re doing, or what it was that we needed.
Just holding his hand, me and Dad.
The warm palm, I was so used too. The black oil mechanic stains on his fingers. Safe.
I so often forget Father, to take the hand you are reaching out to me.
The scar that bumps over your palm, there is nothing you haven’t done to be with me.
The world teaches me, I’m not to need anybody.
Keep your hands free.
Find your own way.
Never rely on another.
But I don’t want to do that.
I want to hold Your hand Father, just like I held my Daddy’s hand.
I don’t want to look out for cars, because I know…
You are doing it for me.
I don’t want to think about where we’re going…
I just want to go there with You.
The country wind through the pulled down window.
Music flowing around me…
A girl never feels so safe as she does, as when her Dad has the wheel.
Take the wheel Father.
While I close me eyes, and listen to the tires tread over the black cement road.
The soothing, dull rhythm.