What Every Daughter Really Wants

She’s fresh out of bed, still clad in her Tinkerbell pajamas with the ripped satin ruffle and the faded imprint of wings when she wanders onto the deck and finds us sharing a cup of coffee in the Saturday morning quiet. 

Her Daddy’s in his shabby jeans and faded t-shirt, the patron uniform of Saturday yard work. Reddish-brown stubble decorates his chin and the yellowed bill of a once-white baseball cap hides his eyebrows.

But when that Toby Mac song she loves pulses through the speakers that scatter tunes across our backyard, she turns to him like he’s a tuxedoed prince, and she asks if he’d like to dance.

There is grass to mow and weeds to pull, wood to chop and flowers to water, but my man sets down his coffee cup and rises to accept the invitation with a bow.  Because a father’s first and most important job is always the labor of love.

Maggie wiggles her hips, and her daddy shuffles his feet.

She spins and he grooves.

She twirls and he slides.

My husband shimmies to the beat with a goofy dance that could make our teenagers shrivel with embarrassment, but our littlest girl mimics his moves like a star-struck shadow and twirls happy right into his outstretched arms. 

That guy who holds my heart has captured his daughter’s too. And their harmonious laughter rings out above the trill of the birds in those trees that frame our open-air dance floor.

I sit quietly in the corner, coffee cup in hand, and I savor the sheen in my pre-schooler’s eyes.

I am watching the gospel played out in dingy work jeans and tattered pajamas right there on my deck on an ordinary Saturday morning. 

Because we daughters of Eve know that if it is anything at all, the gospel is a story about the ultimate labor of love.

 Once upon a time there was a Father who created His children to dance.

And even though their feet got shackled by sin and their hearts stopped beating to the rhythm of Heaven, those children were still the apple of their Father’s eye.

And that Father knew they were made to dance.

So, one day, because of His relentless love, that Daddy slipped on his work clothes and stepped onto the muddied floor of our broken world. And as He proclaimed His relentless love from the beams of an old rugged cross, He invited His children to waltz into His outstretched arms and dance into a happily-ever-after.

Maggie is singing in Rob’s ear, and I want to run and grab the camera. But I force my feet to still, and I just watch, letting gratitude drizzle down my cheeks in hot quiet streaks.

And for some reason, I think of that woman who once told me she didn’t need a Daddy.

It was years ago and her countenance is blurred in my memory, but the ache in her words still rings clear in my ears.

She’d been at the women’s retreat where I was speaking. She’d sat in the same place all weekend, arms crossed in the front row, her silver hair piled high on her head in a tight bun.

 And I’d noticed the way her eyes had refused to meet mine each time I’d scanned the room and turned my gaze toward hers.

I’d spoken of the dance that night. I’d told the story of our Father’s persistent love and His daughter’s desperate need for it.

The Spirit had fallen afresh as we’d worshipped this dazzling Daddy of ours. Women had sung with abandon and danced in the aisles and lifted hands to Heaven in celebration of their rightful identity as God’s girls.

But once the worship had grown still and my words had been surrendered as a humble offering, the front-row sitter had caught me in the hallway and had finally met my gaze.

“I don’t need a Daddy,” she’d declared with a trembling lip. “I just need a Savior.”

Her eyes had brimmed with a lifetime of hurt, and I’d wondered what stories those harnessed tears held. But I’d found myself at a loss for words. Twenty-seven years old and just a child myself, I had no idea what to say to an aching sister fifty years my senior.

And so I’d simply asked if I could pray.

She’d tucked a hapless silver strand of hair behind her ear and had quietly shaken her head, no. 

She didn’t need prayer. She didn’t need a Daddy. She was just thankful for a Savior.  

Then, she’d patted me on the back and kindly thanked me for an interesting weekend, and she’d disappeared down the red-carpeted hallway.

My stomach had lurched, and I’d wanted to chase after her and hug her, to squeeze away all that loneliness and loss that brimmed moist behind her eyes. But I’d simply watched her go and had promised myself I would pray anyway.  

She’d been twelve paces down the hall when she’d turned around and walked back to where I stood. She’d stared at the thread-bare carpet beneath our feet and murmured, “I don’t need a Daddy. But if I did, I’d want mine to be like the Father you talked about tonight.”

My stomach hurts even now as I remember.

Maggie’s flitting around her Daddy, her arms flapping happy like a bird about to fly.

And I see it clearly from my seat on the edge of the deck–How every daughter of Eve yearns to spread her wings and soar confident in her Father’s love.

I don’t disagree with my silver-haired sister.

I desperately need a Savior. I’m guessing you do, too.

From the moment I took my first breath in this fallen world, I fell hopeless into a cavern of sin. And I’ll forever be grateful for a Savior who tossed me a crimson cord of mercy and pulled me from that deep, dark canyon.

But to end the story there would be a shame. I wasn’t rescued to stand guard over the pit. Those ropes of redemption weren’t intended to become shackles on my feet.

I was set free to become the daughter God has dreamed me to be.

I was rescued to run… straight into the arms of my ever-faithful Father.

And you were, too.

Liberated to live.

Redeemed to dance.

“This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike “What’s next, Papa?” God’s Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. We know who he is, and we know who we are: Father and children. And we know we are going to get what’s coming to us—an unbelievable inheritance!…” (Romans 8:15-16, The Message)

Maggie’s favorite song is nearly over, and her daddy’s steps are slowing. Soon he’ll abandon their dance floor for the woods in our backyard. The  music ends and our girl curtseys like a proper princess and kisses her daddy’s hand.

Then she watches Love in dingy jeans traipse into the trees to start those Saturday morning chores. 

Maggie pirouettes around the deck, a sparkle still in her eyes. 

Because my daughter knows that her daddy ‘s arms will always have room for her.

And he will dance with her again. 
 Over and over again. 

Because she’s her daddy’s girl. 
And the labor of love never ends.