Deane's Blog

Forty-eight years ago

Deane Watters4 Comments

2014-02-25_0001

It was 48 years ago, today that my dad died in a road construction accident. He was driving a pay loader that somehow went off the road and into the ditch. As it fell, he was hit and died immediately. I was 12 years old.

Thinking about him on this day takes me back to one of my first memories. Three years old, I found myself awake in the middle of the night. Not in my own room, I wanted to leave but after walking around and around the room, searching, the door just couldn't be found! So I cried out. Immediately the hallway light came on and as I ran to the top of the stairs I discovered my dad pulling on his pants as he ascended the stairs to rescue me from the darkness.

These many years later I wonder about that story and why it is lodged in my memory, perhaps in a hopeful place.

Listening to the life stories of many women I often find that there are a profuse number of dads who have not understood their role in the lives of their daughters. They don't know how fragile their little girls are, how much they desire attention and the love that can only come from their fathers.  Inside the heart of all little girls is a place where only the love of a dad can settle.  This spot can either be filled with dad love or it can require a life time of trying to fill itself with the kind of love that only dads are designed to give. I've often said that I think little girls should come with a little tag tied to their big toe that says, "DAD, express your love for this little daughter of yours. What she thinks you think about her will affect her entire life. The kind of love is she needs is played out by spending time with her, showing that she is smart, pretty and worthy of love. She needs you to love her mother, to be protective, safe and reliable. I think most of all she needs to know that you know her and you are proud of what you see.  This kind of knowing frees her to love herself. Confidence grows out of such awareness."

I didn't know my dad very well. I'm pretty sure he didn't know me: my favorite color, my dreams, those insecure fears or even my latest crush. My heart was unknown, un-pursued. As a result I think I lost sight of myself in those years and the ability to know who I was.

Of course, as an adult, I can articulate and understand the reasons.

Thankfully I had another Father whose eyes never left my little brown haired, blue eyed, side. One who came after me, loved and led me on a journey of healing. He equipped me to run up those stairs myself, to find my lost little self and to say, "You're going to be just fine. I'm here now. Father God and I will always be near. "

But on this night, 48 years ago, my dad lost his chance to father well. He missed the opportunity to show me that I was worth rescuing, even after his good start,  from that darkened room upstairs in a rickety old farmhouse in northwest Iowa. I often wonder if that first memory of mine was real. Or was it a dream embedded in the hopeful heart of a lost little girl who needed her daddy. 2014-02-25_0002