A Daddy and His Daughter
We were towards the end of our walk, my dog Lacey and I, when we came across the sweet father daughter duo. Exchanging big smiles and hellos, I didn’t linger to chat as the little girl was clearly wary of the scary dog with the fluffy, endlessly wagging tail. I couldn’t stop smiling though and stealthily glanced back several times at the young father and the jumping, laughing, hugging-her-daddy’s-legs little girl. She looked to be around eighteen months of age, her cute curly hair in Afro puffs — two perfectly round little pom-poms sitting atop her head. Her beautiful hot chocolate skin, perfectly complemented by the white vanilla latte that was her daddy, and her mama too who was standing nearby.
Our family is a blend of colors also, with three adopted black children and two born-to-us children who share their parents white, freckled skin. We are unabashedly fond of food metaphors. Maple syrup, brown sugar, caramel, chocolate chip ice cream (for the freckled ones) — so many varieties of chocolate, even white! Oh the plethora of delicious shades of color the good Lord has created. Seeing this happy father playing with his daughter transported my mind to a time, seemingly not that long ago, when our children were young and laughing, holding onto our giant legs, peering up with gorgeous, adoring eyes.
I was careful not to stare, but the impulse to observe this joyful scene was too powerful to resist — I hoped my curiosity wasn’t too obvious. I remember those days well, of standing out in the crowd. Of being noticed. Eyes sneaking a look at our family, sometimes boldly staring. What seemed perfectly normal to our cappuccino-swirled-with-a-milky-heart kind of a family, was not usual in the world’s eyes at all. I wonder what it’s like now — to live this blend of colors in the age of BLM protests, cultural appropriation concerns, and the escalating division among groups of people. Where the focus has shifted to our differences rather than our shared humanity.
Twenty-five years ago, as my husband and I were raising our young family, the world seemed kinder and gentler. Social media didn’t exist, eliminating the loud contentious voices of today that proudly scorch swaths of people with little discernment and much ease — just a click of a button. Perhaps I was naive, for surely the nature of man has not so radically changed in the past few decades. Nevertheless, I’m certain the motherly joy which percolated in my heart drowned out any negative vibes that might have been directed our way. We saw the world and the looks we received through a lens of love. It was such an honor and privilege to call these beautiful children, whether adopted or born to us, our own.
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Overwhelmingly our experience has been characterized by acceptance and kindness. I’ve met caring African-American women, sometimes strangers in an aisle of a store, who were eager to answer my questions. They generously helped me pick out the right hair care products, taking the time to share their wisdom and advice. When in public, we encountered many people who stopped to grace us with kind words of admiration for our family.
There was a tense, uncomfortable situation that occurred while vacationing in the Appalachian mountains of East Tennessee. One evening we drove a long, long way up a winding “holler” road to dine at a popular barbecue joint. We remember well the stony, you-can-hear-a-pin-drop, kind of silence as we walked our multicolored family, as if on parade, through the middle of the restaurant to our table. All eyes were on us, some heads swiveling to catch the view. In a moment like that strange thoughts flit through your mind. These are the hills of Appalachia, the region where a “murderous”, five-ton, circus elephant named Mary was publicly lynched before a crowd of 2,500 people. Granted this took place in 1916, but suddenly it seemed concerning. This is the South, where the term Yankee is still used by some folks as a reference for Northerners. This is moonshine country, where the local folklore cautions mountain-trail hikers to put a log on the unattended fire of a seemingly empty campsite. This act of solidarity might well save a person from receiving a backside full of buckshot. So the story goes. These were the strange, illogical, random thoughts that nervously crossed my mind when confronted with the safety of my children. How the length of that dining room, and the deafening silence, seemed to grow with each step. When finally seated at our table, the conversation in the room slowly revved up and began to hum again. Curiosity assuaged. Our waitress, who could have been named Flo with her big red hair, big smile, and big friendly hello, welcomed us and took our order. We became like all the other customers, laughing and enjoying some good ole southern barbecue and sweet ice tea. Common ground.
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Oh how I wish the very best in life for this young family in our neighborhood. All the good stuff — never the ugly. That they’ll be met with kindness and acceptance as they walk their journey. When challenges arise, as they will, may it be the kind people they encounter of all the colors. People with open hearts and minds, with hands that are open and willing to help. Open to bless.
And I wish for you, world, that you will have eyes to see the beauty of this family. The beauty in variation. The beauty in love that grows within, and sometimes even more deeply, between hearts.
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“Above all, constantly echo God’s intense love for one another, for love will be a canopy over a multitude of sins.”
1 Peter 4:8 TPT
