Sometimes I forget that even though I get called Mr. Emery at work and, occasionally, Pastor Scott elsewhere, one of my favorite titles is the one you call me, “Daddy.”
Sometimes I forget you are not “my” daughter, but “our” daughter: our family, our Church, our community, our God.
Sometimes I forget how quickly a 9 month pregnancy can turn into you, my 2 year old daughter.
Sometimes I forget that my responses to things can be the most formative times in your life.
Sometimes I forget the awe of how your warm cooing has transformed into a sweet, little voice.
Sometimes I forget that you are the embodiment of one of God’s words from eons ago.
Sometimes I forget how my ambition to be known for my theological thought should never outweigh my ambition to be known – by you – for my theological action.
Sometimes I forget that how I show your mother love will probably be the litmus test for how you imagine love looking.
Sometimes I forget how your little hands will be held by another some day.
Sometimes I forget your best friend is your older sister and your biggest imitator will be your younger sister, so how I love them effects you too.
Sometimes I forget that you are two and not 18.
Sometimes I forget how soon you will be 18.
Sometimes I forget how my parents have a 30 year old son with 3 girls – one of them being you – and how soon I will be in that position.
Sometimes I forget that you don’t get the tone in my voice.
Sometimes I forget how much I prayed for you before you were born and how those prayers are slowly being answered.
Sometimes I forget the hard reality that many of your similarly-aged future friends have been/are/will be sick and dying.
Sometimes I forget how much you have taught me.
You smile and I see love.
You request to pray before bed and I understand faith.
You hug my neck as we walk downstairs every morning and I know forgiveness.
You run to me in pain and I know healing.
You laugh and I become infected with hope.
You love me and I am filled with gratitude.