Tears were flowing. Pouring from my eyes, really. It was the
father-of-the-bride dance, “Butterfly
Kisses” was playing over the speakers, and I was swaying on the dance floor
with my little girl. She was brand-new, just six-weeks old at the time, and I
wasn’t familiar with the song. As I held Marien close to me and watched as
Clorinda’s college roommate danced with her dad, I had a sudden, terrifying
thought: someday that would be me. MY little girl would be dancing with ME, and
I would be giving her away.
STOP THE MUSIC!
That was NOT something I was ready to deal with. I only got
her six weeks earlier, and now I was going to have to give her away? Nope. I
held that little girl close to my heart and cried and told her she wasn’t
allowed to get married. Never. She was daddy’s little girl, and she needed to
stay daddy’s little girl.
Until everything changed.
Friday night two weeks ago I couldn’t sleep. I laid on my
back, and on my side, and my other side, and no matter which way I looked that
little girl’s life was playing in my mind’s eye. I would doze off and then
minutes later my eyes would pop right back open and there she was.
There’s two things I know for sure / She was sent here from heaven / And she’s daddy’s little girl / As I drop to my knees by her bed at night / She talks to Jesus, and I close my eyes. / And I thank God for all of the joy in my life
I could see her in that little floral dress, staring up at
her mom, just days after she was born.
Suddenly, she was in red long-john pajamas, smiling at her
grandparents’ house at Christmas time. It was adorable.
Then she was sitting in a highchair, gnawing on a long sprig
of asparagus that was firmly clasped in her four-month-old hand, just because
she had to have what mom was having for dinner.
I rolled over and slept for a minute or two, but I was
awakened almost immediately by her little face staring at me, insisting on me
reading the Dr. Seuss ABC book for the umpteenth time. She knew those books so
well that when I would read it to her at bedtime she would wake up and correct
me if I tried to skip a page or two.
Then I could hear her screaming at the top of her lungs from
Salt Lake City to Beaver—almost four solid hours—until we finally just pulled off
the highway so Clorinda could move to the back seat of the car and feed her. (They
weren’t all positive memories.)
Just moments later, she was in my arms, crying because she had
fallen out of her big-girl bed, not understanding why she was jolted awake by
the sudden impact of the barely carpeted concrete floors in our apartment.
I closed my eyes, and her little three-year-old face looked up
at me and proudly exclaimed, “dammit!” with a sparkle in her big blue eyes and
a huge grin across her face after she hit a ping-pong-ball into the net (I’m
sure she learned that from her mother) (also, the first and only time I ever
heard her swear).
That one made me laugh.
I turned to my side, and I was in the kitchen sneaking a
bite or two (or six) of ice cream right out of the carton. A five-year-old
Marien came out from her bedroom because she couldn’t sleep, and she caught me
cold-handed. She managed to get a couple bites for herself, which was our
little secret (my little bribe) for years. She loved to remind me of that
night.
Moments later we were walking into her kindergarten
classroom (somehow, I was voted the one to drop her off on day one. THAT was a
killer. I’m really not sure why it was so hard, but it was, and I cried. Again.
You may begin to sense a theme).
There she was, being recognized for the third time that year
as student-of-the-month (a real feat in that the school said you could only win
it once per year).
And suddenly I was dropping her off at middle school. She
could barely hold up her backpack, but off she went. Until she didn’t. Middle
school was hard and exhausting, and more than once I found her curled up on my
couch at work, desperately needing just a little more rest before braving the
day.
She’s looking like her mamma / A little more every day / One part woman, the other part girl / To perfume and makeup / From ribbons and curls / Trying her wings out in a great / Big world…
Leaving her at the bus EARLY in the morning for an orchestra
trip to Disneyland, and saving the text messages (from her friend’s phone) just
to be sure that she was safe. That one was on repeat throughout middle school
and high school, although it got progressively easier as she got older. And as
I got older.
So. Many. Images.
Dances and proms and soccer games and orchestra concerts and
track meets and academic awards ceremonies and talks in church and girls camps
and vacations (oh, the one where she called and begged me to hurry to Clorinda’s
parents house because nobody was laughing at her jokes) and seminary and
graduation.
The time she called because she had jumped the curb in her
car and totaled it.
The
time she loaded her car and headed off to college. I really cried then. But
not nearly as bad as I did ten months later when we dropped her off at the MTC.
I still see her heading down that sidewalk, suitcases in tow, and eighteen
months getting further and further away with every step she took.
And of course, seeing her eighteen months later as she
walked off the plane. OK, well, maybe not watching her walk off the plane, but standing
in baggage claim ten minutes after she’d arrived as her mother, siblings, and I
ran to meet her (CURSE YOU T-MOBILE! AND NFR!)
All those images. All those memories. All that life just
playing in my mind and keeping me from sleeping.
All the precious time / Oh like the wind, when the years go by / Precious butterfly / Spread your wings and fly
Saturday morning, I sat in a sealing room in the Las Vegas
Temple. The same room that Clorinda and I were married in 23 ½ years earlier.
She’ll change her name today / She’ll make a promise / And I’ll give her away / Standing in the bride room / Just staring at her / She asked me what I’m thinking / And I said “I’m not sure / I just feel like I’m losing my baby girl”
To say it was packed is an understatement—every chair was filled, and people were
standing along the walls and near the doors. I was overcome with emotion as I
looked into the faces of so many dear friends and family members, as well as
new friends and family members that I was gaining because of the ceremony.
And then it was done. “Man and wife! Say ‘man and wife!’”
* * *
My Friday-night memories were replayed on the big screen
during the luncheon and reception later that day, only this time they were
interspersed with pictures of Hayden. When Hayden’s mom gave her speech, she
talked about meeting Marien. The first time, over Facetime, she thought, “Wow,
this is a really neat girl.” Then she met her for real and thought, “Wow, this
is just the type of girl we’ve always wanted for Hayden.” Then she met her
again and was sold: “This isn’t just the type of girl we’ve always wanted
for Hayden, this is the girl.”
I’ve thought about that comment for the last two weeks. I
felt bad because I couldn’t say that about Hayden. I mean, intellectually and
objectively, yes, he is just the person I would want for Marien, but Marien was
my little girl, my princess, and nobody was ever going to
be good enough for her.
Except that he was.
And she loves him.
* * *
That night we danced to Butterfly Kisses. I held her in my
arms and we just talked. She was radiant and beautiful and smiling ear-to-ear.
That little princess I’d danced with in my arms 22 years before completely
disobeyed my orders and ran off and got married.
Oh with all that I’ve done wrong / I must have done something right / To deserve her love every morning / And butterfly kisses / I couldn’t ask God for more, man, this is / What love is / I know I’ve gotta let her go, but I’ll always / Remember / Every hug in the morning, and butterfly kisses
Congratulations my princess. I truly could not ask for more
that the love you brought into my life. I am truly excited for you and Hayden
and your life together. I love you.
~Dad
