There’s Two Things I Know for Sure

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