Being a Daughter 101 - Chapter 15

I don’t know how to be a daughter. 

The thrill that these people who are my family would open their lives to me, invite me in unequivocally, was overwhelming and I so wanted to “do it right”. I wanted to be a good daughter. A daughter my dad could be proud of. Someone interesting, smart and talented. One of the first things he said to me at that initial meeting at the Regina Inn was “So, you’re successful.” Upon hearing it, I bristled. I took him to say “You need to pass muster. Be good enough. There’s a bar to reach. What are your credentials?”  He seemed surprised when he said it.  I bristled at that too. Had he really expected me to be a loser? A failure?  That statement has always bothered me. Throughout this whole thing, I didn’t just hope he would love me; I wanted him to like me. Additionally, I truly hoped he would want to know me. I wanted a connection. To have nothing from a parent for so many years, then to have something…it meant everything.  

I remember that first time my dad introduced me to someone as his daughter.  And the subsequent times he did so as well. There were these small electrical currents that zoomed through my body when that happened. Yay! I’m a daughter. Wow!  So awesome!  But then I came face to face with the fact; I’ve never been a daughter. I don’t know how to be a daughter. How do you become a daughter?  How do I DO this?  The pressure I put on myself was immense so I employed the one tactic I had always used to figure out what I was supposed to do in any situation. Watch and learn. I observed the relationship between my dad and my half-sisters and between him and my niece. Then I recalled the relationship between Lawrence, Dar and Heather. What were the things they DID to be good and acceptable daughters? Dar and Heather had been very obedient as children. Not causing too much grief. They were both smart and accomplished, as were my sisters. Everyone had a college or university degree of some sort - letters after their names. They were nice people. Smart. Funny. Talented. Generous. Each of them had some quirks that were unique to them and were loved for them anyway. Dar and Heather, during Margaret’s illness and Lawrence's heart surgery and knee replacements, stepped in to help and took on a lot of care taking. During my dad’s surgery, Karen in particular, made meals and brought him his favourite foods to nurse him back to health. They all knew the particular likes and dislikes of their dad. The laundry list of things to do was growing exponentially. It would take me a long time to learn even a few of my dad’s favourite things. I remember bringing a shrimp salad to a gathering at the farm one weekend. I brought it because I knew my dad liked shrimp. Yay! I was so excited to bring something to the table he would enjoy. But he hated onions. Boo! The salad was full of them. I felt disappointed. One step forward another step back.

I met my dad at the worst possible time of my life. I was going through a separation and divorce; the most painful thing I had ever gone through in my life. I wanted, so badly, to present myself as shiny and perfect and accomplished. Successful. Instead, I was a mess with everything falling down around me. The antithesis of successful.  Things I had a hard time telling the people that knew me, I was now having to tell him. I was not hitting many of the marks that would indicate I was doing well as a good daughter. I was trying to show him my triumphs and hide my failures. Show him the sparkly bits while hiding the broken bits. Problem was…there were just so many broken bits. Many times I had to remind myself that if he judged me for being human, he was the one who should feel bad about it. David had told me to just be myself and let him love me but I wasn’t so sure that being me was all that great. After I moved away I worried; have I emailed them enough? Too much? Should I call more? Did I send the right number and kinds of gifts at Christmas? Am I missing something in this equation? How would I know if I was missing something - that I should be DOING something - if I don’t know what it is? The likelihood was high that I WAS missing something given I didn’t know what I was doing. All this while the voice of my ex-father-in-law rang in my ears (shouting his accusations in my brain; re-living that snapshot in time) “You don’t know how to be in a family”.  

Yes…my journey to “be a daughter” was and is fraught with a lot of anxiety and high expectations I put on myself. He didn’t put those expectations on me, nor did he judge me but the drive to do whatever it took to be his daughter was high. And yes - has its roots back to my childhood when I felt I had to earn my place in Granny and Grandad’s home. The fear of being told I hadn’t measured up and was too much trouble nagged at me. And as I began to blame myself for the lessening number of emails and communications from him I finally stopped and questioned what was going on in my head.   

Like an extremely hot housing market, there is always a correction. And it’s in that correction where the market finds something more reasonable. More sustainable. The correction for me happened when I realized several things about being a daughter:

1. That being a daughter meant just that. It was a matter of being. It had nothing to do with doing. I didn’t have to DO one single thing. I was, and always had been, his daughter.
2. Being a daughter has a lot more to do with a response. Being a daughter is in response from being in a relationship with a dad. It meant responding to how he wanted to express his fatherhood to me.  
3. A dad leads. A daughter follows. He forges the path and she steps into his footsteps. He holds out his hand to guide and partner with her in the journey. He explains and enlightens you about the terrain you’re traversing; equipping you.

Lame analogy time. I’m a balloon. A red balloon thank you very much!  My destiny as a balloon is to be big, full of air that enables me to float and drift and reach the sky; to be free and bring joy. But no matter how much I want to fulfill this destiny, I remain a floppy little piece of latex unless someone breathes air into me. My destiny, of being a daughter, is contingent on the breath my father chooses to breathe into me.  

My dad has feet of clay. He’s like every other parent. Flawed. And I am too. And when you put two flawed individuals in a room, you don’t get perfection. But that doesn’t mean what you end up with can't be beautiful. Norma told me that my dad was a hero to his daughters and granddaughter. He got that way based on the relationship he chose to have with them. As his daughters and granddaughter, they were able to respond to his efforts in mutually gratifying ways - his love poured out on them returned love, deep respect, loyalty and measures of hero worship. You can’t be a daughter in a void. Well, I suppose you can - you will just be an ineffective or unfulfilled daughter. And that’s the everyday reality I live with now. After the initial period of excitement and wonder, his willingness to be a father, to engage me, to pour out his love for me…it seems more like a trickle sometimes. And for sure, part of that is the distance of two provinces I’ve put between us. But the people-pleasing side of me who always feels responsible for everyone else’s actions keeps yammering at me to “do more”; do something else to invite him in. To ignite this relationship and keep it moving forward. 

But that is something I cannot do any longer. I can’t manufacture relationship. Furthermore, there are residual…OK - way more than residual - there are deep seated beliefs that hinder my fully reaching out. It was my belief, after the first time I contacted my dad when I was 30 years old, that if he wanted to be in my life, he would have accepted my invitation. He would have responded. And at that time, as the days and months dragged on with no response, I knew I didn’t want a dad who felt guilt-tripped or coerced into a relationship with me. I wanted someone in my life that truly wanted to be there; wanted to participate. And his inaction, whatever the reasons, meant he did not want to be a part of my life. I know there was a lot of fear involved in his decision to ignore my invitation. Now, 20+ years later, the fear is less a factor. He is able to make a much more informed decision to enter into my life or choose to observe the status quo. As I learn more and am able to establish boundaries and shrug off the people-pleasing addiction, there has been an interruption…a slowdown from the initial flow of communication. And since silence has always been my enemy, I grapple with what it means for me to have and know my father at this juncture. It occurs to me that what this relationship means to me and what it means to him are likely two completely different things. And his silence is not about me being deficient. Not enough. A disappointment. It took an immense amount of fortitude and courage, on my part, to meet him. And many more repeated acts of courage to get to know him after that. I think it’s fair to say that I’ve put a lot of effort into this relationship.  And since I never once thought I would ever have a place in my dad’s life or his in mine, then whatever has happened to this point is nothing but a win for me, if not for him. But when it comes to having a person in my life that knows me. Celebrates me. Cherishes me. Well…that person is still Lawrence. My borrowed dad. As a person who likes order, the failure to be able to adequately label or categorize me and my dad’s relationship brings some uneasiness. I’m learning (a little bit) to live with uneasiness. Learning to live with the fluidity that is our new found state of being.  

I’m also learning to live with allowing him to be in the driver’s seat. I think it’s important for several reasons. I need him to lead. Take the initiative. These are indications, to me, that he meant those words he said to me. It indicates that this relationship is an important one to him. Some may think I’m setting him up for failure; that I am setting myself up for disappointment. That I am putting expectations on him that he can’t fulfill. But I have learned the hard way that relationships that mean anything – relationships that endure – are those where BOTH people are actually engaged; they both want to be there. So me, letting him into the driver’s seat is about letting him determine what he wants this relationship to be. I think it’s safe to say I’ve been the primary driver thus far. It’s time to see where he will take us.

But...I can't tell the story of me and my dad without mentioning that this has been a spiritual journey for me too.  I never ever felt like a daughter with God either.  But this journey changed that.  

“God is a Father to the Fatherless” (Psalm 68:5).  

I hated that verse.  

I mean, I really hated it.

I remember when I first learned of that verse. I was so excited. It was right there in black and white. God will be my dad. And I tried for years to believe it.  Imagine it. Fit myself into it. All to no avail. Instead of a comfort or inspiration to me, it just seemed to mock me. I could not get my head around the idea of a good, good Father because I had no frame of reference. I didn’t know what it was like to have a father who loved me, cared for me, sacrificed for me, believed in me, nurtured me, guided me, protected me. The closest father image I had as a child was Grandad. He was manipulative. Coercive. Always had an agenda that benefited himself. I spent a weekend with Heather recently and she said to me, “Grandad was kind of mean.” Yeah. He was.  

What followed Grandad in the father-image department was a tremendously abusive father-in-law. I spent 34 years in a marriage where my father-in-law took every opportunity to dismantle and destroy me, taking great pleasure in pointing out how utterly defective I was in every aspect of life.   

My intimate experience with father figures clearly showed me that they didn’t like me much. They were mean. Cruel. I could never do enough to please them nor could I ever get them to like me, let alone love me. Gifts had strings attached; they were given to coerce and guilt-trip. Love was elusive and contingent on my behaviour and accomplishments. Not only did I not measure up, I was a disappointment. An embarrassment. Deficient. And all of this coloured my attempts at experiencing God as my Father. It’s funny - throughout my entire life, I never once considered the fact that I was a daughter of a King.  My only focus was trying to figure out a way to make God my Father.   

All of that came to an abrupt end when I met my dad.  

Each experience of meeting and getting to know my dad painted a picture of who my Heavenly Father was. Every brush stroke revealed more and more of His character to me. His gentleness was the first brush stroke. His humility the next. His sincerity. His sense of humour. His graciousness. His generosity. His acceptance. His care. His compassion. Over and over, with every new discovery about my dad, I saw it personified in God my Father. 

As if that weren’t enough, it introduced me to the fact - the FACT - that I was, and always had been, a daughter. I had to sit with that concept for a long, long time. Still do. I did not know what it meant to be a daughter. I had observed it in others but never experienced it. I remember that first feeling when my dad slid that small silver box across his hospital bed and said “When I go away, I always pick up something for my girls.” I was his girl. I was His girl. He breathed into that destiny. And less and less, the disbelief I held about God’s love for me started to give way as God showed me, over and over and over again, how much He did in fact, love me. He never once wavered even though I told Him outright - I don’t believe You love me. His love was and is quiet, palpable and steady. And like a scared and wounded animal, I began to creep out of the shadows to see if this love was for real, eventually trusting His love enough to let Him gently hold my fingers, then finally scoop me up and hold me. And He whispered, over and over, “You are mine. I named you. You are precious in my eyes. I’ve given everything for you. I will always be with you no matter what. I have rescued you. I created you. Formed you. Made you. Forget the past. I am creating a new thing. I love you.” (Is 43). And the transformation into becoming a daughter began. Not driven by me, but by Him. I don’t need to do one single thing to belong to Him. Because I already do. He created me. He named me.  

Did you know “Annette” means “Grace”?  

Yeah it does.  

So. Much. Grace.