My Daddy’s Hand

Nearly every summer, my family traveled from Columbus, Ohio, all the way south to one of Florida’s beautiful beaches. In a pre-interstate freeway world with no air conditioning in our car, it was one long haul through sticky, hot weather, winding roads, and bumper-to-bumper traffic in every little hole-in-the-wall town in (what felt like never-ending) Georgia. But we made the trek because of our love for water—beaches, pools, jacuzzies. Whatever, they all beckoned to us. We Wolfes were part fish, evidently.

A big part of the excitedly anticipated trip was the stop halfway at a lazy little motel—with a pool, of course. Mom would pack our swimsuits separately from the jumble of suitcases stashed into the trunk so they could be pulled out immediately. My big brother and I would scramble into our suits while Daddy hauled in bags, suitcases, coolers of food and drinks, and all the assorted paraphernalia. Then Bob and I paced while Daddy changed into his suit so the three of us could race to the pool—Last one in…! You know the drill. Mom was happy to catch a nap in the room, enjoying the peace and quiet.

I remember one motel in particular because it had one of those slides—the plastic kind with a curve in the middle. Bob checked it out first and pronounced it awesome. I scrambled up the steps to the very top…and then froze, never one comfortable at heights like that. So I sat there, afraid, listening to my brother’s encouragement (“Go on down! It’s a blast—you’ll love it!”), and going…nowhere.

As always—of course he did; that’s what Daddies do—Daddy came to my rescue.

He walked over to the slide and looked up at me. “Go ahead. You’ll be just fine,” he coached me.

“Will you hold my hand?”

He laughed. “What good is that going to do?”

“I just want to. I need to.”

He smiled and shrugged, but then held up a hand. The slide was so high, however, that I could reach only one of his fingers. So I clutched onto that one—the only finger that I could grab onto, and held on for dear life. Took a deep breath and slid down the slide. Turns out my Big Bro was right: It was fun!

That little scenario is a perfect picture of what a Daddy means to his little girl. Clutching onto just one finger of my daddy’s hand was enough to give me the courage to launch out into the unknown…of that slide. Eventually, of life. Of the world. Because I knew I could count on my daddy. He was and would always be there, supporting, loving me. That was my daddy.

Now…now Daddy’s Home. So he’s not here—not physically. But he will always be in my heart, providing those tender remembrances of hugs just when I needed them. Help when I asked for it. And encouragement and support whenever he heard the slightest hint of insecurity in my voice.

You have gone to your Heavenly Home, Daddy, but you are ever with me. Because in my mind’s eye, I’m still clutching onto you. Always. Our love secure in the grip of your hand.