A man walked into the back of the sanctuary during communion. It was my friend's dad. She'd told me before service she was excited he would be there. Her dad had missed a few Sundays.
So I looked over to her. She looked back and beamed.
"That's my daddy."
After she said that, I felt that burning lump in my throat, and then there were the tears. I didn't hear what the communion mini-sermon was about, but I was hoping it was emotional enough so it looked like I at least had a reason for a few tears until I pulled it back together.
It's just that it's always someone else's daddy walking through the church doors.
It's never my daddy.
One time about 10 years ago, my dad came to church to pick me up from a youth activity. He *never* picked me up from church. That was always my mom's job, but she couldn't do it that day for some reason. Some of my friends didn't even know I had a dad. Nobody recognized his truck when it pulled up in the parking lot. My family, apart from him, had been attending that church for three years, and he'd never been there before. Mom had to give him directions.
He stood in the doorway, not walking inside the building.
"That's my dad," I told my friends nonchalantly. I played it cool, but I was secretly excited. My dad was at church! OK, well...kinda...it was as close as he'd ever come in recent years.
Ever since then, I've been waiting for him to reappear in those doors or call me on the phone to tell me that he finally decided to follow Christ and everything would end happily ever after.
But he never does any of that. It's always someone else's daddy.
P.S. Willow Creek posts to come this week.
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