Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Lesson 35. Remember what your Daddy told you.

I got distracted today. My head decided that a stroll down memory lane was more than overdue and thus began it's meander.

My mind seemed to search the archives for pivotal moments in my childhood. A few cringe-worthy recollections down the track, my wandering wit landed on one it hadn't encountered since the day itself. The final year of primary school holds many painful jabs and jolts. I was awkward, outspoken and somewhat resembled a member of the opposite gender. This situation however, marks a moment that my father stood out as a hero in my time of general gawkiness.

Let's give you a bit of background info. I used to play hockey. Sports? Yes, before I figured out that I hated them with a deep firey passion, I used to whack a ball around here and there. It was year 6: the semi-final match of the season and my coach was not a fan of the Lydia experience. She did not like me in her team, she did not like me on the field, she especially did not like me at halftime- I know this because when they passed around the halftime oranges I would somehow always get missed. We were about 10 minutes off finishing our game and I had not yet set foot on the turf. I sat with one arm draped around my hot pink hockey stick and the other lay almost lifeless in my lap, my eyes fixed on it. I kicked the ground every time I swung my foot back and forth and each swing seemed to pass the time just as slowly as my "Bugs life" watch. My hair wasn't even long enough to cover my face so when the tears of frustration and shame came, they came unmasked. They slid down my ruddy cheeks and into my curled up hand. I didn't dare look up, things were embarrassing enough as they were without people meeting the eyes of my unwanted feelings. It was not until I saw a familiar hand reach for mine that I had the courage to raise my chin. The hand of my father. He took it and he marched me off the field. He told me that we would not put up with this, that would be my last game, and he would be taking me home. My Dad is not a charmer, he does not paint pretty pictures with his words, but the words he said to me that morning are framed in my heart to this day. He taught me a lesson about courage, about standing up for the people that you love. My Dad taught me that it's not okay to let people underestimate you or take you for granted. He taught me the importance of believing in your value and worth so that you know when enough is enough. My Daddy swooped in and saved me like the hero that he is.

He probably didn't mean to instill such a spirit of stubbornness and justice in me that day, but I think it greatly contributed to the way I am. I have rarely played the role of the doormat because of what my father imparted to me that day in Blake park. I am so blessed to have had a father who stood up for me. I don't know if you have or not, but I know that at some stage someone significant has pulled you off the turf. Someone has fought your battle, has taught you about standing up. Believe that you are worth more, trust in what you know about yourself. Remember what your Daddy told you.

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