If I Have a Daughter

So, I have decided to start a little series type thing. I got the idea from Sarah Kay, an amazing spoken word poet. It’s gonna be called “If I have a daughter…” and I’ll probably touch on something different each go round. I’m gonna try to write one once a week and I’ll attempt to do it on the same day each week. And I guess I just made it Tuesday so we’ll see if that sticks. My guess is negative. But we’ll see! Enjoy!

If I have a daughter…

I will tell her that a poet once said, “there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.”

I will tell her that “no, this is not condoning the way you constantly find yourself back on the doorstep of the boy who kisses your cheek and sends you home with blisters on your heart and scratch marks on your brain.” I will tell her this is not an excuse for the tears she gathers in a bowl and presents to him after he sends her home for the last time. I will tell her that water isn’t equal to the oil and gas she will burn driving to the ends of the city to yell out God’s name into dark forests, the echoes of her curses getting stuck in the darkest edges of the woods instead of returning to her.

I will tell her it refers to the way the sun will continue to light up her mornings no matter how dark the cold, suffocating holes she falls into at night are. I will not tell her I see her when she steps out on the porch, her young face aglow in the hazy light of the rising sun. I will not tell her I see her when she reaches out her palms to the sky, reaching for something beyond the clouds.

I will not nod when she calls him a coward or agree when she calls him fake no matter how much it pains me to hold in the far worse names I have come up with. I will tell her that he was chosen for someone else, as is she.

I will tell her that a poet once said, “there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.”

I will tell her that “there is nothing more beautiful than the way the Savior refuses to stop kissing our foreheads no matter how many times we send Him away.”

I will take the chocolate from her lips and put the Bible in her hands.

I will tell her to never stop reaching for what’s beyond the clouds.

I will tell her to find a boy like her father: a man of God who will always be ok with sharing her with her mother.