Growing up, I used to say things absently to my mother.  Imagine your three ear old gazing out a car window, sighing with longing, and whispering quietly "I wish I had a daddy that stayed with us all the time..."

At school, I was gawky, gangly, too young yet for the features that as an adult would fit my face.  The kids were, as kids can be, cruel and heartless.  Day after day, month after month, year after year, I came home lonely and aching, my soul a tattered shred, my self image destroyed beyond repair.  My mother was working night and day, trying to support three teenage boys and a little 'tomboy' of a girl.  I came home each night to a quiet home to lick my wounds alone.  No fathers arms held me, cradled me close, explained why what happened happened.  I suffered silently, withdrawn into my own little world.

One day, as an adult, I had a terrible and vicious rift with the dearest friend I had known in this life.  The words, accusations and painful memories took me careening back to my childhood.  A whip cracked across my bare tender skin could have cut me no deeper, heavy, forceful blows at the hands of a burly, angry man could have done no more damage to my frail frame.  Alone, scared, spirit broken and beyond tears, I retreated once more in my cold, colorless, private world.

But he came to me.  Stood before me, his hand stretched out, offering me the comfort and support I had never known.  I resisted, shook my head and shied away, the wounds too fresh and painful, my past impressed firmly on the present, blocking from my vision the sincerity in his eyes.  I denied my suffering, with a bright false smile, and turned away, drawing into my small protective shell.

But he persisted.  He took my small weak hand in his and pulled me from my safety net.  He took my face in his strong, work worn hands, making me feel tiny and defenseless.  He put his arms around me firmly, not letting go as I fought against tenderness I no longer trusted.  I fell into his arms then, weeping, letting my tears spill over his broad shielding chest.  He held me as my body shook with sobs of pain and betrayal.  He ran those strong callused hands over my hair as I cried, comforting me, quieting the storms that wailed within my heart.

And then, when I stopped and was still, he began to tend to my wounds.  Slowly at first, as with a injured animal, so I was not even aware of what was happening.  He began rinsing them with cool, sweet water, washing away the filth and blackness that had settled into them away, protecting me from festering infection that would as soon rob me of my life as my temporary comfort.

I sat, dumbfounded and expressionless, caught in the quiet of the realization of destruction after a storm.  And he bandaged my wounds, carefully; those huge awkward fingers tender, not rupturing the fragile scabs that were forming, but applying firm pressure to those that still bled freely, setting broken bones with a fatherly affection.  And all the time that gruff, wonderful voice droned on...telling me why what had happened had happened...assuring me I was undeserving of the beating I had received, validating the pain I felt.

Still to this day, as I remember this time in my life, my eyes well with tears.  Not of pain, for he removed all infection and made sure the wounds healed smoothly, the bones set nicely.  I will ever be able to express in words the gratitude I feel for this man.  I am able to face the world again, knowing no matter what happens, I am loved, whole, healthy.  No scars mar my smooth skin, no limp halters my steady stride.  I will love this man for a lifetime for the love he shared with me in a day.