I remember a time I spoke with my father.
It was a cool evening and he was in the middle of choosing between a nap or watching the news. I asked him “Daddy, where do babies come from?”. He peered down at me, confused, and then looked around as if searching for an emergency exit. “Where is your mother?” he asked. I shrugged dramatically, my shoulders clothed in childlike nonchalance as I stared at him expectantly. “I don’t know.” I said as a smile spread across my face.
He looked at me suspiciously “Have you asked her?” he questioned. “Yes, I have.” I replied. “And what did she say?” he asked. “She said that I should ask you.” I responded. He looked at me and we entered a staring contest. I blinked. He blinked back.
“I see.” he said, stretching his legs. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Well,” he began, squinting at me as he studied my little frame and eager eyes, wondering how best to handle the situation. He cleared his throat again and took a deep breath, leaning back into his seat and folding his arms. “Children are from God.” He said with a look of content, as if patting himself on the back for a job well done.
I locked my brows in a frown, tilting my head sideways “How?” I asked. My father looked up to the ceiling and down at me. Then he picked me up and placed me on his lap “When parents marry, God sends a baby from heaven. That’s His way of saying congratulations!” he said, hugging me.
I smiled. I knew that was not the answer, but my father had a habit of hugging me when I asked too many questions. And that evening, I just wanted my father’s warm embrace.