Giving Her Away

A a couple months ago I got a call from my daughter's boyfriend. He wanted to marry her.

Mercifully, I had a heads up, and a pretty solid pitch from her for why he was the right guy.

I really trust her. She's not eighteen, or nineteen. She's 24, and she's been living on her own since she was 17. She'd tell you that neither one of us would endorse every decision she's made in the last seven years, but the Lord has been faithful and kept her in His caring embrace. She's wiser than her 24 years. And she's said goodbye to at least one great guy, not because there was anything wrong with him, but because she recognized it was a mismatch.

So when I got the heads-up about her boyfriend's call, I was ready to give my blessing. His name is Sterling, and I think it's fitting. He's been refined, "as if by fire seven times".

So why do I now feel so oddly conflicted about it?

I've thought a lot about that since we first began to make preparations for their wedding. I think it has to do in part with a season of my life when a lot of things are ending. Children have moved out, older relatives are passing away, and I've probably lived a lot more than half of the time I'll have on this earth.

More to the point, my role as her primary protector and provider will soon be over as I step aside and hand that responsibility to her groom.

For 24 years it's been my job to make sure she was safe and had everything she needed. That responsibility isn't limited to physical things. I had to make sure it was safe for her to share her heart with me. I needed to understand who God made her to be so that I could hear beyond her words and understand what her heart was saying. I had to steward that knowledge well, honoring her vulnerability when she chose to risk it. I didn't do that perfectly. Sometimes I didn't even do it well, but apparently I did it well enough. At least my daughter tells me I did, and I treasure her trust.

I think making my daughter's heart feel safe had another purpose which I didn't realize until recently. When she spoke to me about Sterling, she said, "He knows my heart, and I can trust him with it." At that moment it hit home: those 24 years weren't just about safety and vulnerability, they were about preparation. She needed to know what it felt like to trust her heart—her deepest loves and fears—to a man who loved her.

I wished I'd known that at the time. I would have worked even harder at it, but God is gracious. There are no parent previews. Our kids don't get to comparison shop for us. We're it. And there's real grace in that. It means that we don't have to be perfect, we just have to try really hard. And it's worth it. When my daughter tells me I'm a good father, whatever failings I've suffered as a dad quickly fade.

Which brings me to Sterling. If I had one word of advice, it'd be this—an echo of Winston Churchill—never, never, never stop trying. You won't do it perfectly, but always contend for your wife's heart. Listen to her unspoken words. Study her moods. Encourage her vulnerability, and you will be very glad you did.

I am.