Father’s Day finds us again. Just us. My man, our children, his favorite pie, a new atlas for the perpetual explorer, a pile of handmade cards reflecting varying degrees of ability and all slathered with love for him.

No other father shares the pie, not his, not mine.

One was carried too soon away; one walked too easily of his own accord. One left memories, the other scars.

I watch my girls with their father, and I smile, and I cry.

There is something beautiful, something touching, something indescribable and wonderful about a father who loves his girls.

There is a hidden blessing in the casual way they take him for granted, knowing he will come home, knowing he will sit at the head of the table, knowing he will lead his family in prayer, knowing he will set them back on the path when they stray, never doubting, never questioning, just knowing.

And I smile, and I envy, and I praise God for him on his day, every day.

And when I miss what might have been, and long for what will be, I remember that, although He takes no pie, my Father is here, loving, leading, setting me back on His path. There is something beautiful in just knowing.

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