Original articles by Melinda Clements
He's My Daddy
September 10, 2007
He was a small boy, almost petite, although not in a feminine way. He might have been five, six or maybe seven years old but his size was deceiving. As he ambled along the rocky, dirt road one could almost decipher the disappointment in his face. His torn, half zipped denim jacket revealed a large number three on the dirty white tee shirt beneath. A dilapidated baseball cap that had once been bright orange was worn at a slight angle and released furies of blond, kinky, curly hair. Ringlets of curls were plastered to his forehead by the sweat dripping down his face and on occasion he brushed the curls and sweat aside. With his head bent to the ground and the cover of his long dark lashes I could not determine the color of his eyes.
He walked aimlessly, almost at a snail's pace, heading no where in particular. As he ambled along he kicked almost vindictively at a rock here and there along the road. The agitated, almost rabid behavior clearly showed in the dark green depths of his eyes when he finally glanced up.
A broken, beraggled shoe lace hanging from his dingy gray tennis shoe dragged along the ground causing him to stumble twice while I watched. His dirt smudged face revealed traces where perhaps sweat or tears had fallen at some time or another. Freckles splashed the bridge of his almost pug like nose like huge raindrops splatter on hot cement.
Unexpectedly, a shout echoed from somewhere behind the boy and a man made his way down the rocky road toward the little boy. Whirling in direction of the shout, a beam, almost like a beacon, burst forth from that little sad face; a shine that transformed that little face into a budding flower opening its petals to the sun.
He shot from that spot like a bullet from a gun and sprinted toward the man who had called. His shoe lace caused him to trip and the dirty orange cap sailed through the air and hit the ground. Catching himself he vaulted into the arms of the man and curled his arms around the man's neck.
"I love you, Daddy," he snubbed and tears made traces over that dirt smudged face once again.
Sometimes when I feel sad and disappointed like that little boy I, too, want to run into my Daddy's arms so that everything will be alright. Jesus is always there to catch my fall. He's my Daddy!
Be Blessed This Day!
Melinda Clements
