The line in the bank was long and moved slowly, but she was very good and hardly stirred or wiggled. Instead she sat quietly on her young father's sinewy arm, one small starfish hand on the shoulder of his jean jacket, her little back very straight and her feet in their minature sneakers neatly crossed at the ankle. Under her woolen hat and her fringe of wispy fair hair, her grey eyes were round and watchful--not scared, not shy, but solemn and attentive. A serious child, a child keeping her own counsel for the moment, but (I think) very happy.

You had the sense that they were used to each other, these two. If they were quiet with each other, it was because they felt no great need to talk. A companionable closeness flowed from them like scent from a flower. His held his slight, strong body in its workman's clothes comfortably braced at an angle to take her weight. She held her small body in its pink jacket and grey leggings upright but relaxed, accepting his support without a second thought, without any need to cling. From her safe perch, she looked around her alertly, taking it all in, all these people, this strange place. Now and again he whispered something to her. Once she smiled at something he whispered, and gave a great all-over wriggle and buried her face in his shoulder. But mostly they stood quietly together, moving forward as the line moved, as if this position was deeply familiar to them.

I don't know anything whatsoever about this young man as a father, except that it bodes well that he carries his daughter so naturally and well, and she's so obviously at ease with him. If he's good at this job, I know he lives (and will go on living) in the tension of not-being-sure: when is it right to shelter his daughter from harm? When does he have to allow her to run and maybe fall and hurt herself, because the falling and hurting is a necessary part of running?

As she gets older, if he's a good father, he won't try to control her every move; he will give her room to make mistakes and learn --but his love will be there, always, for her to turn back into like a ship heading into home waters. Her learning and growing and becoming process is apt to involve things that may grieve him. And sometimes, she may get angry at him--maybe even lash out at him. Children do that, sometimes. She may ignore his good advice and take him for granted. Again, that's something that healthy children do. He will know that she isn't his possession or an extension of him, but her own person, and therefore he will not argue with her need for freedom, even if sometimes he feels she misuses it.

But nor will he give her everything she asks for or thinks she needs. I've met children who never heard the word "no" and they are not happy people. This little princess must and should grow up, because it is the bounden duty of princesses to stop being princesses (and the same goes for princes). And when, during the process, she sticks out her lower lip, or the tears well over, or she stamps her small imperious foot, he will say to her, not angrily but with loving firmness: "Yes, darling, the pea was a problem, and I'm sorry you had such a bad night's sleep --but don't forget the peasants have to sleep on the cold hard ground."

She will not always need to be carried, as he carries her now; she will want to get down and run around. She will become a grown woman, mature, with her own thoughts and dreams, not denying her strength and weight of soul. He won't deny her her maturity and independence--in fact, they will make his heart bound with pleasure --but still, at the deepest level, his arm will always be under her, supporting her, sustaining her, whether she sits light or heavy, is happy or sad, knows he's there or ignores him.

My God doesn't ask me to be any more or less of a grown-up than I am--that's not what it means by "becoming as a little child," I believe. I cannot imagine God wanting us to be puerile or insipid or naive or simple-minded. If we fancy ourselves as innocent little lambs, we may forget that we're also big dumb sheep (and sometimes carnivorous sheep....) But God does want us to feel His safety, His love, His support--so much a part of life that it is as the ground under our feet. Just as this child knows that her father's tough young forearm will be there always under her small bottom, if not literally, then certainly at the soul's level..

I can rest secure, propped safely on God's untiring arm, leaning my own starfish hand quietly on His safe and sturdy shoulder, knowing that His deep, foreseeing, uncontrolling love leaves me free to look around, to get down and run around, to fall and err and to turn back. Just so, I hope and pray, this child can will feel free to go running back to the young man who carries her now, who will die as my Father will not die, but whose love for this little one reflects my Father's love for each and every one of us. For each one of us, each sovereign soul, is a child held firmly but lightly by Love--a child on my Father's arm.

(For all fathers, but especially for +FBW and mjl)