This morning at about 4:45 am my daughter came down the stairs not feeling well. ( I was already down there because my wife had been under the weather since about 2am) My little girl was dressed in her pj’s and was wearing her fluffy green robe with the colored stars on it. She headed straight for the bathroom and I quickly followed her. When she got there, she calmly took her robe off and hung it on the doornob, knelt down on the floor and began to pray to the porcelain god. I did the fatherly thing, holding her hair back so that she would not make matters worse than they already were. When she was finished, she calmly wiped her face, flushed the toilet, put her robe back on, looked at me and said “Daddy, I got sick, but it’s alright.”
Why do I tell you this horrid tale of blown chunks? Because I expected to be the one doing the comforting, instead my little girl felt like she needed to comfort me and let me know that things were ok. Maybe it was the look on my face at 4:45am that prompted her response, maybe she was saying it out loud so she would believe it herself. Or maybe, just maybe, she was letting me know that she was alright, being sick was no fun, but having daddy there meant things would be ok.
I’d love to make a great spiritual illustration from this story, but Vomit isn’t exactly a topic that goes over well from the pulpit. Sometimes it’s just great to know that my little girl is growing up, facing challenges, and coming out the other side ok. We’re not dealing with drugs, alcohol, sex, college, or any other major life crisis yet, but for me and my five year old, making it through a night like that is one more challenge down.