Barbie Loflin

I remember it like it was yesterday.

I was about eight years old.  My daddy walked to the front of his little storefront mission, stepped up onto the rough plank stage, picked up his battered guitar, and lifted his blue/gray eyes in search of little brown ones framed by auburn lashes.

“Barbie, come up here and let’s sing us a song,” his voice rang out in invitation laced with strong suggestion.

My feet shuffled beneath my ankle length gown.  My head remained bowed as I walked the short distance to where my father stood.  He looked down at me as I lifted my eyes to his…and he smiled.  The corners of his eyes crinkled in his deep bronze face, and his teeth shone bright and beautiful.

He was such a handsome daddy.

“You wanna sing Born Again?,” he asked, as he began to strum the guitar in a rhythm that I recognized as that of one of our “home songs.”  You know, the songs you sing when you’re just sitting around at home with the family.  He faced the congregation, and began to sing in his raspy baritone voice; “Satan tried to tell me I just thought I’d got saved…” my little girl voice joined in quietly, but I did not look at the people, I was looking at my daddy.  I couldn’t do it if I looked at them, but I somehow felt I could do anything when I looked at him.  I knew he had me.  I knew that everything would be okay as long as I could see him.  I gave him my song, he gave me his strength.

We finished the verse and the next thing I knew, daddy and I were singing loud and clear, “I’m born again, free from sin.  I’m happy night and day.  It makes me shout, there’s no doubt, I know I’m born again.”

When the song had ended, my father walked me to the edge of the platform, my small hand tucked snugly within his large square palm.  As I stepped from the stage, brown eyes once again met with blue and in that moment I knew how much my father loved me.  Not because I had sang with him when I had been afraid, but just because…

Because he was my daddy.

We had shared a moment, and in that moment there had been an exchange.  As we sang, I had caught a glimpse of myself in my father’s heart, and he had seen clearly into mine.

Almost forty years later, I am still moved to tears when I think of that moment with my father.  I still hear his voice.  I still feel his hand holding mine…and I still see the crinkles in the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

That smile was just for me.  It was mine alone.

And just so you know… It was never about the song, it was always about the exchange.

I wonder how long it has been since you shared a moment with your Father?  When was the last time there was an exchange – your song offered, His strength given?  When was the last time your heart sang, and His heart responded?

Oh, dear one, put your small hand in His large square palm, and for once, be truly unafraid.  Take a moment.  Take a breath.  And remember…it is all about The Exchange.