There is no such thing as "out of earshot" when it comes to hearing my daughter's voice. I am forever shushing her, begging her to use her inside voice, and holding my ears as she blasts louder than any nighttime television commercial.
Lately, I've been tempted to nickname her Megaphone since even when I'm inside the house with all the doors and windows shut tight and she's far across the tadpole "swamp" by the playground, I can still hear that mouth (plus her twin brother's equally loud mouth) running overtime.
The running joke on the farm is when Opa was working one Saturday out beside the hay barns, across the fields from our home. As Opa tells it, the voice yelling his name was crystal clear as if Amelia were right beside him. Only problem? When he turned to look, she was waving to him from our front lawn....a quarter mile away. Yes. Miss Megaphone.
Impossible as it may seem, though, when Amelia is hurt, her screams can spike several decibels above her normal football yell. Such a sound can cause even her generally oblivious brothers to pause from their Lego building project and go running with a "where's the blood!?" mentality that boys have.
Two weeks ago, the blessed silence of Sunday afternoon naps was broken by such a must-be-blood scream. Bored with the boys' games, Amelia had gone outside, taken apart the boys' sign that they'd nailed to a stake, placed said stake on the concrete (nail side up, of course) and proceed to jump over it.
She obviously inherited my lack of athleticism.
Thankfully, the soles of rubber clogs are thick. Just not thick enough to save her slender foot from a small puncture and a couple smudges of blood.
Mommy was totally failing to calm the injured. That's when daddy swooped in, gathered Amelia up in his arms, and carried her upstairs for some hot soapy silence, band aid that wouldn't stay on, and TLC. Heart medicine.
I can't look at this picture without thinking of the verse, "He heals the brokenhearted And binds up their wounds" (Psalm 147:3).
How better to know the love of a heavenly father than through the love of an earthly one.
And with that thought, I mourn, my heart feeling a physical ache for all the young girls I know whose earthly fathers have fallen so short.
I pray for those whose fathers have let go instead of holding tight, who have harmed rather than healed, who have showered them with anger instead of with love.
There is a Father waiting with outstretched arms for each of them, for each of us--to heal our broken hearts and bind up our wounds. If we will only reach out to take His hand.
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