Note: This post is from blogging I did March 2016 for another writing space. I’m curating my content from past years and putting my work from different places all together on my blog here. Enjoy the read.
“Sometimes game is easier than the truth.” – W.C. Chaney
These words come from one of my “dads” William Chaney. He wanted me to know why, when it comes to their interactions with women, some men do what they do. Running game, aka propositions, full of empty promises is less work than being authentic about who they really are and what they’re about.
Twelve years ago, he and his wife Michelle embraced me as one of their “honorary daughters.” In my early twenties, I joined their church plant and often babysat their little girl Courtney during her first years of life. That beautiful one is now a teenager.
Last fall he and I spoke during his visit to Orlando for a conference. Conversations with him are always like a great bottle of Coca Cola – refreshing and fun. As things usually do, the conversation moved to my dating life, and if there were any men he needed to know about.
Him: “If you meet a young man, I have zero requirements, but I will come down here.”
Me: “What if he’s in another state?”
Him: “Do you know how much I travel?”
Me: Blank stare. Promptly followed by an eruption of laughter from my belly.
Him: “When you meet a young man, and it’s serious, I will fly down to meet him. After talking with him, I then will take his picture for the FBI facial analysis.”
Me: “You’re not joking about that FBI thing, huh?”
Him: “I’m serious.”
Me (internally): “God bless the man who desires to date me. He’s going to need all those blessings.”
In this month of Irish luck and four leaf clovers, I’m embracing my blessings. I’m grateful for the “dads” the Lord has brought my way because, 11 years after my father James’ death his absence, which I wrote about here, continues to invade my world.
Parents are very special. They know us intrinsically. We see ourselves in their eyes, and when we’re lost, their love helps us find our way back.
There’s many conversations I wanted to have with my dad. Things I wanted him to know. Questions I wanted to ask, like why did he choose my name and who does he think the best funk band of all time is? What a conversation THAT would have been.
My dad loved music. As do I. One Saturday right before my tween years, we spent an afternoon together. The Whispers’ “Rock Steady” rolled through the Atlanta air while he cooked hamburgers from scratch. They were greasy and the mayo was heavy, but them burgers were better than good, and that sweet memory stays with me.
This side of heaven, conversations with my dad have come to a close. But I’m thankful for those that await with my other “dads” and the Lord. God is a father to the fatherless. Women need their fathers, whether we’re 26 or 56. And I’d surmise fathers need their daughters too.