I was born to Paul and Darlene Macek. I was their sixth child as well as their fourth born daughter. As I grew up in the family, I began noticing and relishing that there were certain privileges that accompanied the status as being my father’s daughter.
The first job I remember Dad as having added some delicious contributions to my personal life. He was a restaurant manager. Sometimes, a few of us accompanied him to work for a few hours. I’d stand beside him as he unlocked the door to the establishment, amazed that he had the key to unlock a business before it opened its doors to the general public. Then we’d follow him into the clean, empty eatery filled with the aromas of baked goods. The staff always respectfully greeted him, “Good morning Mr. Macek,” as he strode into the building. Their high regard for him made me feel proud to be one of his offspring.
Then Dad would point out a booth for us to sit in while he’d disappear into his office for a little while. Within a short time, food would magically appear, served to us by one of the cooks. My favorite treat were the cinnamon rolls. They were as big as the plate they sat on, warm, moist, and sweet with butter dripping down the sides. I knew there had to be something special about me to be sitting in a restaurant as one of the only customers, eating a freshly baked cinnamon roll served by one of the waiters.
The next job that Dad had was as a nursing home administrator. The nursing home did not smell as nicely as the restaurant he’d once managed, and neither was the food as tasty. But when Dad took us to work with him, he’d introduce us to the residences. The people marveled at our manners, admired our polite handshakes and commented on our respectfulness. As Paul’s daughter I saw the value of emulating my dad’s character traits; people were delighted by my simple presence.
But cinnamon rolls and admiration of character traits were not the only advantages of being my father’s daughter. There were other rewards as well, ones that I seemed to take for granted. We always had a home to live in, clean clothes to wear, food on the table, and toys to play with. We went to school, joined clubs and went to church. In essence, there was a certain amount of stability, love and care that came with being identified as my father’s daughter.
Though my father’s life ended tragically, my life did not become a tragedy. Instead, being the daughter of a father who loved me prepared me to become a daughter of another Father who loves me perfectly with blessings that abound.
Why bother accepting your identity? No matter who we are, there is a Father who invites us to be their child.