Finding the Beat of My Heart

I sat in the front row, between Jennie and Ashley, in our Sunday best dresses, quietly waiting and listening to Sister Johns' welcome message. Despite my best efforts to stay focused on her words, I kept looking over at my father, sitting with my mother, and holding a small brown paper bag. He had been so mysterious about that bag and it's contents. When I asked about it, he got that twinkle in his eye that suggested he had something up his sleeve and just said it was his assignment.

I had been looking forward with eager anticipation to this evening for years. When I got the invitation to go to New Beginnings butterflies of excitement flitted around inside me. This was a momentous occasion. No longer a child in the eyes of my church, I would be graduating from Primary and moving up into the Young Women program designed for girls between 12 and 18. My older sister, sitting a couple rows behind me with Jennie's older sister, had moved into Young Women's two years earlier. I hated being left behind and left out of all the exciting activities. Tonight, along with the other four girls turning 12 this year, I was invited to a special event designed to introduce us to the older girls and teach us about the Personal Progress Program we would be able to participate in.

Sister Johns finished her introduction and then invited each of our fathers, one by one, to get up and speak about their daughters. I was the second youngest of my year, so he went fourth. I listened to the other fathers talk about the girls I had known most my life, wondering what my dad could possibly say about me that would sound as great.

Dad got to his feet when it was time carrying the small brown paper lunch bag.

“I was asked to bring an object that reminded me of my daughter. I thought about it a lot, looked around the house for days, and finally decided on this,” he pulled from the paper bag one of my clogging shoes. He shook the shoe and the double taps rattled against each other, clicking like chimes in a wind storm. “This reminds me of her because, well, they both make a lot of noise.” Daddy knew how to deliver a line and as anticipated, the room filled with laughter. Jennie shoved me lightly with her elbow as her machine gun giggle joined the rest, acknowledging the accuracy of that statement. Though I laughed along, I felt my cheeks burn red with embarrassment.

Dad waited just a moment for the giggles to subside and then continued. “But, really, I chose this because when I look at this clogging shoe I remember when she started dancing four years ago. She had such a hard time hearing the beat of the music. She really, really wanted to dance, but her mom and I worried that she would never be able to learn to move to the music."

I felt a little nauseous, certain my face must be the color of strawberry jam. There I sat, hoping to make a good impression on all these older girls and my dad decides to tell them all that I'm noisy and I can't dance. To make matters worse, Tracee's dad had just finished listing all the dance and singing awards she had achieved.

Dad's eyes met mine as he continued, "But my daughter was determined. She practiced constantly. She danced in the living room every night. When we were in the car listening to music, she’d clap to the beat. In church, she and I would move our hands in rhythm with the chorister. She wanted to clog dance so much, she never gave up until she finally got it. Now, if there is music on, her foot naturally starts tapping to the beat." Dad smiled, his eyes full of something dangerously close to pride. "Today she's on a championship team."

"When my daughter decides she wants to do something, she will figure out a way to do it. Nothing will keep her from achieving her goal. She's just too stubborn and hard-headed to give up.” Again, Daddy's delivery produced the desired round of laughter and he paused to let the chortles subside before continuing in a very serious tone. “I have watched Amber do really hard things. She's not a little girl anymore and I know as she gets older there are going to be a lot of challenges she will face. I won't always be there to help her find the beat she is looking for," Dad shook the shoe again, "But I have faith that she is strong enough and determined enough that she will be able to overcome whatever hard things lay in her path.”

As he sat down, I felt my heart warm with something I did not expect when he had first started talking. I felt uncharacteristically confident.

Dad's words stuck with me. Every time I strapped my clogging shoes onto my feet, I envisioned him standing in front of the room, shaking the shoe so it would rattle. Whenever I found my foot tapping in rhythm to the beat of a song, I remembered all the times he tapped his foot next to mine, counting to the beat of the music I struggled to feel.

And when I was faced with challenges in life, the memory of the faith he had in me rang in my ears. “I can do hard things,” became a mantra I believed in because he first believed in me.

Later that year, as I watched him grow gaunt and his skin become gray, I told myself I could do hard things, even as he became too ill to help me find the beat. I determined to be stoic, despite my fear that he wouldn't survive. I went through the motions of life and only let myself succumb to the tears after God had restored his health through his brother's gift of a kidney.

I told myself I could do hard things when I got a flat tire when I was away at college. Remembering not only his faith in me, but also the lessons he taught, I raised the car with the jack, twisted off the lug nuts, and swapped the flat for the spare. That night I called my dad to thank him for preparing me to face hard things.

I remembered I could do hard things as I struggled to let go of his hand that last time, knowing he would no longer be there to help me feel the rhythm. But I knew I could do it, because he knew I could do it first. So I let go of his hand. I spoke at his funeral. I got up day after day and continued to move forward. I can do hard things, my mantra, rang over and over as the emotions overwhelmed me. In my mind I could still see my father, rattling an old clogging shoe, smiling at his noisy little girl, with that twinkle in his eye. I believed he was right, I believed I could keep going.

There is one thing he was wrong about. He said he wouldn't always be there to help me find the beat. As it turns out, I cannot do hard things without him. I can only do hard things because he is still with me, every day, tapping his foot and clapping his hands to the beat of my heart.