. . . and make Debbie a good girl . . .

From the earliest of my remembrances, prayer has been the corner stone of my Daddy's life.  So often the last resort of action when faced with a decision or crisis, and rarely thought of during times of blessings by many, was just the opposite for my Daddy.  Practicing what he preached, Daddy prayed in all occasions, unashamedly, and with the bold freedom to talk with God, as Lord and Friend.  Before I had reached the age of 3 Daddy spent time with me in prayer, teaching me to pray.  I always liked to hold his hand when he prayed, as it made me feel that much closer to the God that I was just learning about.  I knew that this communication was of the very most importance, because Daddy didn't just pray for me, he prayed with me, and lead me in praying.  Sometimes I would peek up at him as he knelt with me to see if his eyes were open.  When I saw how tightly shut his were I would quickly squeeze my eyes back shut in hopes of being just like him. 

Daddy would pray for everything from people to be healed, to God showing us the path to walk, to thanking him for the fish he and I would catch.  I liked the thank yous best because in my mind I could see Jesus smiling at Peter and laughing at Peter's joy of catching a fish, and I could feel the same smiling and laughter for us. 

With all of the praying that Daddy did with me, there was only one prayer that was ever just the same.  It was the bedtime prayer that he taught me to say.  Repeating each sentence after his prompting, I would say with all my sincerest heart . . .

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord, my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord, my soul to take
God Bless Mommy and Daddy
and Davy, and Kassy, and Tevey
. . . and MAKE DEBBIE A GOOD GIRL!

I knew that every time I asked God to bless each of my family members that He would.  Not a single doubt in my mind.  I also knew that by asking God to "Make Debbie a good girl", that I would need His help to be what He wanted me to be, and I could hear in my Daddy's voice that he believed that God would.

Several years later, a few weeks before my 12th Christmas, Daddy took me shopping for a new coat.  This was a very special occasion as I had always worn hand-me-down coats or coats given to us by caring church people.  I was always very grateful, for the coats that I had been given, but the joy of going with Daddy to pick out one just for me, was almost more than I could contain. 

Daddy was a wonderful shopper.  He always seemed to pick out just the right item for each person, and somehow we always had just enough for what we needed.  Riding in the car on the way home from shopping no matter what it was for, we would give thanks for God's blessings that we received.

I remember walking through the stores looking at all different kinds of coats, trying them on, looking in the mirrors, working the shiny buttons through the fresh button holes, admiring the colors and feel.  Daddy would check the length of the sleeves, and the seams as I would wave my arms up and down in a flying motion.  Then, it happened . . . I saw the coat that I wanted more than anything.  It was bright red velvet that came down to just above my knees, with white simulated fur around each cuff, and from around the neck, down the front and around the bottom completing the look with a zipper up the front.  It was seamless, bright, and became the instant desire of my heart.  Daddy looked and checked it, and then, to my amazement, he hung it back on the rack.  We were leaving without the coat.  Daddy said that we needed to think about it, and since it was still a few weeks from winter, we had time.  I was devastated.  But, by the time we were home, after recalling in great detail it's loveliness, and giving my promises to always take good care of it, the subject was closed. 

Christmas was fast approaching, and we never did go back for my coat.  The winter was mild, and with the tree decorated, and holiday festivities swirling about, thoughts of my coat, were often replaced with other things.  We had many traditions in our family, but one that was taught me by my older siblings were how to hunt the house for hidden presents.  When we would find them, we would look for names, and shake and squeeze them trying to guess what they were.  Mom and Daddy knew of this and they would often switch name tags, or wrap up empty boxes to throw us off track.  Almost all of our gifts were wrapped in old "church bulletin boxes" which were all the same size making guessing that much more of a challenge. 

I was by myself in the house, when I decided to hunt that Christmas.  I looked all over the house finding those trade mark bulletin boxes, until I decided to look under my parent's bed.  There I got the surprise of my life.  There was a coat box, wrapped from the store, with my name . . . after I remembered to breathe, I touched it, then I squeezed it, and then in an instant, I was unwrapping it, not part of the tradition, just enough to see and feel that red velvet and white fur.  Daddy was surprising me for Christmas!!!!!!!  I was elated, then I realized what I had done.  I felt a little guilty, but was so excited I had determined I would never let on that I knew of my special present, and I would fool Daddy by acting so surprised. 

Christmas morning came, and I did what I set out to do.  I was so very happy.  I wore the coat around all day inside.  I wore it to bed.  I hugged and hugged Daddy.  I brushed the fur with my hair brush and kept the coat clean and fresh each day. 

On my first day back to school, I wore it proudly as I stood at the bus stop.  Once on the bus, my precious coat became ridiculed by a few boys, calling it a Santa suit, and then one boy, who was smoking, put his cigarette out on my coat sleeve, and burned a black hole in the fresh red material.  As I poured my heart out to my Daddy, he was clearly disappointed, but there was nothing he could do.  That night as I laid in bed crying, God spoke to my heart, and I knew that I had strayed from where I needed to be.  My acting surprised on Christmas, was lying to my Daddy, and that cigarette burn was the clear reminder to me that I had to suffer the consequences of my choices in life.  That night as I prayed for God to forgive me, I repeated the prayer that Daddy had taught me . . . and the closing sentence spoke more loudly than ever before to my heart, . . . 

At the writing of this story, I am 43 years old.  I have made many mistakes and have sinned and needed forgiveness more times than I care to count.  As I pray, I am often reminded of my red coat, that cigarette burn, and my need for God's daily help.  I know that my Daddy still prays for me daily, and when we are together, or are talking on the phone, he prays with me.  I am so very thankful for him, and his dedication to God, his love for me, and for teaching me to pray.  I know that God will bless each of those that I ask him to, and I know that He still hears my sincerest request that I pray each day . . . "and MAKE DEBBIE A GOOD GIRL".

I love you Daddy!