I watched The Majestic this weekend with my daughters. One of my all time favorite movies. If you haven’t watched it yet, you should. I cried six times. The first time I cried was when a man who thought he’d lost his son in World War II reunites with him. He tries to make him coffee, and continues a one-sided conversation from the other room. When he enters the living room, his son is asleep.
He lifts his son’s feet onto the couch, takes off his shoes, and places a blanket over him, pausing briefly to watch him sleep. I cried.
There’s something so tender about that moment, so perfectly portrayed. A father in longing for his son. His tender, sweet care. The kindness welling up in his eyes. It makes me miss having a father. More than I can articulate. More than I can put words to. More than I can possibly convey on a screen.
A girl never outgrows the need for a daddy. Never.
As I go to sleep tonight, I’ll be picturing God the Father looking down on me. He sees my feet dangle off the bed, so he lifts them up. Takes off my shoes. Places fuzzy socks on my feet because He knows how cold my feet get. Then smooths the covers over me, watching me as my breath moves in and out.
Oh how He loves me.
Oh how He loves you.
The Father loves His children.