Our daughter Rebecca is coming home for Christmas. As I was thinking about this the other night, I was reminded of one of my most beautiful memories about Rebecca. Not when she was a snappy, surprising little girl, but seven or so years ago, when she would have been around twenty.
Rebecca had an appointment downtown for something, so she came to my office to go home with me and the friend who always gave me a ride.
Something happened at work that day that badly upset me. I don’t remember what now, but I know I was in tears at the end of the day. As Rebecca and I walked across the parking lot I told her, “I’m not going to be able to stop crying.”
As soon as we got in the car, I turned my face to the window, and Rebecca became a chatterbox. Not her normal style. For half an hour or so, she talked non-stop (I have no idea about what) and saved me from having to talk and embarrass myself any more than I already was.
When we got home and climbed onto the porch, Rebecca stopped to check the mailbox, and I hugged her to thank her. I sat on the porch swing, still shaken, and Rebecca planted herself in my lap, also not her normal style at that age. But she showed me she cared about me and that she was standing by me.