THE FATHER'S DAUGHTER

There was the usual chatting among the crowd before a performance begins, the hushed conversations and loud whispers, as it whiles away the few minutes before the minute-hand reaches the “12” of the clock in the hall.

But the whisperings died down quickly, as if some unspoken signal had called for silence. One by one, the crowd’s eyes turned to the stage respectfully. All conversations ceased in anticipation.

On cue the hall lights dimmed, then turned off, while the stage lights brightened. The father stepped forward from the side of the stage, just in front of the red curtains. He took unhurried, measured steps to the centre of the stage, his footsteps sounding through the silent hall.

The crowd could see the familiar lines on the father’s face, the lines of care on the forehead formed by many sleepless nights yearning for his children to return home; smile-lines at the sides of his mouth that lavished countless favour upon his children; and lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes which often beamed at his children.

When the father stopped at the centre of the stage, he spoke. In a voice raspy from counseling his children and from crying with them and for them late at night, he spoke.

Two simple words that spoke more than the words themselves. The father extended his hand, then said, “My Daughter.” The red curtains parted, the father walked to where a figure stood in the centre, the spotlight that had been trained on the father followed him. Then, as the father joined hands with his daughter, another spotlight illuminated on her.

Together, father and daughter walked hand in hand to the front of the stage, where they paused. Then the father exited.

The crowd broke out in murmurings when they saw the daughter. They couldn’t help it. There she is! His Daughter! The Father’s Daughter! At long last, we get a glimpse of her! Isn’t she simply…..stunning?

Gradually the soft whispers faded, as the crowd studied the father’s daughter.


She wears a white gown with a full-bodied skirt, with a train that marked the steps she’d taken on the stage. The whiteness of the gown reflects the lights and is very bright. The skirt is decorated with sequins and precious stones that catch the light and winks at the crowd.

But the brightness and whiteness of the daughter’s gown is surpassed by even the gems – something inside her radiates onto the audience, giving a warmth to their hearts. The upward turn of her lips tell them that her beauty within outshines her gemmed-skirt.

Her smile speaks of a heart that is rich – a heart filled with joy unspeakable, with peace that spreads to every member of her body, and with a love that fills her heart to the brim, and then flows outwards before her, behind her, beside her and around her. The heart that causes the daughter to smile, that makes her stand on the stage in front of the crowd. It is the love that is also known to the crowd, because it is the father’s love.

The crowd gasps – yes, surely it’s his love, for isn’t that the glow on the cheeks and the tall posture? And the straight gaze of the eyes that come with the knowledge that she has her father’s delight. And yes, there it is – the sign of the father’s favour. On her left hand is a diamond ring. And there, on her head, the crown.

The crown. Without having seen it being done, the crowd knew that it had been placed there by the father. It shimmered and sparkled and threatened to blind the crowd.

Indeed the crowd recognized the daughter’s countenance, ring and crown. But wasn’t there also something else that was all too familiar about the daughter? Those almond-eyes, that nose….. Could it be? Is it? But …..no … oh yes. YES.

This was the girl they’d passed by many times, the girl along the main street. The girl who was in hand-me-down rags, who was often coated in yesterday’s grime. The girl who hung on tightly to her tattered bag of belongings, as if somebody would come along and steal it. The girl who had sometimes asked them for bread and sometimes for water. The girl along the main street.

Who would have thought? What a transformation!

The silence of the hall was suddenly broken as, from the midst of the crowd, someone started clapping. Those around him joined him in applause, which then grew in strength as the crowd applauded in admiration. The walls of the hall echoed the applause, resounding and thundering.

Among the audience, the father, still clapping, stood up. The others followed in standing ovation. They clapped and clapped and clapped. They clapped till their arms were tired, they clapped till their palms were stinging. For how wonderful the father, that this – this girl – is the father’s daughter!

This image was given many months ago, and I started writing it but got stuck. I saw it in greater clarity last Thursday, when I came back to the Lord after weeks of side-lining him. For the nth time. I was so tired of this cycle, I’m sure He is too. But he never fails to say to me, you are my daughter. My daughter.

When I started writing, this was my message. But by the last quarter of the prose, I realized it’s not about me alone. It’s about the wonderful mercy of God, the width and length and height and depth of our Father’s love. But more than that, it’s about the other daughters that He has out there, who have yet to be transformed into His princesses. It’s about the heart of the Father that still yearns for the one lost sheep.