Saturday, January 03, 2004

Today’s Word: Endue


My little girl tripped and fell, climbing the steep, grassy hill just before the finish line. She had been in third place, but several children passed her up as she lay sprawled, her grass-stained palms digging into the soft earth, struggling to rise on tired legs, wobbling a bit as she gained her feet. How I wanted to run to her, to lift her up by the armpits the way I had when she was a toddler. But I couldn't -- she would refuse me; she would push me away, wrinkling her nose at the very idea of help from her father, from anyone. I had endued her with this self-reliance, this determination to prove her worth in a world that would churn her under at the first sign of weakness. Never had I experienced such a mix of pride and pain.

She was daddy's girl no longer.

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