To the Man Who Will Someday Hold My Daughter’s Heart

I hope you get to see her. I mean, really see her.

I hope you get to see my daughter, whom I’ve seen all her life, from the first sight on a fuzzy ultrasound screen to a more recent sighting, when I glimpsed her across a room and wondered for a second who that beautiful young woman was before my heart caught with the realization it was my very own child.

I hope you get to see her. Really see her.

I hope the man who loves my daughter will understand all that she is. (Twenty20 @aepost)

I hope you get to see all of the pieces of my daughter

I hope you get to see the pieces of herself she tucks away from most people because she’s not sure she can trust those people with those pieces. It’s not that everyone is untrustworthy or that she is stingy with herself; it’s just that she doesn’t give these parts of her mind and heart away to just anybody. (Of course, we trust that you are NOT “just anybody.”)

I hope you get to see the pieces of her we’ve seen at home. The silly pieces. The goofy pieces. The pieces she lets loose when she dances around the living room. The messy pieces. The unguarded, unfiltered pieces. The pieces she doesn’t check but just lets spill out in a heap.

I hope you get to see the uncertain pieces. The pieces that are unfinished, still under construction. The pieces she’s not sure about but that she thinks might amount to something, given the proper effort and encouragement. The pieces that show the promise of what might be.

I hope you get to see the pieces that reflect her passions and reveal a part of her that doesn’t come out any other way. The pieces that light her up and transform her—not into someone different but into a more fully revealed version of who she always is. The pieces that show what she loves and how that love transforms her.

I hope you get to see the pieces that are scarred and cracked and worn. The pieces that have been through the fire. The pieces with jagged edges that are starting to smooth and wounds that have some healing on them. The pieces that tell stories of battles fought—and won.

I’ve had the privilege of seeing all these pieces of the woman whose heart you now hold. I’ve seen them around the dinner table and on stages and under the lights and in my bedroom and in the car and in her texts and at family pizza night and around the Christmas tree. I hope you get to see these pieces, too, because if you do, you will be on your way to seeing all of her. And believe me, it will be a beautiful sight.

I hope my daughter gets to see all of your pieces as well

But here’s the other thing: I hope my daughter gets to see all these pieces of you, too. I hope what she shows you of herself will reassure you that these parts and places of yourself are safe with her.

I hope you’ll have good reason to trust her enough with your heart that you’ll let her see your weak pieces that are the perfect counterpart to her strengths and your strengths that are the exact right match for her weaknesses.

I hope she gets to see the pieces of your past that feed into the present so that,
together, you can meet the future with awareness and honesty.

I hope she gets to see what you’ve loved and hated, hit and missed, lost and gained. And I hope we get to see some of all this, too, as your family-in-love (we are already looking forward to loving you). I know it might take some time, but I hope it won’t be too long before you show up in our house (with or without our daughter) and show us some of these pieces of you.

I hope we see them when you’re sprawled on our couch or leaning up against the kitchen counter or sitting at our dinner table. I hope we see them at family holidays and on ordinary afternoons. I hope we see them during long conversations that go far beyond that first, nervous, “Nice to meet you.”

I hope we earn the privilege of seeing all this in you (as we trust you will earn the same of seeing it in our daughter).

If we do, that will be a beautiful sight, too.

More to Read:

To the Woman Who Will Keep My Son’s Heart Someday

About Elizabeth Spencer

Elizabeth Spencer is mom to two daughters (one teen and one young adult) who regularly dispense love, affection, and brutally honest fashion advice. She’s been married for 25 years to an exceedingly patient guy she picked up in church. She writes about faith, food, and family (with some occasional funny thrown in) at Guilty Chocoholic Mama and avoids working on her 100-year-old farmhouse by spending time on Facebookand Twitter

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