It should be illegal to be awake this early during summer. It’s 3:41am and I am sitting at my kitchen table drinking my English breakfast tea. It was a tough night. I woke up sweaty and dazed at 2 because I had low blood sugar. Instead of tossing and turning with my thoughts I had the inclination I should just put my heart on paper.

This week I tried something somewhat different and incredibly uncomfortable: I stood in front of my closest mirror, staring at myself and that’s all I did—stand there.

I started to notice the dark color of my hair, recalling the first time I had it dyed. I noticed the size of my arms, the shortness of my legs, and the curve of my waist. Leaning in closer I noticed the freckles on my face, the acne scars, and the laugh and frown lines both on my forehead and my cheeks. I noticed my green eyes, recalling what I look like when they have tears in them. I noticed the shape of my nose. I noticed the curve of my lips.

As I stood there looking at myself, taking every detail in, the words we all commonly hear flashed in my head. You know, the words strangers say: “You look just like your father.”

When I was a little girl I heard this all the time from people who were acquainted with my dad. To tell you the truth, I hated it. I hated hearing those words. As soon as someone would say it, I cringed. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to look like a man—but the feeling in the pit of my stomach and depths of my heart tell me that’s not the reason at all. I didn’t want to look like my own father because I had a tainted version of who he was as a person.

It’s tough to write these words but I know I have to—I’ve struggled with this my whole life. I haven’t grown up with the ideal “picture” of a father and I think my feelings towards dads in general have been shattered because of my experiences with my own father.

I haven’t ever had the perfect picture of what a father should be like but I think I have some clue to what he holds. This week I pondered the idea of “what makes a man?” and I’ve come to some realization that it isn’t being six foot two with a resounding bass voice. It isn’t avoiding confrontation or listening. It isn’t about is depth of knowledge or if he has a chiseled six pack.

So what makes a man? Men listen. They dive into confrontation with a good attitude allowing their opinions to be heard but not fighting back when someone doesn’t agree with them. Men don’t walk away from a marriage, they fix it. They pursue hearts—whether those of a daughter or wife—instead of playing with them. They provide, not so much money but love and laughter and a shoulder so that a daughter can cry upon it. A man loves, wholeheartedly; he loves his Creator and his family.

I don’t think my dad will ever read this, but in case he does I just want to say this:

Dad, I’m sorry for the expectations society—and myself—put on you. But more importantly dad, I’m sorry you missed out on getting to know me. I am an amazing little human: I am wise and compassionate. I wish you could take some credit for raising me, but unfortunately I can’t give you that. I say this lovingly and lightly: dad, you are not a man, you are a boy that has yet to learn what it takes to be a good man—a good father. But dad I just want you to know, when someone now tells me those words I used to despise, I find myself praying because I know that prayer looks a lot like standing in front of your likeness—a mirror of sorts. It means being still and recognizing whose true image you bear. Dad, the truth is I can’t blame myself anymore. I can’t hold what you have done against me. I can’t fix you, there is only one thing that can fix you and I hope you find it.

I’ve tossed and turned and grappled with this subject for a while now. Ever since I can remember I’ve had to be the adult between my father and I. I’ve prayed about it and found that as I lean in, closer and closer now and talk to Him—my heart is told that I am someone’s daughter. I am “something to behold, elegant and bold.”

Letting go of resentment, I leaned in closer this week. It took a lot of courage—I find it a lot easier to stand back and find comfort in the distance.

But as that distance lessened, I found my reflection holds His glory. All those little fingerprints on me, the hair, the nose, the eyes, the scars—inside and out—belong to Him.

Most importantly this week, I noticed and accepted the fact that I look just like my Father.

Happy Father’s Day to all the men who have been there for me when my father couldn’t, Uptown Maven