My daughter has begun to assert herself. Though she cannot yet speak in full sentences, she expresses her feelings—and even a bit of stubbornness—through short words like “no,” “yes,” “water,” and “like.” She loves opening drawers and rummaging through them, climbing onto chairs, and putting things in her mouth. Whenever that happens, I rush over, move her to a safe spot, and take the object from her hands. Then come the sharp, tearful cries. I try to explain that I only wanted to keep her safe and give her something better, but she does not yet understand. Even after I quickly place a safer toy in her hands, it takes some time for her sobs to fade.
As this happened day after day, I somehow became “the one who takes things away” in my child’s eyes. Whenever she reaches for something she shouldn’t touch and sees me coming, she quickly grabs it up and runs off, crying, “No! No!” I chase after her, worried she might get hurt by something sharp or dangerous. Even when she’s cornered, she clings to it with all her strength, refusing to let go, while I anxiously try to coax it from her hands.
At first, I try to reason with her.
“Can you give that to Daddy? That could give you a boo-boo,” I say gently.
But reasoning gets me nowhere. I doubt it has anything to do with my Korean skills—I’ve been speaking the language for decades, after all. It’s simply that she doesn’t yet understand what I am saying.
Then comes the negotiation phase.
I say, “If you hand that to Daddy, I’ll give you a munchie. Don’t you want some?”
Occasionally, this approach works wonders. But more often, she stands her ground, clutching whatever she’s holding as if it were the most precious thing in the world—no, in the entire universe. I cannot understand why she treasures what is so clearly junk. Even when I tell her, “That’s dirty,” she insists on putting it in her mouth. Not even the promise of her favorite snack can change her mind.
Finally comes the enforcement phase. I gently pry the object from her hands, doing my best to make sure she doesn’t get hurt in the process. My wife watched anxiously while I break into a nervous sweat as we struggle. Despite all my care, she bursts into tears, her eyes turning red with frustration. It’s hard not to feel a little disheartened that she can’t yet understand my intentions—but what can I do? All I can do is wait for the day she learns to talk.
“Daddy’s not a person who takes things away,” I tell her softly.
After repeating those same words so many times, one day I found myself murmuring them quietly to myself.
“That’s right,” I whispered. “A father isn’t someone who takes things away.”
Throughout my thirty years of faith, I often felt as though I had been missing out on many things in life. As a teenager, every Sabbath felt like a loss of freedom—I had to keep worship instead of doing whatever I wanted. In my twenties, while others stayed out late enjoying nightlife and entertainment, I felt deprived of the privileges of youth because I could not join them. By the time I reached my thirties, people around me were trying every possible way to get ahead—sometimes bending the rules—and I was told to live honestly and uprightly. I began to think I had missed out of the kind of “wisdom” and “luck” needed to make it in the world.
Each time I grumbled to Heavenly Father for not giving me what I wanted, I imagine Him saying:
“Daddy is not someone who takes away.”
But not knowing the language of heaven, I could not understand.
Now I think I understand a little better—how much my child’s misunderstanding can sting, how heavy her resentment feels. Still, a father must do whatever is necessary to remove the dangerous things from her hands.
Our Father does not take away—He gives. He keeps my soul from what would harm it and grants the true freedom and blessings of the kingdom of heaven. He fills my life with the wisdom to know God and pours out eternal blessings, always giving more than I could ever need. Even when life unfolds differently than I hope, I quietly remind myself and strive to understand His heart: