Open Letter to My Dad

I went for a walk with my dad the other day.
He pushed my youngest and I pushed the two older ones and we talked as we went.
The conversation was funny and awkward, but mostly lighthearted.

My dad is a hippie.
You speak Pink Floyd or trapping, and he is highly interested.
You talk life and it is a 50/50.

So we talked about purity- of all things.
And then he said it.
Directed at both my sister and I.
We are prudes.

Dad,
you called me a prude.

And it is not so much the word, for I agree with the attribute in many ways. But it is the disdain. The embarrassment or bore with which you said it. The way you label. And hurt.

It was as if you laughed at my thoughts on purity, conviction, modesty, and even true love.

As if you see us with nun's veils. Nun's habits.
As if we are inferior.
As if we are bad.

And my heart aches some because I feel that she and I are that much cooler because we value modesty and believe God calls us beautiful without showing off our chests and thighs.

And that is what matters.

And you are my earthly father and I feel for you because I realize that you don't mean to destroy us with your words. With your believes.
But you can easily do so.

You have such power; that which both builds up and tears down.

As your daughters, grown now, but not always, I prefer that you be proud of who we are.
What we believe to glorify God and our husbands.
That which brings us honor.
As women.
As mothers.
As daughters. Your daughters.

Dear dad, I love you and am thankful for you.
Thankful that you are a truth-speaker.
Thankful that you are an original- playing to your own rules.

I know you love us, and never mean to hurt us.
And I forgive you. Even in your ignorance.

more thoughts on modesty, here.