“This was the moment I’d been dreading for the past six months. Well, actually for the past 22 years.” – George from the movie Father of the Bride

I told my daughter that she looked beautiful and she shot me the most amazing smile. Then we started walking. Take it slow, I said, we’re not in a hurry.

I still remembered her very first steps. My folks babysat for me when I had to work second shift. One day on my way out the door, Mom called me back. “Come here, Jeff, you need to see this.” Sure enough, my toddler was wobbling her way down the hallway on her own two feet.

A few years later, I found myself holding her little hand as we walked toward the pre-school. She would learn all kinds of important stuff there– colors, sharing, and tying shoes. Somewhere around my house, I still have the big coffee can she practiced tying shoelaces on. The soft plastic lid has holes punched in it with the lace still threaded through it.

Of course, I held her hand during less fun times. There were countless skinned knees, fevers, and even stitches a time or two. There was that scary hospital stay when she had pneumonia, and, when she was older, a broken arm from that damned trampoline. Looking back, all of these experiences seem like pretty routine rights of passages. At those times, however, they scared the hell out of me.

But, she survived. We survived.

I’ll never forget the morning when, all by herself, she used my pliers to take the training wheels off her bicycle. That began our longtime tradition of father/daughter bike rides. During one particularly ambitious summer, my odometer recorded over 100 miles.

As we made it further up the aisle, people began turning around and taking pictures of us. I smiled big and held her arm a little tighter. I glanced at her and found myself getting a little misty. I tried to think about other things.

Earlier in the day, I checked to see how she was doing with all the wedding preparations. Someone was curling her hair. It reminded me of when I used to tie it in pigtails. She was about four or five years old. No matter how hard I tried, it seemed I never could get the part straight. It was a good thing someone else was doing her hair today.

In the afternoon, my wife and I sat in one of the church pews and watched the photographer take shots of the wedding party. Including the bride and groom, there were about a dozen members. The group of young twenty-somethings had been friends since way back– the nineties. Amid the laughing and clowning around, I felt a bit envious. To have such a group of friends! I hoped the strong friendships would help make the marriage strong too.

When my daughter and I reached the front of the church, we stopped. The groom was there waiting for us. I took my daughter’s right hand, the very one I held on her first day of pre-school, and placed it in his. I held on to both of them for a moment and told the groom to take good care of my daughter. He nodded and said that he would.

Then I let go.

There were still important things to come today, but my job was over.

I gave my daughter away.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered when this day would come. Sometimes I dreaded it, but today was a good day. I stood behind her for a few moments as the Deacon began the ceremony, but it was time for this father to go.

She was standing on her own two feet.