When I was in the fifth grade around Christmas time, my teacher Mrs. Garrison asked the class if anyone played an instrument. I quickly raised my hand and proudly professed to have a talent that was as far away from me as humility. She asked me, “What instrument do you play, Kim?” “Harmonica!” I exclaimed. “That is wonderful. How about you play Silent Night! Holy Night! on your harmonica tomorrow as our class walks around the school singing Christmas Carols?” I was too young to panic or to recognize that moment as the final opportunity to be honest. Therefore, I nodded my head with naive excitement.
I remember going home and realizing that not only did I not have an ounce of musical talent, I didn’t even have a harmonica. Later that evening, my daddy came home. Home from a long day at the office. Home from a day of listening to people’s problems. Home from a day where so many people looked to him as the final hope for their crisis. Home from a day of being responsible for employees. Home after a long day, only to walk directly into his little girl’s self-imposed situation.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” I screamed with excitement as I always did (and still do) when I saw his face. And that night, just as he does now, he hugged me with the love that I wish all little girls got to experience from their fathers. I looked up into his eyes that evening and didn’t see even a morsel of his daily hardship; instead, I saw the compassion and security from the best daddy ever. “Daddy, I got myself into a little situation.” After I explained to him what occurred in Mrs. Garrison’s class earlier that day, he said, “Come on, get in the car baby.” On that night after a hard day at work, my dad took me to a music store to get my very first harmonica and the sheet music to Silent Night! Holy Night!
The next day I walked around the elementary school butchering the song, but I did it with moxie and the confidence that can only be found in a little girl who knows the love of her father. As I walked with my 10 year old classmates singing Christmas carols and horribly playing my harmonica, I knew my dad was with me.
My father, James Ray Honeycutt, is more than a father—he is my daddy. He was my first introduction to my Heavenly Father. He is why when years and years later someone told me that God sent His Son for me, I could believe that a father would and could do more for me than I could possibly imagine.
I am so grateful for a daddy who said, “Come on, get in the car baby.” He rescued me from my fifth grade enthusiastic hand raising. I still quickly raise my hand, but today it is to profess my love for God as I worship Him. I am even more appreciative of my Heavenly Father who sent His Son to sacrifice and rescue me for eternity. God sent His Son to be delivered into this world so we could be delivered from it. Christ the Savior is born! Merry Christmas!