A retired electrician eagerly volunteers for the humble mission of adding more outlets in my pottery studio- all for a cup of jo and leftover cake.  He is the first man in my life.  The one who strummed a guitar while my sisters and I twirled in nightgowns singing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”  He is the one who dished up glorious ice cream sundaes on ordinary nights and tucked us in with concocted, silly bedtime stories. 

  Alongside him, I study my Dad’s thick, bristly eyebrows & beads of sweat that dot his wrinkled forehead.  He squints at the array of wires that stare back from the cavern in the wall, whispering questions at the tangled mess.  His cracked, calloused hands fish around the cardboard toolbox as he announces the strategy.  Meticulously separating the colored strands, he outlines the procedure, mindful to incorporate me in the project. I hand him tools, fetch the tape measure, hold a rope of conduit, marvel at this old electrician in his element.  In this sacred moment, time stands still.

  Suddenly I am ten years old again:  A little girl at her father’s side.  We are creating a tree fort, constructing a lemonade stand, converting a run-over wagon into a go-cart.  I am his proud assistant, watching, calculating, absorbing, dreaming.  I am the luckiest girl in the world.  He would mark the first man in my life, paving the way for the one he would give me away to.  

   Chattering to himself on how they don’t make ‘em like they used to, Dad stops to scratch his head.  My mind drifts back.  I imagine Matt- carrying Dad’s torch of humility, patience, gentleness and love. I consider the creating, constructing and converting we’ve undertaken over the past 22 years of marriage & children. I haven’t always recognized his sweetness in my life; his support, his humor, his friendship.  I pause and whisper a prayer of thanks...  I am the luckiest girl in the world.