He was a middle child in  a family of twelve children, and his father was crippled. One of his legs was permanently bent at the knee, so he had to work extra hard to feed the family.

They lived on a farm in rural Georgia. Times were tough.  Then their house burned, and they lived in the kitchen coop for months while they rebuilt.

Their focus was on survival. There wasn’t time or inclination for much tenderness and affection. They showed they cared for each other by working together to provide basic needs.

Consequently, my father didn’t experience much show-of-affection as a child, and when he had a family, it was not natural to him to be tender and cuddly toward his children. He expressed love by working to provide, protect, and meet the needs of his family.

When his first born was just a year old, Daddy went to serve as a tank commander under General Patton. He didn’t return home or meet his second born until Vernon was two years old. It was a shock to the children to have a strange man around and an adjustment for him to relate to young children.

After the war, my sister came along. I followed a year later. A younger sister and brother rounded out the family. When we were young, Daddy had a bum knee that needed exercise. He’d sling it over the arm of the chair, and we’d sit on his ankle and ride the “horsey” as he lifted his leg up and down to strengthen his knee.

He wrestled with us on the floor too, and rode us piggy back. Those years are filled with special memories. But once we started school, interaction with contact diminished and became almost non existent.

I had a couple of friends whose families were much more affectionate. At times I wished Daddy hugged us and gave us a kiss on the forehead like their dads, but I didn’t dwell on it. I knew I was loved even though it was rarely (if ever) expressed verbally or through touching.

I didn’t really miss Daddy’s hugs until I married a man whose family was more expressive. I learned to appreciate the contact. I began to wish for my father’s hug. When we’d visit, he’d embrace us when we arrived and when we left, but it was stiff and unnatural. I wanted more and decided to pursue it.

So, I taught Daddy to hug.

I’ve recently been asked to share more about how it happened. This post is in response to that request.

When I was with Daddy and we were standing around talking, I’d side up to him and put my arm around his waist. He, in response, put his arm around my shoulder.

At first, Daddy felt stiff, but in time he became more relaxed. The full hugs when we were arriving or departing also loosened up. They were no longer stiff, but warm. In time, he even initiated contact a few times.

Then Daddy had debilitating strokes that paralyzed his right side and scrambled his speech. He’s a fighter and a hard worker. With perseverance, he recovered enough to get around, but he remained mellow and more emotional.

And he suddenly loved to hug. He hugged close and long, connecting, seemingly drawing virtue and strength, sometimes tearing up. He  embraced like he didn’t ever want to let go, even when hugging Robert.

We also began saying, “I love you,” and he’d grin and his eyes would sparkle. He seemed to be making up for lost time.

Daddy had difficulty speaking clearly and we had difficulty understanding, but communication through touch was clear–and precious. To Him and to us.

Years after his first stroke, I learned that my sisters had taken the same gradual steps that I did. None of us ever discussed it or knew of the other’s goal of hugging Daddy until years later.

I believe God orchestrated our sessions in hugging. I think He knew that after Daddy’s strokes, when he couldn’t express love through providing, protecting, and serving his family, that he would need a way to show his love.

We needed it too. And we were glad that Daddy was prepared ahead of time.

Life may seem normal without hugs, but relationships sure are richer with them. If hugs aren’t natural in your close relationships, I encourage you to slowly and gently push the boundary.

You’ll be glad you did.

.