For years, my classmates took great pleasure in reminding me that I was “just the pastor’s daughter,” treating my background as though it were the punchline to a joke. I spent a long time simply ignoring their taunts, but when they attempted to mock me one final time on graduation day, I abandoned my prepared speech and finally delivered the words I should have spoken years earlier.
As a baby, I had been abandoned on the front steps of the church, swaddled in a yellow blanket that had one loose corner blowing in the wind. My dad, Josh, always shared this chapter of my life with profound gentleness, ensuring it never felt like a wound.
“You were placed where love would find you first,” he’d say, and through his actions, he made that statement feel entirely true every single day that followed.
Dad served as the pastor of that small church back then, just as he does today. Long before any official paperwork was finalized, he had already become my father in every way that truly mattered. He was the one who diligently packed my lunches and signed my report cards. He even took the time to learn how to part my hair perfectly down the middle, and he proudly sat in uncomfortable folding chairs during every choir concert, watching me as though I were the main attraction at a major event.
By the time I reached eighth grade, my peers had already invented a collection of nicknames for me: “Miss Perfect,” “Goody Claire,” and “The church girl”.
They would routinely question whether I ever actually had any fun, or if my only form of entertainment was simply going home. In response, I would just smile, offer a shrug, and keep walking—exactly as my dad had taught me to do.
“People talk from what they’ve known,” he always said. “You answer from what you’ve been given”.
While that advice sounded beautiful within the safety of our home, it proved much more difficult to practice in the middle of a crowded school hallway. There were afternoons when I would come home carrying the weight of their comments like little pebbles hidden in my pockets—small, yet heavy enough to be a constant nuisance. Dad would often be in the kitchen, perhaps chopping onions for a pot of soup or ironing his collar in preparation for the Wednesday service, and he only needed to take a single look at my face to know exactly what had happened.
“Rough day, sweetheart?” he’d ask.
After I gave a silent nod, Dad would pull out a chair for me and instruct, “Tell me the whole thing, Claire”. He never rushed me through my pain. Resting his elbows on the table with his hands gently folded, he would listen intently before offering his wisdom: “Don’t let people turn your heart hard just because theirs is still learning”.
For illustrative purposes only
During one of those nights at the kitchen table, I looked across at him and asked, “What if one day I get tired of being the bigger person, Dad?”.
Leaning back in his chair and watching me with careful attention, he replied, “Then that just means your heart’s been working hard, baby girl. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of”.
I swallowed hard, shaking my head slightly as I confessed, “But what if I don’t always want to be that strong?”.
Dad simply smiled, but the weight of his answer stayed with me, following me all the way to that graduation stage years later.
With graduation just three weeks away, the school principal asked me to deliver the student speech.
I accepted the offer before my nerves had a chance to set in, only to spend my entire walk home questioning why on earth I had agreed to do it.
Dad greeted me at the front door before I even had a chance to set down my bag. “Good news or panic?” he asked.
“Both,” I replied. “I have to give the graduation speech”.
Dad’s face broke into a grin so incredibly wide that the smile lines around his eyes deepened significantly. “Claire, that’s wonderful,” he beamed.
“It is not wonderful, Dad,” I countered. “It is terrifying”.
Opening his arms to embrace me, he reasoned, “Same thing sometimes”.
