Father-Daughter Games -- or Not?

My week began with a jolt:  a tumble down an embankment toward’s Leah’s baptism early Sunday morning left me with scrapes, one of which became infected.  Next came the news that Boniface’s overnight trip had been extended indefinitely due to a washed-out bridge preventing his return.  In his absence, we discovered that our washing machine’s belt was broken, then spent two days without running water at home due to a pump malfunction.  Boniface finally arrived home on Wednesday evening, just in time to organize the documents for renewing my annual residence permit which expired on Thursday.  Besides the time necessary to attend to all these matters, a journalism seminar, stove installation, and problem at Blaine’s school filled my remaining after-work hours to overflowing.  I hardly had a moment to think about our father-daughter games planned for Saturday morning!

It’s a good thing I had prepared in advance.  At the beginning of the year, I handed much responsibility for our father-daughter bonding activities to our new steering committee of five dads.  Earlier this month, I met with its president and our game expert to prepare for our April 26 recreation.  At that meeting, we recycled the detailed game guide we’d created last year, with a few tweaks based on that experience, and divided up the necessary tasks between the three of us.  My responsibilities were to buy bottled water, crackers, and napkins; cut up slips of paper; and reserve tables, chairs, and bamboo posts at the venue.  I accomplished them all in the midst of my hectic week and went to bed on Friday night with everything organized.

The problems began on Saturday morning when I realized that we’d neglected to arrange prizes for the games.  While I pondered how to buy chocolates before the 8:00 am event, the president texted me saying that he didn’t have money for his bus ticket across town.  Frowning upon this last-minute display of irresponsibility after he had committed to bringing supplies and overseeing on-site setup, I sought someone to pick up the materials from his home.  Our game expert didn’t answer his phone, and when I called the committee member who lived nearby, I learned that he was at a funeral and would miss the games altogether.

Faizal, an enthusiastic young man in our church, had helped with the games last year and planned to do so again this year, though he’d missed our planning meeting because of school.  He saved the day on Saturday by catching a motorcycle taxi to take him to buy chocolate prizes, pick up the supplies from the president, and arrive at the venue in time to complete all the setup that the president and game expert — who was inexplicably absent — had agreed to do.  Relieved that everything was in order, I explained all our games to Faizal, and we were ready to begin.

Just one question remained:  where were the guests?  The games were scheduled for 8:00 and it was already 8:20, but Boniface was the only father present.  I contacted the funeral-attending committee member about the RSVP’s he had received from sixteen dads intending to bring their girls.  He said that three were with him at their church member’s memorial service.  The president and one other man had sent word that they wouldn’t make it.  What of the other nine?

We live in Africa.  Sometimes you just have to wait.  But by 9:30, only two other fathers, with young daughters, had arrived.  A fourth with his teen girl came while we debated what to do.  The guests thought it wouldn’t be very fun to play with so few people, and considered it a pity to waste on four families all the supplies we’d prepared for sixteen.  So we rescheduled the games for Thursday, a holiday.  As we reluctantly dismantled our setup and said goodbye, the men were disappointed to have wasted their transportation money for an event that didn’t happen, and the daughters were sad to miss the promised amusements.

And my own feelings?  Thanks to God’s sanctifying work in my life — serving Him abroad is great for that! — my frustration over the time and money invested in an aborted event was minimal.  During the hour of waiting, instead of fretting, I relaxed in the breeze while chatting online with a friend.  I reviewed the blessings in my week: my infection was healed, Boniface had returned, my residence permit was renewed, the water pump was fixed, and we’d found a replacement belt for our washing machine.  I headed home grateful for Boniface’s leadership in handling the poor game turnout and hopeful regarding his plan to meet with the fathers’ committee to seek to improve participation for Thursday.

But what will actually happen on Thursday?  It depends on your prayers.  We have fifty fathers on our roster; perhaps more of them will consider it worthwhile to invest a few hours in playing with their daughters.  Perhaps today’s disappointment will be repeated.  Perhaps no one will come at all.