My daughter and I were looking at her new globe on her desk and having a conversation about a friend of ours, who had come from Argentina, and she asked, “If that person is from Argentina, then how do we get to see him regularly? Isn’t it too far from us?” I explained that he had moved here from Argentina, that he was born there, and I added, “Just like I was born in Armenia, but I moved here when I was 15 years old.” Then she asked, “You came here so you can be my papa?”
In that moment, her words struck me as profoundly simple and deeply meaningful. Her question reflected how a child naturally weaves life events into a narrative of connection and purpose. To her, my journey wasn’t just about moving from one place to another—it was an act of love that set the stage for her very existence. Her statement turned what I’ve often thought of as a difficult time in my life into something sacred, a purposeful thread in the tapestry of life that brought us together.
At 15, I wasn’t moving with clarity or purpose. I was navigating a world of uncertainty, propelled by circumstances beyond my control. And yet, looking back now, I can see that my steps weren’t random; they were part of a greater design. It wasn’t just my decision to leave Armenia—it was who I am in eternity, who I am beyond time, that seemed to seek out meaning, guiding me toward this life.
Her words reminded me of how music unfolds. Individual notes, taken in isolation, might seem disconnected or even chaotic. But when they come together, they create harmony, something greater and more beautiful than the sum of their parts. My journey, though fraught with difficulty and unknowns, was like a melody waiting to be heard. I didn’t come here knowing she would be in my life, but somehow, it feels as though she always was - of course she was.
When she asked, “You came here so you can be my papa?” I looked at her and said softly, “Of course I did, my darling girl. Of course I did.”
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