Seeing What Eyes Can't

I stand six steps from the bed's edge. My arms extended. Hands open. On the bed Sara - all four years of har - crouches, posed like a playful kitten. She's going to jump. But she's not ready. I'm too close.
"Back more Daddy," she stands and dares.
I dramatically comply, confessing admiratoin for her courage. After two fiant steps I stop. "More?" I ask.
"Yes!" Sara squeals, hopping on the bed.
With each step she laughs and claps and motions for more. When I'm on the other side of the canyon, when I'm beyond the reach of mortal man, when I am but a tiny figure on the horizon, she stops me. "There, stop there."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," she shouts. I extend my arms. Once again she crouches, then springs. Superman without a cape. Skydiver without a chute. Only her heart flies higher than her body. In that airborne instant her only hope is her father. If he proves weak, she'll fall. If he proves cruel, she'll crash. If he proves forgetful, she'll tumble to the hard floor.
But such fear she does not know, for her father she does. She trusts him. Four years under the same roof have convinced her he is reliable. He is not superhuman, but he is strong. He is not holy, but he is good. He's not brilliant, but he doesn't have to remember to catch his child when she jumps.
And she flies.
And she soars.
And so he catches her and the two rejoice at the wedding of her trust and his faithfulness.

~Max Lucado~
~When God Whispers Your Name~