Twice Chosen: The Gift of Another Daughter

By Justin Hill.Ai

I’m about to be a father again. And the truth is, I carry fear with me. It creeps into small, practical questions, the ones no one else thinks about:

Which side of the bed do I sleep on, so that if danger ever comes, I’m between it and my wife?

What does it mean to let my two-year-old sleep on the far side of the house, her room down the hallway where my arms can’t reach her in one step?

It’s the prayer that rises when I pin my badge to my chest before another shift, the hope that I make it back home to the people who depend on me, not left as a photograph they must explain, but as a voice and a presence still alive in their daily lives.

Fear also lives in smaller places like a mirror. There is fear I’ve been selfish when patience was needed. I worry at times that I’ve thought too much of me when my calling is to think of them first.

These are two beautiful beings in my wife and my daughter, and they rely on me not just to provide, but they need me to put myself aside so that they feel safe.

That’s the texture of fear for me. And, yet it doesn’t paralyze me. It prepares me.

Because even in the fear, I know what fatherhood has already taught me: that love is ritual, as much as it is feeling.

With my daughter, it looks like the wiggle of my nose against hers, or the way I never say “goodbye”, but always “see you later”. Little codes that build permanence into her world, reminders that I intend to return, that love does not walk away.

It’s her hand in mine. Her small palm pressed against my fingers.

And though she doesn’t know it, I imagine a wire running from her hand to my heart, transmitting a message she’ll never forget: “you are loved”. I want her to grow up with that message so deeply ingrained she can never unlearn it.

And now, I want both of my daughters to carry it.

Fatherhood for me is not only protection. It is participation. It is the quiet Saturday mornings when the TV hums low and a blanket rest over my legs, and one by one they crawl into the bed beside me, the silence more sacred than words.

It is the sideline where I shout with joy when they score, and louder still when they stumble, teaching them that falling short is not the end but the invitation to rise again.

It is presence, not just in the room, but in their world. I know something of what that presence means, because of my father.

I remember the way he taught me to throw a football. Saturday mornings, a ball from Florida State in his hand, him in one corner of the yard, me in the other. The ball arcing through the air, spiraling toward me, spinning with a message unspoken but undeniable: “I love you.” That was his way of telling me. That was his version of a wire between our hands.

But there was another side to him too. He drank. And when he drank, we saw the ugliest parts of him. It was the parts that cut, that created rifts, that left scars. Those were the demons he wrestled, and sometimes, they wrestled him down. And still, we loved him. Still, we forgave him.

Love has a way of softening even the hardest moments, of restoring what anger tries to consume. And maybe that’s what I carry most from my father: the patience to forgive, the awareness that flaws don’t erase love, and the determination to pick up where he left off.

Because he was enough to raise me into manhood. But he could have been more. And I see my assignment now as the baton he passed, building what he could not, extending what he could not finish.

This is why fatherhood feels like weight. It’s not the pressure of society or expectation. It’s also the eyes of others. Instead, it’s the weight of being chosen.

God could have placed this child anywhere. But He placed her here with us…..again.

I don’t believe it’s an accident. I see it as an answer. It’s not some random blessing. Instead, I see it as God’s response to the good my wife and I have done up to this point.

We have tried to be faithful with what we were given first. We’ve put our daughter before ourselves. We’ve worked to keep our love for each other undeniable, so she would see it and know it as the foundation for her own understanding of love. That’s obedience in practice. That’s the evidence of trustworthiness.

And because of that obedience, we’ve been entrusted again.

Another child

Another daughter

Another assignment

But even in all this, obedience, preparation, and resolve, there are the quiet hours.

The night stretches long. The house hushed, my wife asleep, our daughter down the hall. And I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering:

Am I enough?

It’s not insecurity. It’s awareness. The awareness that the man I am sets the tone for the women my daughters will become.

The awareness that the way I love their mother, the way I handle stress, the way I show up will create ripples positively impacting their futures.

That’s why I anchor myself in God, not as a perfect Christian or holy man on display, but as a father who knows his own strength is not enough.

I need something deeper to steady me. I want something eternal to hold me when I question myself.

And when the questioning fades, I see the vision clearly:

My daughters are grown. I can hear their laughter in another living room, years from now. They are speaking to their own children about who I was. Daddy wasn’t perfect or flawless, but he was steady.  He was a father who never stopped showing up. He was ingrained and invested. Daddy’s love wasn’t just spoken, it was proven.

That is the legacy I long to leave.

So yes, I am about to be a father again. And yes, I am afraid. But fear is only proof that the task matters. Fear is only a reminder that this calling is bigger than me.

And readiness?

Readiness is knowing Who gave her to me. Readiness is knowing why I’ve been entrusted.

I am scared. But I am ready.

Because I know this assignment came from God. And I know exactly what I’ve been called to do.