LESSONS WE LEARN
Dads, Daughters and Driving
It used to annoy me when I was a young know-it-all but now I realize it was his way of saying “I love you”
When Dr. Gary Chapman coined the term love languages his intent was to explain how we give and receive love. But love languages aren’t reserved for romantic love only. It goes deeper than that.
It’s how we express love emotionally as we become more self-aware. And as we learn emotional intelligence. It’s how we seek to have deeper connections — not only with our intimate partners, but with our parents, children, and friends.
Writes Dr. Chapman in his 1992 best-selling book, The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate:
“Our most basic emotional need is not to fall in love but to be genuinely loved by another, to know a love that grows out of reason and choice, not instinct . . to be loved by someone who chooses to love me, who sees something worth loving. . . It’s the choice to expend energy in an effort to benefit the other, knowing if his or her life is enriched by your effort, you too will find a sense of satisfaction.” Dr. Gary Chapman, author of The Five Love Languages
The Five Love Languages Defined
- Words of affirmation — include supportive words, praise and encouragement expressed by words, text messages, and love notes
- Quality time — being present and focused, giving undivided attention, active listening, making eye contact, and turning off the cell phone
- Physical touch — showing physical affection outside of sex, holding hands, touching and cuddling
- Acts of service — feeling love and appreciation by small services like warming up the car for someone, taking out the trash, or doing dishes
- Receiving gifts — impacted by the act of gift giving, demonstrating a desire to please and acknowledge their individuality
My father, born in the tiny rural town of Texarkana, Arkansas, excelled in the languages of acts of service and gift giving.
He spent years on the road as a salesman with General Electric, so quality time wasn’t something we kids got a lot of. He wasn’t much of a hugger, and his words of affirmation were rare.
But he did have some special love languages of his own. Ones he freely shared with me by the time I could drive at age fifteen, and continued to share until he passed away in his eighties.
His love languages were:
- Giving driving directions to his daughter
- Monitoring the condition of her car
I wasn’t aware of this gift — his love language — when I was younger. I used to get annoyed by his constant direction-giving, as if I weren’t smart enough to figure out how to drive from one place to another.
My first job after receiving my BA degree was that of a college recruiter. I traveled to dozens of high schools within a three-state territory and was on the road a lot.
My car was less than a year old and it drove well. I had Rand McNally maps stuffed in my glove compartment, and felt competent at age 21 to drive anywhere I needed to go.
Whether talking on the phone or visiting my parent’s house, Dad grilled me about where I would be driving that week, and always, so predictably, how was the car running?
It drove me nuts!
I complained to my mother that Dad didn’t trust me to check my oil, fill the gas tank, air my tires, or monitor other fluids. He made me feel like a child, I whined, not the responsible adult that I was!
In reality — and they had no clue — I had run out of gas, not once, but several times. I also had flat tires, a few times at night, and had received speeding and parking tickets.
I knew those stories would keep them in a state of worry, so I never told them. There had been other mishaps too, but all in all, I was doing a fairly good job. I just wanted my Dad to get off my back.
Decades later, after Mom and Dad divorced and his second wife had passed away, Dad was lonely and would call more often.
There were always a few moments of awkward conversation — he felt he was intruding or “taking up my time.” I assured him that wasn’t the case, so then we’d have that same conversation we’ve had every single time we’ve spoken.
“Honey, how’s the car driving?
“It’s fine, Dad.”
“When did you last have a tune-up?”
From there he’d ask a few more maintenance questions and then inquire about my week. Where would I be going, who would I be seeing, would I be going out of town?
I’d dutifully — if not mechanically — answer his questions, and if there were any new destinations I might be going to, he would launch into his familiar refrain.
“Is that down there close to Central Avenue? No? Is it next to the Walgreens on Cleveland?”
“No, Dad, it’s just past Overton Park, near Parkway.”
“Well, honey, from your house, I wouldn’t take the expressway. It’s easier if you just go down Poplar Avenue . . . . .”
And so on.
Directions, and the state of my vehicle used to take up half or more of every conversation we had — well into my thirties and my forties.
When I remarried at age 48 Dad was happy for me. He adored Michael and loved that my husband knew how to do things with his hands, just as he did. Fix and repair stuff, work on our cars, and other manly pursuits.
Dad didn’t talk about cars nearly as much as he used to after we married, but he would occasionally slip and ask when was the last time I changed my oil.

Dad passed away almost 16 years ago.
I miss him so much. I wish I’d been as wise back then as I’ve become today. Not about everything, goddess forbid! But over the years certain truths revealed themselves to me.
I used to actually feel his presence when driving the GMC Yukon XL he gave me once he could no longer drive. I began to learn — little by little — that every conversation we’d ever had about directions and about the state of my car was his way of sharing his love and concern for me.
This was his love language
He wasn’t really asking about the car, he was inquiring about how my life was going. Did I need anything? Was anything bothering me?
When giving me unsolicited directions, he was really saying: I care about you. I don’t want you to get lost — either on these roads, or on Life’s Highway.
It finally occurred to me. Dad could only rarely say the words I love you, but now I know that he was saying he loved me all the time.
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