Father's Day

The last time my dad and I spoke was four years ago, for reasons too complex and extensive to explain here. He smelled of Stetson cologne and Old Spice and wore a charcoal suit beside my mom in the receiving line at my grandfather’s funeral, trying as hard as an introverted engineer can to make repetitive small talk with doting strangers. I wasn’t exactly invited to stand with the family before the funeral, so I arrived 30 minutes before the service in an attempt to put differences aside and grieve with my family. By my calculations, any sooner would have been unbearably awkward; any later would have seemed callous. I went in for an embrace; his body tensed, and he grimaced in response. His eyes never met mine.  

A father wound is one that runs deep, creating decay in unseen spaces and spreading into a systemic disease; it can cripple and permanently disfigure a person. My story is no different. I’ve wrestled with my worth for a long time—whether I really was loved or even deserved to be— and it’s taken years of excruciating therapy to excavate deep into the source of the pain and scrape away the scar tissue. Still, Father’s Day is complicated. I celebrate the dad my husband is to my children while I simultaneously and silently grieve my biological father, who wasn’t there even when he was.

For a couple of years after we disconnected, I sent a text that went unanswered until I eventually fell silent. To make any effort at all was to make myself vulnerable to the pangs of rejection when it was inevitably unreciprocated, so each Father’s Day, there is a new grief that is resurrected, the death of the healthy father-daughter relationship I longed for but couldn’t achieve with any amount of striving. And no matter how old you get, you’re still an orphan without a father.

This year was different, though. This year was marked by a distinct sense of release and acceptance. This past Sunday, I experienced something that mildly resembled inner peace. Deeper breaths, wider smiles, the ability to rest without guilt. Because throughout this year, the Lord has shown Himself more to me as a Father than ever before.  

“Tell me how You feel about me,” I inquire curiously as I sit quietly with him in the dark stillness of the early morning and listen for His voice. He is nurturing and gentle and speaks the language of love and affirmation. He tells me affectionately that I’m the apple of His eye, a chip off the infinite Block. He redirects and restores when I veer off track–not with the abrasiveness and shame I’ve assumed I deserve, but with an otherworldly compassion and unconditional acceptance. He loves me despite my mistakes and assures me I’m His delight. I finally am beginning to understand my worth through His eyes. I was no accident, a scarlet letter I wore previously and for many years. He gave me His Name as He formed me in my mother’s womb, smiling to Himself as He envisioned my unruly, wild hair and generously freckled skin.

It’s uncomfortable and foreign, but it rubs the faded scars like a therapeutic salve. To be re-fathered by the Holy One is a beautiful mystery. My brain hardly can conceive of it; my flesh wants to reject it. But deep down, my spirit recognizes the voice of my true Father, the one who calls me His own. I’ve resisted before, not actually believing He wouldn’t forsake me or withdraw His affection the moment I step out of His will—all-too familiar gestures that have dug neural pathways beneath thick ginger curls. But He is perfect—faithful and persistent, never pushy or controlling. And it’s brought a healing I denied that I needed and didn’t know was possible. Over and over, He demonstrates that I’m worth the effort.

I’d love to think I’m His favorite, but I have a hunch that He feels this way about all His children. So if you found yourself in a dark fog on Father’s Day—as I know a lot of us do—or if your view of a Heavenly Father is obstructed by experiences with your biological one, maybe it will bring you some comfort, to know that He is as present and nurturing and gracious and loving as He says. Just ask Him to show you.

Some things that shatter just cannot be fixed. This earthly relationship with the man from whom I got my jawline and blue eyes may be one of them. But I have a peace that surpasses all understanding, knowing I’m no longer defined simply as an estranged daughter; I can rest in my identity as His beloved.