From a distance, I observed him, forever studying his somber, blank face, every line, every wrinkle in search of a smile, a spark of light in his eyes, a mere hint of someone living in his skin.
My brain told me he was my father, but my heart said he was just a stranger living in our house. And that’s how I always saw him: a stranger living in the shadows of solitude, with a barbed wire fence around him.
Many times I’ve tried writing about my dad and the painful impact he had on my life, only to delete the few paragraphs that took me hours to write. Even now, I’m not sure if I will do it justice.
Observing my dad was like observing a shadow. He was there, but had no substance, no voice, no passion, no warmth; like a hermit living in a faraway place, with not even a dog for companionship.
What makes him tick? What sets his heart on fire? What’s his favorite color, his favorite book? Why did he get married? Why did he have kids? Why?
His steady, artistic hands worked like magic, restoring broken, neglected antique furniture and bringing it back to life. With only an eighth-grade education, he read books that a seasoned professor would find difficult to understand. He had the patience of Job, the brilliance of Einstein. Yet, he didn’t know how to be a father.
Before he was drafted to serve in World War II, he and his best friend had a machine shop together. Before going overseas, my dad gave his partner power of attorney, just in case he didn’t make it back home. After two years of hell, he was discharged, only to discover that his well-trusted best friend had sold everything out from under him and kept the money for himself.
He was a good man in every sense of the word. His only bad habit was smoking. He never yelled and screamed, never lost control in a fit of rage, and would rather jump off a bridge than wield a switch across my bare legs.
He had so much to give, yet hoarded it like a stingy, selfish miser. To make matters worse, he contributed very little financial, emotional, and moral support to the family. Those responsibilities he piled on my mother’s shoulders; an emotionally broken woman, who, many times over, became a raging monster beneath the weight of it all. Not surprisingly, our home became a battlefield of broken, bleeding souls.
I blamed my dad for everything. I fought him like a tiger, deliberately provoked and sassed him; anything to get his attention. Anything to get even. Anything to stir up something alive in him.
I hobbled through life like a three-legged dog, longing to fit in, longing to belong, longing to know a father’s love. To know what it feels like to sit on his lap, to be held in his arms, and to hear his heartbeat. To know what it’s like to feel safe. To feel loved.
It would be years before I discovered a father’s love. Years of pretending that I didn’t want it, that I didn’t need it, that I could make it on my own, all by myself without it. I will wipe my own tears, doctor my own wounds, pick myself up, brush myself off, and keep going.
I knew how to survive, but like my dad, I didn’t know how to live. So, I stumbled through life pretending to be a sweet, loving Christian girl who had it all together. When my heart raged with anger, I hid it. When my insides were churning with fear and anxiety, I hid it. When jealousy rose its ugly head, I hid it. No one must know who I really am, because they won’t like me if they discover the truth.
After years of hiding, stuffing and pretending, lying to myself and to the world, my heart became a swollen, pain-festering boil. Slowly, it began to ooze, but I covered it with a flimsy patch of denial.
Suddenly it happened. That one last thrust of the smoldering blade straight through the heart knocked me to my knees before God.
You can’t run from God. He will hunt you down. He will find you, and He will reveal Himself to you beyond your understanding.
The Breakthrough
Self-discovery is a long, arduous process of facing the truth and owning your brokenness, and the bad choices you made through your pain and confusion. You begin to stop blaming others and eventually stop crying the blues because your fairy tale childhood went up in a puff of smoke. You roll up your sleeves, dig deep into your soul, and face the ugly truth about your past and the person you became as a result of it.
That’s where I was that quiet, early morning when I felt a presence beside my bed. By now, this invisible being and I have developed a strong bond during my wild, healing adventures, so I knew I was in for a bumpy ride. Bracing myself, I closed my eyes and, sighing deeply, I whispered, “Okay, Lord. Where are we going today?”
Immediately, the journey began, down a dark, narrow stairwell through the dungeon of my soul.
This place reeked of evil destruction. Battered souls were locked in cages, brutally murdered with the bloody axe of hatred, guilt and shame, abandonment, selfishness, arrogance, and pride. Generational sins of the parents. Generational stomping grounds of the devil.
Buried beneath a pile of rubble, I saw my inner child, broken and discarded like a useless rag doll. Her clothes were faded and torn, her face dirty and streaked with tears. Slowly, I bent down and gently pulled her out, cradled her in my arms, and cried till I could barely breathe.
My pillow was drenched in tears. I didn’t want to be in this place anymore. I wanted to turn back, slam the door shut, and never come back here again. But the Holy Spirit was on a mission and stuck like glue beside me. I felt His comfort, His peace, and understanding. I even felt his tears splashing on my battered heart.
At the bottom of the stairs, I see a little girl standing in the doorway, gazing into a misty, foggy room. Through her eyes, I saw a man sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. He seemed frozen, like a zombie, staring into space, his eyes as vacant as the empty room in which he sat.
Suddenly, she began to cry as bitter words spewed from her mouth, telling him how much she needed his love and protection; how much he had hurt her, and how ugly and stupid she felt. Words she never said before, feelings she never owned before, sprang forth like a gushing spring. And like a zombie, he just sat there in a cold tomb of silence.
Suddenly, I felt a gentle nudge, and as I turned to walk away, there, at the bottom of the stairs in the deepest recesses of my broken soul, I saw God! All these wasted years, He’s been patiently waiting for me to turn around and see Him standing by my side. He never left me for a second. But, blinded by my own pitch-black darkness, I couldn’t see Him.
Turning to leave this morbid tomb, I glanced at the man one last time. And before he vanished in a cloud of smoke, I whispered, “Goodbye, daddy. I have a new daddy now.”
I’m still a work in progress. The difference now is, I have a Father I can trust and depend on. My Heavenly Father reminds me every day of His indescribable love and mercy for me. He is everything I need. Having a loving, caring earthly father may have made life easier for me, but it may not have led me to God.
We all want and need a dad in the flesh to love and support us. And even if we are blessed with that, he’s only flesh and blood and will one day leave this earth. But God, our Heavenly Father, the Creator of the universe, Savior of the world, can’t die. He can’t leave us. Because He’s an awesome, mighty God and wants desperately to show us how much He loves us, even when we don’t believe it.
What about you? Are you searching for a father’s love? Is your heart broken and bleeding? Call on God. Repent, and surrender to Him. And I promise, you will never be the same.
Straight From the Heart 