The Post I Didn’t Write…on Father’s Day

my free fall into the promise of Father’s Day

For over twenty years Father’s Day has been about the children in my life. I can’t remember when I last experienced Father’s Day… as a daughter. I don’t know if I ever have.

Because of work, my father spent his life on the road. He divided his down time between the families of the children he sired. I don’t think this ever went over well with my mother. She came to New York with friends straight out of high school and married my father after being here only 3 weeks. By the time my siblings and I were old enough to know the deal…well the jig was up. We only brought presents for him if we knew he’d be with us on a particular holiday. Father’s Day wasn’t a holiday in our home.

A chill comes over me as I write that. Whatever it is around my heart over this, is heavy and it hurts. It feels known and unknown. Finding the words is hard. But part of a holy work I have to do. Whatever it is, is bitter and bolted shut. The taste of blood reminds me I’ve bitten my tongue…for too long. 

Big Daddy worked and Ila had a long session at the ice skating rink on Sunday. We came home nap needy and worn from the week. I wanted to bake a cake, really I did, but instead curled up with Ade’ on the couch feeling like a little girl lost. Not knowing why.

I’ve watched my children grow strong and secure in the love of a sensitive and caring father. There is no shortage of live out loud hugs and juicy kisses in our home. Clouds of “I love you” cover us, flowing, settling, hovering. In and out. It’s real and it’s free. This is the gift and grace of love coming from a man who didn’t know his father. My husband loves like Jesus does and one of the sweetest gifts of his fatherhood is how it magnifies my motherhood.

Rodney doesn’t fully understand what I mean when I say “everything’s different when you’re at home”. But his presence in our home is redemption. Whole and complete. A fatherless son and a broken daughter working out life as parents in Christ. Cue the holy hallelujahs y’all. Through our children, the curse of fatherlessness is broken. But I know there’s more.

For me. Although I know and love my heavenly father a real part of me walks around fatherless. I’ve never let anyone father me. I nurture because it’s my calling but what if I nurture because of the love I’ve missed. That’s redemptive but still, a little messed up.

Little girls are always looking for approval from their fathers. Until one day they aren’t. I guess that’s when the steel turns cold. Solid, stainless. We polish it up and call it shiny.  You won’t see the scars…because of all that brilliant bright light.

I wrote my father a letter once, and a good while after, welcomed him into my home. The acknowledgement of my letter came with a hug. One I thought healed the wound. But that day marked the closing of a door. I thought writing the letter freed me. And it did. Just not in the way I thought. A part of me wrote the letter to say goodbye. Self-sanctioned walking papers, releasing me from a lifetime of hurt. From that point on, a part of me didn’t care. And I don’t think I meant for that to happen. Because if you asked me now I’d say I love him. I’ve remained loyal in my words but not in my heart. Not completely.

All these years later, Father’s Day, for me, as a daughter, means nothing. I have a loving father in Christ but haven’t embraced the concept enough to feel like celebrating. My wedding picture with my father was obligatory. He showed up. We both played our part. The tears you see in the pictures have nothing to do with him. I cried because of the love I felt in the room, in spite of him. That’s redemptive…too…and still, a little messed up.

Ade’ settles his 3-year-old boy body near mine and I realize I’m sad about all this. I remember the hugs of father figures in my life. And how I’ve never allowed anyone to get too close. I remember the way my children wrap their bodies around my husband – like he belongs to them. And he does. I imagine how right a hug like that must feel. That’s what I’ve missed. The feeling of being a daughter in the arms of an earthly father.

I don’t write this to complain. God is still on the throne and my sitting in the park crying behind my mamas’ sunglasses is part of the real work He’s doing in me. I’ve said before…blogging…all this online loveliness, is part of something deeper. It’s the grace plan for my life being walked out…one step at a time. This is what healing looks like. It’s what has to happen before I can fly.

In writing this I recognize it’s not about my father. It’s about me and how I grew up….the daughter of two particular parents. My father was honest to a fault and lived life on his own terms. I can’t be mad at that. I’m not mad at all.

I’m sad. This is the real talk from a real girl who finally put the pieces together. This weekend, I missed the love of my father.  I let these words pour from my heart because my messed up redemption demands it. For now, it’s what I’m working with.  I’ll let words like these do the work, bringing with them, the promise of agape love. The freedom found in full redemption.

and this…a Father’s Day promise for all

“I’ll be a Father to you; you’ll be sons and daughters to me.” – 2 Corinthians 18 MSG

Linking with Kelli today for Unforced Rhythms.

This is the most beautiful song, it speaks to the brokenness and hope – the real life possibility of a relationship with a father. The full breadth of what I call, a dream.

Dance With My Father…by Luther Vandross

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Lisha Epperson