My dad doesn't love me. The words resounded in my mind every day for nineteen years. I believed it, and my father didn't do much to convince anyone otherwise. At best, my dad was absent. At
worst, he caused a great deal of pain. So when Father's Day rolled around each year, the three of us (my sister, brother and I) were less than thrilled. It was hard enough to live with a gaping, dad-shaped hole every day, but the impending holiday was like a week-long surge of salt in the wound.
Despite our feelings and our father's failings, we sent a Father's Day gift every year. We weren't sweet storybook kids who forgave and forgot; instead, my Mom was
a strong, stand-up gal who insisted upon it. Every year, she bought him a dad's day gift and we
begrudgingly signed our names to the card.
After our parents’ divorce, she continued to ensure we did the "right" thing. Even the year our pop was $27,000 behind in child support, Mama still gathered us around the phone for that awkward, annual “Happy Father’s
Day” observance.
The other 364 days of the year, it felt like my father forgot he had children...or wished he never had. A call here a visit there; we never knew when or if we would hear from him. As a 13-year-old, I taped his picture to my bedroom mirror, so I wouldn't forget what he looked like. I was always hopeful that
something would change, and that I would one day be important to him. Deep down, I was still the little girl longing for her daddy. With each experience, however, my siblings and I were left with deepening sadness and disappointment.
To my chagrin, the little girl inside just wouldn't go away. I grieved every missed birthday, holiday and father-daughter event through high school. Even as a young lady, I yearned to know how it felt to snuggle up in a daddy's lap, to feel protected and
loved. Instead, it was grief and rejection, over and over and over.
Eventually, bitterness and resentment began to creep in...and the feelings were too much to bear.
In my twentieth year, the Lord opened my eyes to the reality that my father
would never be a "daddy." It dawned on me that my expectations would continue
to lead to disappointment. By the grace of God, I began to forgive my father for his
failings and chose to see him as a real person. After I removed him from the pedestal, he
could no longer fall. In the following months, I
sought to know my father as a person...a unique, fallible human being. I called and visited him
on a regular basis. It wasn’t easy, but it was the road to recovery.
Over the years, my relationship with my dad became more real and meaningful. Although I never felt like a beloved daughter, I was finally able to
accept my father for who he was--an intelligent man, a hard worker, a
talented golfer and a fun-loving guy who could fix anything. He had three kids, and he just didn't
know how to be a dad. As I get older, I am more thankful that God led me to pursue a relationship with him...person to person. And I am becoming more convinced that my dad did love us, in his own way. Although
that realization doesn't erase the years of pain, it is comforting. Twenty-year wounds leave deep scars, and it takes time for them to fade.
When I was 32, I told my dad I loved him for the very first time. He died the following week, just two days before he was to meet my first child. At my father's funeral, my sister and I sang "Amazing
Grace." How perfect and how very profound. There is redemption for the undeserving. For my dad, and for me. Although I still long to know how it feels to be a daughter cradled in daddy's arms, I am also thankful for what I didn't have. The giant void in my heart allowed me to yearn for a real, loving father...the perfect Father, who has held me like no earthly father could.
This Father's day, I am grateful. I thank God for the father I had--for who he was and the ways that relationship shaped my life. I am also grateful for the pseudo-dads, who tried to love me along the way. Most importantly, I am thankful for my husband and my heavenly Father, who are the greatest gifts I could imagine.
This morning I read:
"A truly rich man is one whose children run into his arms when his hands are empty."
I didn't have the kind of dad so beautifully illustrated in the quote, but my
children do. Thank you, Wade Wicht, for loving our four children so well. You exemplify the father a girl dreams of, a daddy who offers great riches with empty hands. Our four children adore you, and so do I! Happy Father's Day!
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