Growing up, I had no memories of my father, only the painful gap his absence left behind. He wasn’t just missing from birthdays or holidays — he was simply *gone*, a ghost of a presence I never understood. The only things I knew about him came from my mom, who shared memories of him with a bitterness that echoed her hurt. She described him as an alcoholic, someone who became mean and violent when he drank, a man who left her with scars that went far beyond the physical. Her words painted him as a dark figure, one I couldn't fully comprehend, but the ache of not knowing him lingered.
As a kid, I wished he might just be out there, not knowing how to find me, perhaps unable to connect for some reason beyond his control. But deep down, I knew the truth. He knew exactly where I was, had the means to reach out, but simply chose not to. The realization of that choice weighed heavily on me. It planted seeds of self-doubt, made me wonder if I was worthy of being loved, wanted, and seen.
When I turned 18, he appeared out of nowhere, as if expecting me to be happy to see him. It was surreal. All those years, I had convinced myself he didn’t know how to find me, but there he was, proving that he’d known exactly where I was all along. We shared a meal and chatted briefly, just enough for me to realize that the fantasy I’d clung to — that I might have lost someone who truly cared — wasn’t reality. I wasn’t missing anything. Our two-hour meeting was enough to show me that his absence had been a choice he’d made, not a loss that had happened to us both.
Years later, after he passed away, I was the only one left to handle his affairs. I walked into his life, seeing for the first time how he had lived: alone, in a makeshift shelter on a small acre of land he’d inherited in La Pine, Oregon. It was a sad sight — an old travel camper attached to a shack, a place that felt as empty as his life must have been. It was heartbreaking to see the conditions he’d lived in, alone and disconnected. In that moment, I understood the depth of his choices and how far his isolation had taken him.
Growing up without him, I felt a need for validation, seeking out approval and connections, trying to fill a void I could never quite name. I made choices in relationships and friendships that, looking back, were shaped by that emptiness, that lingering sense of not being enough. But as I continued through life, I began searching for something greater — something that could fill that void. It was in that search that I found the Bible, and within its pages, I began to see a new kind of father.
Scripture spoke of a God who was “a father to the fatherless,” a presence that was protective, unwavering, and filled with compassion. I found verses like Psalm 68:5, where God is described as a “father to the fatherless,” and Isaiah 41:10, where He promises, “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.” In every passage, I felt a closeness, a comfort that my earthly father’s absence had left void. I wasn’t alone after all. I wasn’t unwanted. I had a Father who had been there all along, and with Him, I felt safe, known, and loved.
In the Bible, I found the father I’d always wanted. His love redefined me, not as someone who was abandoned, but as someone cherished and purposefully created. Healing isn’t a straight path, and there are days when memories resurface and old wounds ache. But each time, I turn to God’s Word, finding strength and identity in a Father who will never leave.
For those who may be parenting without a partner, it might be worth considering how we share our own pain with our children. I know that, for me, hearing my mom’s struggles and hurt shaped my view. While it helped me understand her, it also left me with a cloud of pain and bitterness that was difficult to process. Maybe letting children form their own understanding of their other parent, in their own time, could be more supportive. They’ll likely come to understand things on their own, without needing us to frame that picture for them. Of course, if the other parent poses a genuine danger, it’s necessary to protect your child. But if not, giving them the space to reach their own conclusions might just let them grow with a clearer, more open heart.
For me, finding my father in the Bible has been a journey of transformation. Through God’s Word, I’ve come to understand that my worth isn’t shaped by the absence of my earthly father, but by the love of my Heavenly Father, who calls me His own. I am no longer defined by what I didn’t have; I am defined by the One who has always been with me. The Bible is a reminder of the love and identity I had all along — a reminder that I am, and always have been, God’s beloved child.
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