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There lies a place, deep beneath the pain and humiliation of my childhood where hope dwells and promises are kept. It’s in this place where I surrender the brokenness and despair, the rejection and the abandonment. I run there when I need a touch of reassurance, validation, and stability. Without fail, his big hands embrace me and for just a little while, I know I’m safe from the madness.
As a child, I learned at a young age which parent was my support and which wasn’t. I knew who to go to when I needed to be reminded that I was worth something and valued to someone. He never failed to disappoint me. In all the years growing up, there was one thing I could count on. My father loved me unconditionally and believed I could do anything I wanted to do.
One of my earliest memories of an example of this devotion was of him bent over a broken porcelain doll. My little heart was crushed beyond repair as I stared at the shards of glass that used to be my treasure. Evidently, he saw my distress and understood it. Many hours he would spend, head bent over his victim as her performed the necessary surgery. His dedication surprised me, even at the tender age of seven. He didn’t stop gluing the pieces back together until the entire project was finished and my doll was restored to wholeness once again. There were other times when I ran to him for comfort from the raging storms that threatened to consume me. He never had much to say but somehow, he knew what I needed anyway.
As I grew older, other influences prevented me from growing closer to him. There was a time when I even felt that I hated him and blamed him for the misery that was thrust upon me. Surely, it was his fault I lived in a perpetual state of despair and agony. He was the easy target because he never said much and never tried to defend himself, at least not to me. Through it all, I saw glimpses of that unconditional love. My hate letters never deterred him from wanting to know me and be with me. My begging to cancel our visits never stopped him from wanting a relationship with me. He was relentless in his efforts. As a father, he did everything he knew to protect me.
The high powered lawyer, the lies and manipulation, and the greed all turned against him. He was left with nothing but his prayers. As I later found out, his faith and belief that I would someday know the truth, did indeed set me free. I learned who the real enemy was when I was seventeen. I moved out of the “house of horrors” and found my way back into my father’s arms. We had an agreement that there were certain things that he wasn’t allowed to do. He was not allowed to humiliate me or embarrass me in front of others. He was not allowed to hit my face or pull my hair. He was most certainly not allowed to tell me he hated me or wished I had never been born, not even if he felt it were true. I remember it as if it happened yesterday. With tears in his eyes, his tender voice almost pleaded.
“Now why would I ever want to do any of those things to you? How could I ever hurt you like that? You don’t live in that house of pain anymore. You will never have to suffer like that again. Don’t you know me? Don’t you know how much I love you?”
Having that conversation changed my whole perception of my father and who he was when I knew him as a child. He has his flaws like any man. There are many choices that he’s made that I don’t understand or even agree with. Yet, beneath it all, I see an example of my Father in Heaven. He’s a man of His word, keeping every single promise, especially those not to hurt me. He’s strong and good, and patient. He’s a safe place to run to when nothing and nobody else makes sense. Every now and again, I find myself in that same, broken state as the delicate doll. I wait for His gentle hands to heal me and piece me back together again. Somehow, the shards are repaired I know I’m whole once again.
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