It’s funny the memories that surface in your mind, the ones that seem to persist in your recollections. If someone was able to watch those thoughts like a moving picture show, they may not seem like much, but to you they mean something. Sometimes good, but other times bad.
A childhood memory that I find always swims to the surface of my brain is one of a five year old me coming to the topside of cool, crisp water on a summer afternoon. I gasp suddenly inhaling sweet oxygen after holding my breath for what seemed like forever, and I’m blissfully happy, proud of my accomplishment. But then I’m not.
In my memories, on this particular day, I had jumped into the Olympic-size swimming pool of our apartment complex in Los Angeles fully clothed. I then had swam underwater straight to the bottom and touched the drain. It was a long way, and I had gotten close before, but never quite made it all the way for my finger to touch the shiny metal grill until that day.
My father had dared me, saying that I couldn’t do it. He had told me, “If you can touch the drain I’ll buy you that pony you been wanting.”
When I surfaced, cutting swiftly through the water, my eyes went immediately to him and I beamed proudly. He laughed at me, and when I saw his face, the amusement, and then he turned to walk away, I knew. I knew two things. One, I was there for his amusement. And two, I wouldn’t be getting that pony. Ever.
Disappointment over not getting a pet horse may sound silly, but it came on the cusp of so many broken promises already. He was only present intermittently, having just returned after another unannounced absence that had lasted a few months. He always returned when his cash cache ran dry.
It was more than something as simple as a pony. It was a five year old coming to the realization that dad broke his promises as easily as he broke her heart.
Yesterday evening a friend came by, and my daughter proudly showed him the card she made for her daddy for Father’s Day. He smiled, patted her head, and complimented her on her stellar artwork. Then he turned to me and enquired if it was my husband’s birthday.
He had completely forgotten the upcoming holiday. His biological father had died when he was young, and his stepfather had let go of their relationship when he divorced his mom. He was currently estranged from his adoptive teenager status post divorce. He really had no reason to feel celebratory over the day, and it was easily dismissed from his mental calendar.
It occurred to me that it’s that way for a lot of people. Father’s Day just isn’t something worth celebrating. Broken relationships or divorce are only half the factor. For some of us we have experienced the loss of a father, whether by death or absence. Every child has a father, even if they don’t know them, but sadly, not all men seem to have the DNA required to make them a loving dad. Some men’s physical donation to procreation is their sole contribution to the relationship of fatherhood, and while not every child admits such, that fact hurts. Terribly. The abandonment of a father leaves a hole in a child’s heart that stays with them forever.
For some reason God gifted me with the second chance of having a dad, but for some children that never occurs. Even as my new dad loved me so eagerly, I found my little heart being wary to trust. One of the first questions I asked my Dad after he adopted me was this.
“Can you buy me a pony?”
I was never so proud in my life to hear the answer “no.” I didn’t need gifts from him. I needed honestly. I needed stability. I needed to know I could trust him. I needed that security. Thankfully he provided me all those things. But it’s not that way for every little girl.
Some men aren’t meant to be dads. They’re not good at it, just as some women aren’t good mothers. The hard part is that we seem to be designed with an empty place in our hearts that can only be filled by the love of a father. Not everyone wants to admit this, but it is true. What we may choose to fill that void with in a father’s absence may not always be what is most beneficial to our well-being. This too is not something anyone is eager to admit.
Even with the love lavished on me by my second-chance dad I still suffered the feeling of loss laced with rejection. I wonder if men knew the holes they left in little girls’ hearts, would they still leave?
It used to be worse, believe it or not, my feelings of inadequacy over not being enough. I still remember my joy when I learned about God’s character, the Father Heart of God. I felt like a missing piece of my life’s puzzle was finally found when I inserted the Abba factor. There was healing in His arms, and any trust issues I still needed resolved to lead a productive life were found there.
Sometimes fathers disappoint us, and often times they fall short. It’s hard to honor a father you never knew, or give a card to a man who is gone. But there is always hope and healing in our creator, the original Father of all mankind. If nothing else, you can take comfort in the fact that He is especially fond of you. And that is cause for celebration. There is healing there.