Father's Day

In 1987 I went home from the hospital on Father's Day. Tomorrow, on Father's Day, I turn 30.
I cannot think of a more appropriate occasion to share this, so to celebrate, here's the story of how Jesus redeemed the relationship between my Daddy and me-

I grew up an only child in a safe, peaceful home. My parents consistently reiterated they would love me no matter what, yet the legalistic teaching I grew up under in the Bible Belt subconsciously made me feel otherwise; tinges that I couldn't really meet my parents' standards, especially my Dad's.

This lead to levels of 'achievable perfection' that I set for myself; quadruple-checking that I always maintained a 'good girl' image. (This was EXHAUSTING, by the way.)

My Dad and I were always grappling in our relationship – for connection and perfection. We seemed to feel the most free during moments of playing off our shared sense of humor, but those moments were fleeting. The grappling tension always, inevitably returned.
I remember wanting in our relationship, but what? When emotional intimacy is lacking, specifically between a father and daughter, it seems out of grasp- hard to define, unrealistic.

As I entered into high school he became further removed emotionally, but because we didn't have a strong connection, I didn't miss what I didn't experience. Unbeknownst to me, he was depressed and suicidal. Things in his life that had kept him from being emotionally available to me (and my Mom) had surfaced. Healing slowly began.
I trudged onward through high school, in my own world, oblivious to my Dad's reality. I was 'dealing' with my own junk – so badly wanting to depend on Jesus, but living in the shame of addiction.

Towards the end of high school my Dad was suddenly more talkative; more present and available. He was no longer retreating away to escape the pressures of his days. He was engaging. It was weird. I remember him gushing about Jesus at the dinner table. I just wanted to eat my chicken.
In the midst of his deep despair, Jesus connected him with a counseling ministry in the Dallas area that held his hand through many dark days – never passing off another to-do list to muster through, but showed him God's true character and his reality in Jesus.

This new man who was in love with Jesus was awkward for me to be around. On some level I had always hoped he would talk about Jesus in this way, but we were still caught in our tension. I still viewed him as untrustworthy. He was finally available, but I was leaving for college.

The year after I graduated from college I was sexually abused. You can read about that here.

Because I didn't see the abuse for what it was, I didn't realize the depth of my despair- just how tender and inclined my heart was towards ache. And just how much I needed unconditional love. The week after I met Ryan, I was coming out of the throes of my messy winter and trying to shed some unhealthy "friendships."
In the midst of this, my car was towed. I tried to get a hold of my Dad for help, and when he called late the next morning, he sounded aggravated. Echoes of moments from childhood flooded back. I'm a disappointment. I'm not enough. Am I lovable? As we were about to get off the phone I said, "I love you." He didn't reciprocate.

That brief moment on the phone defined in one second what had left me wanting in our relationship for years – lack of emotional availability, friendship, and expressed love. But was this even possible? I started praying.

Four years later my parents moved to the Dallas area. My Dad had just become the director of the same ministry that saved his life, but because of logistics, he lived with us during the work week for six months while my mom stayed back. Suddenly we were under the same roof again. Both emotionally available. Both in need of the relationship we never had. I kept praying.

Jesus used that time to continue softening us up to our need. My perfectionist tendencies weren't working as well for me as a new mom, and my Dad was much more sensitive to his tone and level of attentiveness. Neither of us had the room (we live in a small house) or time to perform for approval. Our vulnerability guards were coming down.

Through our various conversations that spring, I decided to register to take an intensive class at the ministry that fall, the same class Jesus used to rescue my Dad eleven years prior. As the class kicks off during the opening weekend, each student shares their 'story' to the ministry staff and their classmates, specifically focusing on lies they have believed about God, others, and self, in order to queue up the healing process. Knowing this, I knew my Dad would most likely hear my story, and I preferred the first time to not be in a room with twenty other people.

So one evening in July we sat down, and with tears in both of our eyes I shared – the perfectionism, the disappointments, the tension, the need for emotional availability, fears, codependency, addiction, abuse, miscarriage grief, depression...even about that night my car was towed and the phone conversation that followed. He hugged me. He entered into my heartache. He accepted me, for me – for both my past and my present. We sat at the dinner table for hours afterwards, laughing and talking, coming to many realizations. Stories of how he grew up and how I grew up, and even our mutual flesh and sin patterns – equally stunned at our new reality. We were finally emotionally free, not just because we were laughing, but because Jesus set us free.

The day came that fall for me to share in front of the staff and other students. The more I prepared the more I realized just how tedious the assignment was – for me to actually outline ways in which my Dad had wounded me growing up, and the lies that formed as a result. I wanted to gloss over the past, we had a new relationship! But it was my Dad that encouraged me to be honest. I'm glad I was, Redemption wasn't finished. It was rough. It was difficult to form the words that composed memories laced with pain. After a student shares there's a time of affirmation. My Dad didn't say a word. Instead he got up, walked towards me and embraced me. We wept. The class joined us. Words I had longed to hear, needed to hear, finally spoken over me –loved, accepted, mine. This wasn't just my Daddy's love, this was our Father's love. The years the emotional-intimacy-killing-locusts had eaten, redeemed.

Love- something that was once undefinable and difficult to express now defines our relationship. Where we used to both grapple – for God, for love, for connection with each other, we're now secure, but not by our own accord, it's His.
In four short years a daughter's desperate prayers were answered; prayers I never thought feasible, answered far beyond my wildest dreams. Your prayers aren't futile. I was 27 when my Daddy became my best friend. Healing doesn't have an expiration date; Redemption isn't finished. 🌼

*This post is dedicated to my Daddy. Happy Father's Day. It's a complete joy to celebrate my birthday alongside celebrating you as my Daddy. I love you.