My dad walked out when I was five. I carried that rejection for decades. I never believed God could be a Father I could trust. Until one day, during worship, I broke.
It was a Sunday morning, and I’d dragged myself to church out of obligation. The music started, and people around me lifted their hands, eyes closed, faces soft with peace. I stood stiff, arms crossed, heart barricaded. The lyrics spoke of a Father who never leaves, who runs toward the broken, who calls His children by name.
I wanted to believe it. But how could I? The word “father” felt poisoned. It meant abandonment, silence, absence. I’d spent years building walls to protect myself from that kind of hurt. I didn’t need a father—I had survived without one.
But then, something happened.
The worship leader paused and said, “Someone here needs to know—God isn’t like the man who left you. He’s the Father who stays.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Tears came before I could stop them. I sank to my knees, trembling. In that moment, I whispered, “If You’re real… if You’re really a Father… show me.”
And He did.
Not with thunder or lightning. But with a warmth that wrapped around me like arms I’d never known. A peace that didn’t make sense. A whisper in my soul: “I’ve never left you.”
I wept.
That day marked the beginning of healing. I didn’t become whole overnight. Trust took time. But slowly, I began to see God not as a distant judge, but as a present Father. One who celebrated my victories, sat with me in grief, and never walked away.
I started journaling prayers—not demands, but conversations. I began to notice His presence in quiet moments: in the kindness of a friend, in the beauty of a sunrise, in the stillness of my heart.
Today, I still carry the scar of abandonment. But it no longer defines me. I’ve learned that healing doesn’t erase the past—it redeems it.
I never had a father who stayed. But I found One who never leaves.
And now, when I hear those worship songs, I lift my hands—not in obligation, but in surrender. Because I know the truth:
I am loved. I am held. I am home.
