The Perfect Father

My husband walked into our bedroom to find me sobbing. When he asked me what had happened, I couldn’t manage to get out more than a few disjointed words. So I just handed him my laptop and said, “Watch. Listen.”

He pressed play and watched Kelly Clarkson courageously stand before millions of eyes and share her truth in a song. She sang of her father and how he had walked out of her life.

Her words sank deep into my soul, and long-buried emotions and memories floated to the surface. Her story was a familiar one. My parents divorced when I was young, and my father eventually faded from my life. It’s been over twenty years since I’ve heard from him.

I have some happy memories of my childhood in rural north Florida with my father. I remember the golden light on the river when he took me fishing in his little boat. I remember him taking me with him when he went on hunting trips in the woods. The silent pines would seem electric with the promise of “hot pursuit” beginning at any moment. He would sometimes tell us kids that he saw “the coon and the possum,” and they told him to give us this treat. It was usually a Moon Pie, because what else would you expect from a benevolent coon and possum?

But then, just a few years later, there was nothing.

My mom and my dad, who adopted us and has loved us as his own, did an excellent job giving us more than our share of love and support. But I would often wonder why my father didn’t want us in his life anymore. I wondered if he was angry with us. Or if I had called him more often, would he still be connected. Or maybe he was too busy with his new family and couldn’t fit us in.

When I became a mother, I realized that nothing could ever keep me from my child. Not distance. Not time. Not anger or hurt feelings. I would walk through fire for my kids. And it was then that I began to realize the extent of the scars on my heart.

When I was younger, I wanted to hurry up and be fine so everyone around me could also be fine. I’ve never talked much about this part of my life. In our rub-some-dirt-in-it, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps culture, we often need permission to stop and feel and process our pain.

God gently showed me that in order for true healing to take place, I had to finally take the time to bring all the hidden hurts into the light and examine them. I found I had wounds that had never healed. Anger and resentment and deep sadness were there like ugly, jagged gashes. I was finally able to admit out loud that I wasn’t okay.

God helped me come to a place of true forgiveness and began ministering to my wounds in a way that reminded me of when my daughter is hurt and climbs into my husband’s lap. She has complete confidence that she is safe and loved, and she knows her daddy will take care of her. God began to show me all the ways he has provided for me and loved me and cared for me throughout my life.

“And because we are his children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, prompting us to call out, ‘Abba, Father’” (Galatians 4:6 NLT).

Abba is an Aramaic word that is most closely translated as “Daddy.”

Watching my kids with my husband has given me a thousand snapshots of what an Abba relationship means. I think of when my son climbed the jungle gym for the first time. His daddy gave him the space to try it on his own, but his strong arms were never more than a few inches away from catching him if he should fall. I picture my daughter taking a running leap with the absolute certainty that her daddy will catch her. I remember the nights when the baby was crying out from the pain of teething and how just seeing her daddy enter the room could comfort her. Through the baby monitor, I could hear his voice soothing her and speaking love over her.

God gives me the space to grow and try new things because he is always right there supporting me. I can take leaps of faith because I know he is always close enough to catch me. Whenever this world is too much, he comforts my hurting heart and soothes my soul.

Through my experience, I came to know God as my Abba, Father. [Tweet “Because God is the perfect Father, through him, we can all experience a daddy’s love.”]

Ashley Doyle Pooser is a wife and a mom of three. She recently moved to Atlanta, where she’s trying her best to be a responsible adult but feels like she’s mostly flying by the seat of her pants. She blogs at ashleydoylepooser.com.