I’ve never really been into Hallmark Holidays, but this one is particularly hideous for me. My relationship with my dad is not great. My parents divorced when I was 10, and the relationship has been fractured and reliably awful since then. On Fathers’ Day, I always make the phone call, but never feel like it. Obligation is a great, and terrible, motivator.

I usually entertain the idea of skipping church, because I can’t bear to watch all those happy families. Watching fathers love their children makes my heart ping a little. Children who completely trust their parents make me envious. 

In church, the preacher might talk about God as the perfect Father. They might try to be tactful about those in the congregation who don’t have good relationships with their fathers for any number of reasons. Honestly, my first reaction is usually, “No, thanks, I’m fine as I am”. 

My history has left deep wounds. They still bleed when I poke them. I have too much baggage (something by the way, that I’m not apologising for). I might let slip that Fathers’ Day is painful for me, and someone will reply, “but God loves us better than the best possible father ever could”. 

I don’t hear their reply. I understand everything in relation to my own experience, and my own experience wasn’t really that good. I’m not sure I want another Father, even if He is perfect. In my head fatherhood is synonymous with someone who’s supposed to love you but just ends up hurting you again and again. If that’s what’s on offer, then I’m good, thank you very much. 

How can anyone expect me to believe that God is perfectly loving when earthly Fathers are not? They might say that God has shown his love, proved it even, at the cross. Also true, but after everything I’ve been through I need more than objective fact. The hurt I feel isn’t just going to go away in the face of historical evidence.  

The turning point for me has been the steady stream of adopted parents that I have. They’re really just friends, but they’re a bit older than me and are so kind to me. Inexplicably so, I think. They want to know me, to ask about what’s been happening, and they look out for me. 

They take the shape of step-parents, friends’ parents, teachers at college, people at church, and other random people. I’m always a little taken aback when they genuinely want to know how I am and what I’ve been up to. I’m always tempted to look over my shoulder to see who they’re really talking to. 

I find it scarily overwhelming that these people actually care about me. I’m almost always waiting for the truth to come out, for them to let it slip that they don’t really care. But no matter how much I look for the slip, it rarely comes. Yes, they’re not perfect, but to be honest they’re a lot better than what I’ve known in the past. For some of these people, they’ve been more of a father to me than my own father ever was. 

Over time I begin to feel safe in their company, I cease to worry that it’s all an act, and stop fearing that they’re going to use what I’ve told them against me. I feel stupid at the amount I delight in these people enjoying and choosing to spend time with me. I guess that’s what it comes down to; it’s their choice. 

Just like it’s God’s choice. God chose to adopt me into his family – thankfully not on the basis of anything in me. I have been adopted by God as his precious and loved daughter. I know something of what that means because of the way that some of my adopted parents have loved and cared for me. For that I am truly thankful.

Feature image Pascal via Flickr