{Please help me welcome Christa of ChristaSterken.com to the blog today. Thank you for your vulnerability in sharing your story, Christa.}
Blame comes easily.
I know all about it. I blamed someone for decades and now he is dying. Far away across the world. Separated by continents and catastrophic damage inflicted by words and neglect.
My biological father was my hero when I was young; I couldn’t wait for visits and would run down the stairs with joy into his arms. Sometimes he showed up, or he didn’t. Things came up and a little girl sat dejected on the step. I hadn’t heard yet about a God who loved me and would never forsake me (Deuteronomy 31:8).
The adoration didn’t last forever. He made some mistakes and I never forgave him.
Each mistake built a wall between us, he put the bricks and I filled the gaps with anger so strong that wall was impenetrable. Other times I stacked the bricks as high as I could, while he tried to poke through and whisper to me. I quickly plugged those holes to protect my heart.
You see, I was never good enough. Love was not unconditional. I wasn’t as pretty as my sister. My attitude stank. Because I didn’t know the Lord yet, it was easy to believe his lies my entire life.
Through his mistakes, I learned to hate him.
So many days which turned into years, into decades, carefully reminding myself of the offenses, so as not to forget. And why? Because I loved him and I feared him.
In spite of wonderful times, mere seconds of harmful words or actions separated us with a chasm so deep it was never crossed again.
He walked out of my life over 20 years ago: I slammed the door.
Locked it. Barricaded myself in where he would never again enter without my permission.
For five years before that, I’d already built the foundation of this barrier. Deep posts buried to protect my heart. I dug a moat and filled it with my tears of acid. What I didn’t know yet, is that our loving God was collecting all those tears into a bottle (Psalm 56:8)
That week he left, a few days before my wedding, he had business to attend to. Business. In my heart I believe he couldn’t face me, didn’t have the courage to come up against his rebellious and angry daughter.
I can’t blame him. I shouldn’t. But of course, I did. Because he never came home. Ever.
He created a new life on the other side of the world and I wasn’t able to forgive him for it. He replaced his life here; traded in the old beater model for a shiny new dream. And in a way, I was
glad. At least that is what I convinced myself each year, as I feared he would show up at my door. Yet, I begrudged him for not trying.
In my early 20’s God wooed me into his arms. I began a very long, difficult road toward healing. Toward trusting. Toward forgiving him, and even more? Learned to forgive myself for harboring this deep anger. I began to learn about concepts completely opposite to everything I’d ever been taught. It had never even occurred to me that this consuming anger hurt me, my husband, my family who loved me and felt bad they couldn’t save me from the pain.
Forgiveness, in general, wasn’t taught in my family. Grace was a foreign custom completely unfamiliar to me. The amazing thing, truly, about Grace is that as I learned to accept it from God? I was able to start giving it away.
Even, and especially, to my father.
Over the years and decades, I kept a small door open. Casual communication at best, but it was something. A step toward healing.
Then came the call; news that he was dying. I would never see him again. I couldn’t go to the funeral continents away, nor comfort his loved ones I’ve never held. And I felt angry. Furious. Heartbroken. Relieved. Self-righteous. Empty and full, sorrow and rage.
He stole our life together; I was convinced.
I was convinced; He hadn’t changed at all.
Then God gently whispered to me, “How do you know that?”
I don’t, of course. I am making assumptions based on limited facts. Truth seeps in that perhaps his current choices, are to protect the innocent in his “new” role as Father. Husband.
Not to hurt me; but to protect them. Oh Jesus, be near me now I prayed. My heart softens. I don’t want to forgive him. He doesn’t deserve it. I recognize that is the easy way, the comfortable way to feel.
It is familiar and feels safe. But I remember things, important things.
He sometimes tried to apologize when he made mistakes, I refused them. He tried to call those years before he left, to regain a position in my good graces. I dug my heels in harder and refused them. He remained jovial and tried to be positive, it felt like a slap. A denial of my feelings.
I had no understanding that he perhaps felt helpless to know what to do.
From across oceans we had heated discussions. Letters and words that could not be reversed. All angry from my side, accusing. All denial from his side, flippant. A shallow truce was called and years went by.
Then the message came. His time was here. I broke down and called, to hear his voice for the first time in two full decades. I was terrified. What would I say? Who would answer the phone? How do you call someone that is dying, to say goodbye, when there is nothing settled. None of the things you waited a lifetime for.
The penetrating sorrow at not being able to understand his words as cancer had destroyed his mouth, his illness stealing from me any comfort I might have gained. It was as if he was talking underwater, so unintelligible were his words. But, I knew that my words were bringing him great joy; that tone was clear.
I cried, “Dad…I love you. Please, tell me you know Jesus so I can hope to see you again one day.” Unintelligible words tumbled from his mouth. No promises, no guarantee. An impossibly, that had to be it. I had to hang up the phone.
Here I am with a void only he could have filled. A unique puzzle piece designed for him. And he had one for me. The puzzle was not put together on earth; I pray it will be beautiful in Heaven.
For I see now, it was easy to blame him. He was the adult, yes- but I did not soften. I would not let him in because he would not apologize.
What did that gain me? Self-righteousness is little comfort to a hurting heart. I hold part of the responsibility for this break, not for the fissures that began, not even for the cracks that splintered in every direction. I was a child, after all. But as I grew into an adult, a woman of God, I could have built a stronger bridge perhaps.
Today, I choose compassion. For a man out of time, for those he left behind. For the family that is by his side, suffering deeply. Each family grieving for different reasons, and ultimately, for a different man. I will not blame him any longer. I can’t know what is in his heart, and I won’t waste another minute of my life believing lies. That I am right, he is wrong.
Nothing is that simple. It’s a tragic love story gone wrong. No fairytale ending, but hopefully a peace in his heart. I am humbled with gratitude for a God that would help me continue to learn, to understand more about the human condition. For grace, not only for him- whom He loves as His own son- but for me, his lost child. We both lost in this fight. There are no winners between us.
My story does have a happy ending, in a different sense. My life is rich and blessed with love. Each year my heart heals, the cracks covered with softness. One day, God will complete my puzzle. I pray we will see each other again. With no pain between us.
I’ve learned so much through this journey. These days I choose not to allow any negative memory of my father invade my thoughts. God is teaching me to replace them immediately with the happier memories. That is where healing comes. Letting go of the pain we have held on to for so long. That isn’t the plan for us as His children. Harboring a non-forgiving heart leaks out and destroys so many other areas. We can’t know true peace until we give it up, and let it go.
Psalms 147:3 He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.
I share the story on my blog of how this tragedy ended. A mysterious letter came one day from that far away land. From my father’s wife of 20 years, whom I’d never had contact with. She told me he loved me. That he cried when he’d hear from me. That he went to the airport once to come back and visit, but was too scared of what he’d find. That he read his Bible.
Nothing could have prepared me for this; a healing that surely God orchestrated to provide something good from something beautiful. A few months after he passed, I was in an antique mall, flipping through old postcards. There were 2 random, dusty ones from a state far away. The places I had the best memories with my father.
I purchased them, and determined to make a scrapbook page with them. Celebrating what I liked about being with my dad. Recording some of our happy times. And for the rest of my life? I will choose those. That is where God wants me to live.
In the rest of His arms as my true father.
Finally, finally, I am ready to climb in with an understanding of Abba, Father. To live in deep gratitude for his healing gift of forgiveness.
Christa Sterken is passionate encouraging woman to pursue a life well lived. You can join her in the journey at christasterken.com, a fluff free place to talk about real issues.
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Forgive me Lord and help me to forgive. Like you did at the flogging of Your only Son and our Savior Jesus, like You did at the Cross where You designated and called Your obedient Son to lay down His life…for me, for love that conquers it all. El Shaddai You are completely capable of handling the delicate scars and fissures of my healing, broken heart. In admiration and adoration I ask You to continue this in me Lord. Only with You, only in You. For you do indeed turn broken into a thing of beauty, for Your Glory, Amen!
Thank you for the privilege of sharing my story ♥
Chills and tears!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Your vulnerable soul screams on the screen to minister to broken, hopeless hearts. No hopelessness now, you’ve pointed them in the right path, God’s good and faithful servant.
I love, “assumptions based on limited facts”…that’s really filling my thoughts.
I love you. I can’t wait for you to show me, if you will, your postcards and what you made with them. Wow!
Your writing makes a huge difference.
Thank you for opening your heart and sharing your story with us. I love how God is helping you as only he can in such a hard situation. I too, wish I had a handful of memories with my dad, instead of the hard ones. But, I am thankful for a few that I do have.