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Our local newspaper was sponsoring an essay contest, "Why My Father Is the Best," and since I was teaching a high school writing class, that was my assignment. All students but one were busily writing. Julie stared stone-faced at the wall as her pen rolled off her desk and clattered to the floor.
"Need some ideas to get started, Julie?" I prodded.
"I'm not doing this assignment!" she stated flatly. "My dad's dead."
"Is there another man you could write about then? A grandfather, maybe, or an uncle or stepfather?"
"I've had four stepfathers and they all abused me. Now my mom's new boyfriend has moved in with us." The venom in her voice made me shiver.
Not knowing how to respond, I silently pleaded with the Lord for help.
"Julie," I whispered, kneeling down beside her desk so only she could hear me. "Just because your father's dead doesn't mean you can't write about him. Pretend he's here right now. What would you tell him?"
She studied me for a few moments, then nodded. For the rest of the class, her pen scratched furiously across page after page of notebook paper. When the bell rang, Julie brought her essay to me.
"May I read it to you?" she asked quietly.
I sat down to give her my whole attention. What she read to me was a profoundly intimate love letter from a daughter to her father. Every word had been dug from the deepest level of her soul. She ended by saying, "Though you died before I could know you, you are the best father in the world. I love you, Daddy."
I've never forgotten that conversation with Julie. I, too, knew what it was like to grow up without a dad, but I never had to endure a parade of men through my home. In fact, I was so young when he died, and my mother was such a positive force in my life, that I honestly didn't feel bad about not having a father.
It wasn't until the birth of my own sons that I realized what I'd missed. One afternoon my husband, Steve, swept Tyler up in a huge bear hug and swung him around in his arms while Tyler squealed in delight.
So that's what I missed! I thought as unexpected, jagged grief brought tears to my eyes. It was then, nearly twenty years after his death, that I began to grieve for my father.
For some time I floundered in the world of "what might have been." The most often-repeated phrase in my mind became If only I'd had a father. Then a Bible verse in Romans brought my self-pity to an abrupt halt. It said we've been "adopted into the bosom of God's family" and that we call "to him 'Father, Father.' For his Holy Spirit speaks to us deep in our hearts and tells us that we really are God's children" (Rom. 8:15-18, TLB).
The familiar words suddenly became rich with new meaning. I had a father! And he would never leave me: not through death, divorce, abuse, or abandonment … not ever! I smiled heavenward as the security of those words wrapped around me in a warm hug.
I have a Father. And on Father's Day, he is the one I celebrate.
Copyright © 1997 by Christianity Today International/Today's Christian Woman Magazine.
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