I Yearn for my Dad

I used to work in a nursery. I love children so much. Their innocence, their freedom, their carefree nature. It is something I deeply envy.

And there was this little girl.

She was tiny, but she had the biggest attitude. Sassy, confident, outspoken, and so direct for a 3 year old. She always knew exactly how she felt, and she had no problem making it known.

Usually, her mother would pick her up . But on this particular day, a man walked in looking for her.

He had a bouquet of flowers in his hands and the biggest smile on his face. He walked in with tunnel vision, looking for one person and one person only.

As soon as she saw him, she shouted, “Daddy!” and ran towards him.

And just like that, all her sassiness disappeared.

She became the sweetest little girl. She went around the nursery showing everyone her flowers, glowing with pride, joy, and safety.

It was beautiful to witness.

But then I felt a tear run down my cheek.

Because something I have realised lately is that behind every tear, every desperate cry for help, every subtle sentence carefully formed to raise alarm bells in people’s minds, there is one truth:

I yearn for my dad.

My heart ached watching her. I wondered what kind of girl I would have become if I had received that kind of love from my dad. I wondered how his love would have shaped me. How it would have softened me.

If he had been more gentle, more present, more of a father, what kind of woman would I be today?

Would I still be this fearful?

This defensive?

This anxious?

This insecure?

Despite everything he has done, all the pain he caused me and my family, the abandonment, the shame, the fear he placed inside of me, I yearn for my dad.

The man who looks like me.

The man who talks just as loudly as I do.

The man who is just as passionate as me, whose passion was often mistaken for anger.

The man who could debate about anything and somehow convince you that red was blue. The man who could walk into a room and dominate it without even trying.

If only he knew how precious he was in my eyes.

How much I wanted to be like him.

I was so proud to have him as my dad. He had an undeniable aura. Whether you liked him or not, you knew him. His voice had a certain power that forced your ears to listen.

And maybe that is what makes it hurt even more.

He is just like me.

And yet, he is so far from me.

He willingly walked away from me and robbed me of my femininity. He forced me to take on the role of the “Strong Independent Black Woman”. A title I have always deeply despised.

He forced me to take the back seat in my own life and focus on everyone else but myself. He forced me to work ten times harder than every other woman just to survive.

I never knew how to be still.

I never believed someone would rescue me.

I only knew how to fight.

I feel like I am still a little girl begging for her father’s love.

Still waiting and hoping that maybe one day I would also get flowers. That maybe one day I could also scream, “Daddyyyyy!” and show everyone how loved I am.

When I am sad, I just want a hug from him. Even though he rarely hugged me. Even a pat on the back brought comfort because it came from my dad.

He was mine.

And I was his.

I wonder who I would be if I did not have to carry so much.

If being strong was not my most praised attribute.

I think that is why I started writing.

I’m not good at articulating how I feel out loud. I’m not good at explaining how chaotic my mind is, or the simple fact that part of me still lives in the past.

Still twelve years old, trying to get my dad off my mum.

So I hoped writing would allow people to understand me better.

Maybe I hoped for sympathy. Maybe comfort.

Maybe I just wanted to explain myself and give language to my actions.

But what a flawed way of thinking.

Because somewhere along the way, I stopped only grieving my earthly father.

I started projecting his absence onto God.

I thought God was distant too. I thought He would only love me if I behaved perfectly. I thought He saw me the way my father made me feel: too much, too difficult, too broken.

But what I went through was not a sign of God’s absence.

The pain I experienced was not because I was neglected by God.

He saw it all.

And at the appointed time, He saved me.

Sometimes, the very thing that hurts you is the very thing God uses to save you. I don’t know if I would be here if my dad was still in my life. Though I yearn for him and my heart still loves him, I don’t know what could have happened.

And God is so kind that it will forever be an unknown.

You can go through bad things and still be taken care of by God.

Two things can coexist at the same time.

Through the beatings, the shouting, the pain, the cries, God was there.

God was not idle.

He heard me. And saved me from the person who was hurting me.

There are many things about walking with God that I do not understand. I have not figured it all out. I still have my moments of vulnerability. But in my weakness, He is made strong. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

God’s presence does not always mean the absence of pain. Sometimes it means He sits with me in it, holds me through it, and refuses to let it destroy me.

He bottled up all my tears. (Psalm 56:8)

He remembered the things I forgot.

God has kept me thus far.

And instead of living a life of thanksgiving, I used my trauma to excuse my bad character.

I lived in the past even though I had been delivered. I refused to live in the freedom that had truly been given to me. (Galatians 5:1)

Why do I hurt my own heart?

As I am writing this, I am still learning the lesson.

I am still accepting the fact that I may feel alone, but I am not alone.

My father may have left, but God never has and never will.

And though my heart still aches, to erase the pain would be to erase my father, and that is not possible.

So I will face the pain head on.

With God.

Trusting that He is big enough to handle my honesty.

Big enough to handle my broken heart.

Big enough to handle the parts of me that still feel like a child.

I want to live in freedom. I want to allow myself to truly be me, without using a screw face to guard my heart.

I do not have a perfect answer for all my questions.

But I do know this:

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.”  Isaiah 43:2

So yes, I still yearn for my father.

But I have gained something much greater.

A Father who will never leave me nor forsake me. (Hebrews 13:5)

And the truth is, sometimes I look at my dad and I see what pain can do to a person when it is not healed before God.

So lost in passion, anger, and desire that they completely lose themselves.

The only difference between me and my dad is that I have God. My dad is me without God.

And maybe that is why I yearn for him even more.

Because I get him. I understand what it feels like to be consumed by pain.

But I have grace to pull me through.

And that is what I’m learning.

That I can yearn for my earthly father and still be held by my Heavenly Father.

That I can grieve what I lost and still be grateful for what God gave me.

That I can admit I am hurting and still believe I am healing.

That I can still love my dad, still miss him, still wonder who I would have been if he had loved me properly, and still choose not to let his absence define the rest of my life.

I yearn for my dad.

But I am learning to rest in the Father who never left.