I sat at the desk , my daughter’s desk that I use until we can get a real office desk. It’s black in color and just the right size to hold my computer and text books. That day I sat there looking at the numbers and ran my finger over them. Friends had prayed courage over me and into me. But I wasn’t sure that I really had it in me. After one last deep breath I finally dialed the number.
Sometimes, reaching out isn’t for us but for the other person.
Sometimes, it is to give them the chance to say what they need to say.
Sometimes, it is freedom for them.
It’s been 32 years since I have talked to my dad.
I am still processing the conversation and his voice. Someday, I’ll write about it. Right now it is all a little raw and there are parts of my soul that can’t put into words what it feels like. There is one thing I can say for certain after these few weeks of re-playing the conversation.
God’s timing is perfect and God hears our prayers.
Even if it was a prayer you stopped praying long ago.
I remember– I had just turned eighteen and graduated high-school. Another year went by. Another milestone went by, another birthday went by. And I wondered if he ever thought of me or wanted to know me or what was wrong with me that he didn’t want me.
Time went on and I finally stopped asking and wondering and wanting to know the man that was my dad. I stopped praying for my dad.
I had to move on, I had to let go. I had to forgive, because…
My identity had become– “you’re not wanted.”
It was plastered on my forehead and I wasn’t even aware of it.
I spent years trying to prove I was good enough.
And it was killing me.
It was time to forgive and fully live.
It was time to see myself as God saw me.
32 years later I don’t believe those lies. And I know it is because of God.
Sure, there were times I wondered if I would ever be healed this side of heaven. I would make some progress and then just as the enemy would love, someone would make an unaware comment and it would leave me swirling and working to prove I was good enough.
It wasn’t until that phone call a few weeks ago, that I had seen I was healed. It was ever so slow that I didn’t even know and there were times that I’ll be honest, I’d cry out and plead with God to heal me, to not let me struggle with this my whole life.
When the call ended all I could think was if this happened any earlier in my life I would have been crushed But because my identity no longer says “not wanted” but “loved” I was able to stand.
As the call ended my heart broke into a thousand little pieces not because of rejection but because my dad needs freedom and Jesus.
Which brings me to my knees praying for my dad again.