“Hey Dad, it’s me. I called to see if you know what you were doing 33 years ago today.”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“You were looking at me for the first time.”
The silence was broken with a tearful voice: “You’d think I’d remember that, huh? I guess it is August 8th. Happy birthday, Sis” (his longtime nickname for me). Dad had never forgotten my birthday before. I wasn’t upset, though—I knew he hadn’t been himself lately. I’d called a few days earlier and he’d asked (for the third time) if I knew what “the baby growing in my belly was yet.” I reminded him it was a boy, and he was just as shocked and excited as he was the other two times I told him. Something wasn’t right.
What I didn’t know, though, is that the last time I’d ever speak to my dad was on my 33rd birthday.
Not Like Other Dads
Two days later, on August 10, 2013, my husband came to me in the dining area, led me by the hand into the hallway, and said words I’ll never forget: “Carrie, your dad died.”
My eyes widened in disbelief. Deep down I’d known something wasn’t right with him, but still—my dad? It felt so surreal. You know your parents will die one day, but it’s hard to grasp what that means before it happens. It’s hard to grasp what it means after it happens. Losing those you love is very strange.
My dad wasn’t like the dads my friends had growing up. He’s not like the dad my children have. But he was what God gave me—and for that I’m thankful.
I remember curling up with him and falling asleep in his oversize red recliner he loved so much. He coached my sports teams, took us on vacations, and made sure we had the gifts we wanted at Christmas. He tried, but his resolve to be a good dad could only last so long.
I was 11 when he left me, my mother, and my brother. He became a man of self-love, doing what he pleased for the rest of his life. There were years he didn’t try to have a relationship with me, nor did he seem to care when I tried to have one with him. We weren’t his priority anymore. He was his priority.
And over time he became lonely and miserable. His evident misery is what God used to soften my heart toward him.
Heart Change
When I was a college freshman, the Lord convicted me about the way I felt about my dad. You’d think I was angry for what he’d done to our family, but I wasn’t—I was apathetic. I didn’t care anymore. He left us and I had no need to care about him.
But God changed my heart through a conversation with a non-Christian friend whose lifestyle had left him lonely and miserable. He felt he was at a breaking point. After our conversation, I returned to my dorm room with a heavy heart, praying for God to save my friend. Then I began to wonder how I could care so much about my friend’s salvation but not about my own father’s. God graciously used that conversation to melt my heart from deep indifference into inexplicable, unshakable love.
God graciously used that conversation to melt my heart from deep indifference into inexplicable, unshakable love.
Father to the Fatherless
One of the first things I learned was that if I was going to love my father, I’d have to forgive him. I had grown cold to the sting of his sins against me, but the wounds were still there. Only by remembering how much God had forgiven me was I able to begin extending forgiveness to my dad (Luke 7:47). Jesus loved his enemies, and he summons and empowers me to do the same (Luke 6:27–33).
The Lord also taught me that to love my dad, my expectations would have to change. Loving him like any lost person—not just as “Dad”—gave me freedom. I didn’t expect him to be a real father to me. He wouldn’t ever be that unless God changed his heart.
But I didn’t have to wait until that day to experience the love of a father.
God promises to be a “Father to the fatherless” (Ps. 68:5, NIV). My earthly father abandoned me, but my heavenly Father never will (Deut. 31:6). He promises to supply my every need (Phil. 4:19). He calls me his daughter.
The good news of the gospel isn’t only that Jesus forgives my sin but also that he brings me into God’s family and gives me the strength to love my earthly father—no matter what.
Unanswered Prayer
I prayed for my dad for years after God softened my heart toward him. I knew he was lost and desperately needed Christ, just like I did. I wanted him to experience freedom from the pain and loneliness I could so clearly see. I really believed he’d eventually see his need for a Savior. I believed he’d look back over his life, see where he’d failed, and find hope in the only place he could—Jesus! I prayed almost daily. I didn’t know when it would happen, but I was certain it would.
I shared the gospel with my father often. A month before he died, I sat in his house, tears in my eyes, as I shared the importance of loving God, knowing Christ, and admitting his need for forgiveness. He wasn’t convinced. It broke my heart, but not my faith.
That proved to be our last face-to-face conversation.
I was sad when Dad died, but even more, I was confused. Why didn’t God save him? What do 20 years of unanswered prayer say about God’s character?
Unexpected Peace
I still have unanswered questions. But I also have peace. My heavenly Father loves me more than I can imagine, and all he does is done in faithfulness (Ps. 33:4).
I still have unanswered questions. But I also have peace.
By the end, Dad knew I loved him, and I knew he loved me as much as he was able. He also knew the gospel. He knew where to go for mercy if he wanted it. I don’t know what the last few days of his life were like. I wasn’t there when he died. But I do know that as long as someone has breath, he can cry out to God—who delights in saving those who seek him—even if it’s with his final breath (Luke 23:42–43).
Though I don’t know if I’ll see my dad again, I know I can trust my heavenly Father. I rest and hope in the fact that when I see God face-to-face, I’ll lack nothing. Until that day, I take my anxious heart to his Word and find comfort in truths like this:
O LORD, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me. But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me. O Israel, hope in the LORD from this time forth and forevermore. (Ps. 131)
Losing my dad has been sad. His death changed my life forever. But in my sorrow I rejoice. The Lord will hold me fast.
A version of this article appeared on Garrett Kell’s blog, All Things for Good.