His Beloved by Gloria Guest

“You are My beloved Son; in You I am well pleased.” Luke 3:22

I have always been awestruck over this particular piece of scriptural information given when Jesus was baptized and have wondered why it seems to be so often overlooked when the narrative is told.
Seriously. A voice…GOD’S voice was audibly heard from Heaven for all to hear saying just how pleased He was with His Son. And it was before Jesus even began His earthly ministry. That’s validation.
This portion of scripture stands out so clearly to me, likely in large part, because I never received validation in my life from my earthly father. It’s ironic then that this blog post topic has come up the week before Father’s Day. I’ve struggled to write it.  I have written quite a lot over the years about my mother but I have never shared publicly about my father.
Until now.
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  The photo depicts a little girl of less than two years old sitting on a tricycle. Her feet fumble to touch the pedals and her little hands grasp for the handle bars.  She is far too young to be able to ride it, but that doesn’t seem to matter. You see, her father’s large hands are also shown in the picture. With a firm grip over her hands on the handle bars he is guiding the bike for the child. All will be well. With her father’s help she will be okay.

That little girl in the picture is me and the large hands belong to my father. If only life had gone on to be as simple and loving as it appears to be in that picture. However that was not the case. My father, unhealed from years of abuse he suffered as a child at the hands of his own father, was not able to give me the love, guidance or validation I so longed to receive as his daughter. In fact it was quite often the opposite; abusive, demeaning words were hurled my way whenever I displeased him or even when I hadn’t. This is only the bare bones of what life was like in my home when I was growing up. Not only was I not validated but I cannot remember a time when I was not afraid of my father.
I was always a creative child but to my father it didn’t matter. There were no words of praise or acknowledgement. I came upon my ability to write by placing in a national writing contest when I was in high school. This piqued my interest and over the years I’ve sporadically pursued it; including a stint as a reporter. It has all been a challenge for me and at times I have felt my confidence in my craft grow while at other times, usually during times of stress, I have felt weak and incompetent and wished God had never given me this gift.

Have I ever felt God’s pleasure when I write?  Any time I’ve stepped forward in my writing in spite of great fear I have felt His presence.  Is His presence the same as feeling His pleasure though? It certainly wasn’t with my earthly father. In fact I used to try to avoid my father’s presence as much as possible.     

This is the dis-connect that unfortunately occurs for those of us who were abused by our father’s. It’s hard to then go on and see our heavenly Father in a loving light; that He would actually be pleased with us. Most of the time it seems far too good to be true.

And so for me; I must go by faith. I believe I do feel growing glimmers of God’s pleasure but just as assuredly I still also push them uncomfortably away. Most of the time I simply choose to believe that He is pleased with me. A favorite bible verse when I attended bible school became Ephesians 1:6 “to the praise of the glory of His grace, by which He made us accepted in the Beloved.”

God called Jesus His Beloved and feels pleasure with Him. Through Jesus I have become accepted in the Beloved. I am God’s Beloved. Therefore He is pleased with me.

If I’ve learned even one thing through all I’ve been through it is that ultimately my relationship with God is not based on feelings or what I can necessarily always observe in my circumstances.  It is based on faith.  “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” II Corinthians 5:7

 I  look to God with  confidence that His strong hands will guide me. All will be well. With my Father’s help I will be okay.

 He might even be pleased ;)

*scripture verses from NKJV

On Daddies - Lynda Schultz

I had a friend who refused to go to church on Mother’s Day. Her mother was dead. She had never been a mom and somehow she couldn’t bring herself to “rejoice with those who rejoice” (Romans 12:15).

That experience gives me pause for thought when Father’s Day rolls around. Many people have had “daddy damage” and Father’s Day must be clouded with pain and bitterness for those who haven’t been able to deal with those issues.

As much as we’d like people to focus on the qualities of God the Father rather than on Daddy the Dastardly, it’s often hard to take the leap from the physical to the spiritual. When you need a hug from dad you need, well, a hug from dad.

My father was not abusive. He was simply not demonstrative. I don’t remember a lot of hugs or words of affirmation from him. But I am thankful for other signs that remind me of who he was behind that wall of detachment.

He worked hard to provide for his family.

He only spanked as a last resort and never raised his voice except in defense of his family.

He made sure we got safely off the train when our sleeper car was set on fire by a careless smoker.

He played Crokinole with me.

He never complained about mom’s cooking (He never complimented it either—much to mom’s disgust!) but he ate everything on his plate.

He went to church every Sunday and people say he had the best handshake of any of the ushers.

He cried when I graduated from Seminary, but not in front of me!

No “biggies” but a lot of little things that add up to a good dad for whom I have always been grateful to God, especially since there once existed a possibility that he wouldn’t be my dad at all. Before mom began to get serious about dad, she dated his brother. I’m sure Uncle Eddie’s daughters thought he was wonderful—but I’m glad I wasn’t one of them. If I had been, this story would have been a whole lot different.

Sometimes God my Father is like Dad my father. He goes quietly about the business of looking after me without my being necessarily aware that He’s there. It’s not up to Him to make me aware of that presence; it’s up to me to count on Him being present and to remember that His thoughts about me are a numberless as the sands of a thousand beaches (Psalm 139:18).

I’m grateful for both of them.

A Bad Father Is Better Than None - Bruce Atchison

Father's Day can be a lonely time for children deprived of their dads through divorce or death. While their peers are happily making cards and buying presents, these unfortunate children feel unfairly excluded.

My dad was far from perfect but he occasionally demonstrated his fondness for me. In my Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, I wrote of one sublime moment when I felt that rarely-experienced parental bond strongly. In the following vignette, I had just been flown home for the summer holidays after six months at Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind in Vancouver, B.C.

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I felt glad when I met Dad at the airport but my joy turned to disgust when he insisted on stopping at a bar on the way home. He had left me many times before in the Volkswagen with nothing to do, occasionally for hours, while he had fun with his friends. Now Dad kept me waiting once more, delaying my arrival. As my father drove through Fort Saskatchewan, the Volkswagen stalled and refused to start. After he tried to revive the engine and only succeeded in wearing down the battery, he slammed his fist in disgust on the dashboard.

It was fortunate that the breakdown happened by Ray's Auto Body Shop, a place where I often played. The old cars were extremely entertaining to sit in. I spent many happy hours in the yard, driving to many wonderful places in my imaginary world, whenever the adults weren't watching.

"Well, I guess that's it for the car. Let's walk the rest of the way home," Dad suggested. "I'll phone the shop and they can fix it." I agreed and Dad unloaded my suitcases.

"Is that too heavy for you?" he asked as I picked up a case with each hand.

"It's alright, Dad. I'm a big boy now."

The walk home in the warm sunlight was one of those sublime moments in my life. I felt that father-son bond as we talked and strolled through the familiar streets of my home town. "I wish Dad was like this all the time," I thought. I heartily longed for a real dad and not an alcoholic who occasionally hit Mom.

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Deliverance from Jericho contains many more vignettes of what life was like in that government-run institution. These range from poignant experiences of homesickness to hilarious incidents of mischief. This 196-page paperback, containing 6 black and white photos, is available through the PayPal-equipped InScribe website.