Daddy

Papa, Dad, Daddy…

These are names I’ve heard thrown around willy-nilly at my home church to refer to God. Admittedly, when I hear Daddy—especially—I cringe a little. Okay, a lot. I tell myself and those around me that I’m balking because I believe God deserves more reverence than “Daddy”. But here’s the thing…I’m flat out lying. I’m telling myself and others something that isn’t true, because I don’t want to admit to myself and them that I can’t bring myself to refer to God as the before mentioned moniker because of the lack of an earthly daddy in my life. Papa is the one option out of the three that I can reconcile in my head and heart to refer to God. More on this in a bit.

First, I should explain why I feel this way. Growing up the only father I knew was a man called Cheesy. Don’t ask about the nickname, because I have long since forgotten or blocked out the meaning behind his nickname. This man was the only father I knew until I was 12. Around that time my parents decided it was time to tell me that he was not my biological father. Talk about having the rug pulled out from under you. I say that, but truthfully I felt a great swell of relief, while simultaneously being floored by the revelation. Part of me was saying “Then who is my real dad?” But a bigger part of me was saying, “Well, now I don’t have to worry about his feelings when I tell him I’m good without him in my life.” That’s exactly what I did—through my mom—not long after the revelation.

Cheesy was an absentee father at best (note that I can’t call him “dad”, even now). He was around between two to four times a year. Four was if I was really lucky. Since my birthday was a week from Christmas, he could essentially kill two birds with one stone by bringing me a birthday/Christmas gift. So that was one visit checked off. Visit two was usually when we spent time with his parents—my second set of grandparents for those keeping score. When I was younger, that was fine. As I grew up, I started to realize that he was no more a father to me than a squirrel to a moose (Rocky to Bullwinkle?).

So one day, as we were waiting for him to show up for the obligatory birthday/Christmas combo meeting, I remember saying to my mom, “I don’t think I want or need Cheesy in my life. Could you tell him? I don’t think I want to talk to him either.” And so it was that Cheesy was out of my life.

Here’s the thing though, I wasn’t without father figures. In fact, I had a plethora of them. Like a plethora of pinatas.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the father-not-having heaviness.

I still didn’t have a father. Father figures are great, but absent fathers can outweigh present father figures. And as many father figures as I had, not having a father really messed with me over the years. I realize I sound like a bit of cry baby here. I mean there are so many children out there who are in far worse circumstances than I can imagine. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that not having an actual dad around really sucked.

Okay…moving on.

This is where things get heavier, so if you want to stop here I understand.

When I was 18 my parents finally told me about my real father. All I was told was that his name was Richard, and he “forced himself” on my mom. Oh, and they had a general idea of where he lived. I don’t know what comes to your mind when you hear the phrase “forced himself”, but only one thing comes to mine; rape. So first I find out the man I knew as my absentee father was not my real father, and now I’m told that I’m a product of rape. I can tell you that this revelation devastated me. It quickly planted a deep seeded hatred in me, and the roots grew deep down into my heart and soul. Information about my real father has since come to light in the past few years that has given me pause in my anger, and caused me to question the validity of the “truth” that I was told at 18. I will hold off on elaborating for now. Perhaps a later writing, when I can fully gather all my thoughts—and when more has been revealed as God deems me ready. For now, suffice to say for years the roots that grew in me squeezed life out of me. The hatred this revelation awoke in me was like a sleeping giant. Once awake, the damage done can be difficult to quell and repair.

I like to think I did a pretty admirable job of hiding that hatred, but it often reared its ugly head at the most ill-opportune times. It was a/the main cause for the breaking of many relationships that I destroyed. Wow…I just typed those words. when writing/typing, I usually say the words in my head as I express them. I’m kind of floored that I just admitted that I played the main role in destroying the relationships that were destroyed. I usually push blame off onto the other party(ies) involved, so as not to sound as much like a jerk. Huh…progress…who knew?!

Now back to my main point.

The anger and hatred I felt boiled over and strained my relationship with my mom, grandma (Mema) and uncle—just to name a few—for years. My uncle is the only one specifically mentioned who’s alive to read this, and if he is, he may be puzzled by the previous statement. I’m not. Remember, I said I thought I did an admirable job of hiding anger and hatred. I was not angry with, nor did I hate him or my mom and grandma. I simply lashed out at them with the anger I couldn’t express to either “father” I had known or known of. Thankfully God gave me infinite chances to mend those relationships. As He pulled me back toward Him, I finally opened my eyes to see those chances so that I could take them. Thankfully I had a few great years with my mom and Mema before saying goodbye to them. My uncle and I are closer than I ever thought possible now, and I have a renewed relationship with God to thank for that.

Not having an earthly father in my life also strained my relationship with my heavenly Father for the better part of 10 years, but God gave me infinite chances in my relationship with Him, just as he did with my parents. He did so because all He’s ever wanted was to be Abba “Daddy” to me.

I have Papa down. My prayers typically start with “Papa” or “Hey Papa”. “Daddy”…yeah…that’s a whole other story. Papa I can do. Papa makes God more personal to me. Papa is close enough to Pepa, which is what I called my grandpa, and Pop, which is what I called my great grandpa. Abba “Daddy” is a much more difficult moniker for me to use. It should be a term of endearment for God, but in my head and heart, it’s not a term that I can use with any good feelings.

 

I know God’s working on me though. He has been for a long time, and in the last few years, I’ve let Him dig deeper than ever. I don’t doubt the day will come when I readily go to Him using the term Abba “Daddy”. For the first time in my life, I am actually longing for and looking forward to that day.

 

I wasn’t going to end this with any questions, but I’d really love to read what you, the reader have to say on this subject. Do you struggle with using a term like Abba “Daddy” to refer to God? Why or Why not? If you aren’t comfortable sharing in the comments, lets grab coffee and talk sometime. I’d love to hear your story and tell you more of mine.

Thanks for reading.