I know that I grew up with a good father. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but there wasn’t much to complain about. I know that in my adulthood, emotional maturity has been stunted. A sort of codependency that fails to rid itself. Being attracted to men who really aren’t good for me. It wasn’t until recently that I realized that what minor wounds from my dad I carried actually connected with my inability to be a healthy adult. I had always put the fault of my past pains onto my mother and aunt. They did things that actively hurt me. But a passivity to act can wound just as much as an intentional arrow. I’m finding I’ve been a victim of such hurt.
My father loved me. He cherished me. But he also had moments where he was silent. When there was a family crisis, he often became absent. Scared that his own rage may make the situation worse, he would walk out or drive off. From his perspective, he was probably just trying to cool down steam, so he wouldn’t make the situation worse. But from a daughter’s perspective, I often felt that I had emotional issues that were too much for him to handle.
My father was always your go-to fix it kind of man. If there was a problem, he stepped up to find a viable solution. But then, if the problem was unsolvable, or if a plan had to change, or someone disagreed with how it should be dealt with, then my father would become firmly agitated. There was a hint of control, and it wasn’t okay unless we stuck to the plan. Unfortunately, the world often doesn’t abide by our script. It was hard for him to be flexible.
My father has been an example to me of living a real walk with Jesus. He is down to earth but trusts God with all his heart. He has been reading his Bible daily and is bolder about stepping up to pray for people’s situations when things arise. I have always admired that he can share godly wisdom in a way that can be swallowed in a bar. In some respects, I aim to be like him. However, he didn’t always have this spiritual strength (and what strength he does have, sometimes, I’ve sensed a hint of straining, like he is trying to conjure something in his own ability).
Growing up, I was the head of the house. I was the spiritual rock. If there were biblical questions, my parents turned to me. If my parents had concerns about raising kids, my father turned to me. If my parents were fighting, they used me as a messenger between them. Communication has never been a strong suit. During high school, it became aptly clear that while I had my own emotional burdens, I couldn’t fully express them aloud; furthermore, I had to shoulder the rest of my family’s weight. When my father was emotionally pressed, he would turn to me for comfort, not my mother.
My father was good at speaking wisdom. There were many things concerning the secular parts of life that I could - and still- go to him for. However, when it came to confrontation, he was quiet. I have written about the words that were spoken to me by family members that had driven daggers into my heart. I have failed to mention that my father (and my mother) never put a stop to it. Maybe I didn’t say anything. But I think I mentioned it here and there. They didn’t tell them to stop. They didn’t speak to my identity and worth in Christ, so I was left wandering in church legalism, wondering what God really wanted of me.
As I have become an adult, there were several negative effects. My own speech was silenced. I became a mumbler when there was anger in a conversation. I lacked confidence that I could share my opinion. And if I did become confident, and was angry, my words had a bite. I have become easily defensive; if I was not spoken to or listened to, rage filled me to the point of violence.
I have felt a pressure to have all the answers for people. I didn’t allow myself to not have a comment or solution, while in public. And although I have had my own wrestlings concerning faith, I have failed to allow people to sit in silence so they can ponder on questions and come to their own answers. I don’t let others struggle, and my instinct to jump up and help is an effort to take care of people. I hide my own vulnerability, because I have believed it was selfish to be in need. After all, I have believed that others can’t take care of me.
When it comes to romantic desires, I admit that I have fallen. Maybe not physically, but certainly in the mind. There is an ache in my heart that I just want to know I can have a safe place to be comforted, listened to, walked with, and protected. So, I have imagined myself as a protagonist who finds a man who does all those things. However, the catch is the man is often someone who doesn’t initially believe in Jesus, so the protagonist (me) has to encourage the man to love Jesus. Why the elaborate scheme? Because, having to bear the brunt of the spiritual weight growing up, I also have believed that no godly, healthy man would actually want me. The only man that could possibly be interested in me is one I’m going to have to carry in faith.
There is a part of me that is bleeding out. I know I need to grieve the reality of my pain. But I also know I can’t stay wallowing. I know that because of having been hurt, I too, have sinned. Repentance and redemption are needed. My heart still begs the question, “Who can I go to?” I’m so used to taking care of things myself. I don’t trust well, even though I know I have another Father who is actually perfect in every way.
I know that I need to go to Him. He is a Father who won’t run away when the storm inside me refuses to be quenched. He can comfort me. I can depend on Him (if I would just allow myself to). He won’t allow me to stay in my atrophied state; He will stretch me, encourage me, and will give me the words to speak. I don’t have to remain voiceless. Now if I could just learn that I can go to Him, instead of trying to carry everything.
A bleeding sheep wandered 
