Sometimes Things Happen

I get so mad sometimes.

I’ll admit, sometimes it’s about stupid things, like traffic or something not going my way.

But sometimes it’s deeper than that. It’s more than things just not going my way. It’s things not being as they should be.

Take my relationship with my dad, for instance.


Let’s get real here. My dad is not as he should be. This isn’t a judgement (at least, I don’t intend it to be). It’s an observation.

My dad suffers from Major Depressive Disorder, otherwise known as clinical depression. He’s struggled with it for years, and the medicine he took exacerbated one symptom above all the rest: uncontrollable crying. He’s better now (by that I mean that he doesn’t cry all the time anymore), but the disease and the drugs have affected his brain.

He’s stubborn. Temperamental, strongly opinionated, and fragile.


Daddy’s aren’t supposed to be fragile.


Daddy’s are supposed to be strong. They’re supposed to protect and love, teaching their daughters that they are loved and special. They’re supposed to be the hand to hold, the shoulders to climb on, the chest to cry into. They’re supposed to be secure and stable and whole.


I’ve forgiven my dad in the past. I understand that a lot of these hurts have been caused by things that he couldn’t help, couldn’t control. My daddy got sick; he didn’t do it on purpose. If he could have chosen to get better faster, he would have.

But I still get angry sometimes. The magical yet dangerous”what-if” floats around in my head, poisoning my love for my father and attempting to destroy the peace that God is working in my heart.

I know that forgiveness is a process, a day to day denial of the presumed right to hold on to a wrong. But man, do I struggle with it. Especially when my dad comes to me and expects me to be his strength when he wasn’t able to be mine.

I know that forgiving doesn’t necessarily mean forgetting. I know that it’s okay to acknowledge the hurt that I feel, that my pain is valid. My heart contains the brokenness of a little girl whose father was always there and yet never present, a father who was trapped in past mistakes and misery while his daughter slowly withered in the background.

That is real. That matters.

But it is not the whole story.


“For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you received the Spirit of adoption, by whom we cry out,Abba, Father!‘” (Romans 8:15)

My Father–my true Daddy, the one who knit me together in my mother’s womb and who knew me before the beginning of time–is not finished with me yet. He will carry on to completion the good work he has begun in me, and in my earthly father.

My relationship with my earthly father has seen so much restoration since my heavenly Daddy began to teach me how to forgive him. I’m not bitter anymore (at least, not most of the time). I can spend time with him and not seethe on the inside. I can tell him I love him and mean it.

My pain is not the end of the story. Heck, I am not the end of the story. I am being swept up into a grander tale, a tale of hope and love and restoration of brokenness.

This world is full of things that are not as they should be.

But they won’t be that way forever.

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