Like My Father

For my only true Father in heaven on Father’s Day

God created humankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them, male and female he created them.

Genesis 1:27

We all have a Father, and we were made to look like Him. When we know who He is, we will know who we are.

It was almost Halloween, and my mother asked me to climb up in the attic to find the plastic jack-o-lanterns we always toted around to collect candy. I was flattered by her request. I had never been trusted to go into the attic before. My sister and I had been severely warned never to go there for fear of stepping in the wrong spot and crashing through the ceiling into the rooms below.

She trusts me now, I thought to myself with a blush of pleasure and grown-up smugness.

Grabbing the long, yellowed cord, I pulled the door in the ceiling down and awkwardly unfolded the stairs. Making sure they sat snug on the ground, I gingerly placed my foot on the first step. Convinced they were sturdy, I climbed higher, groping for the light mother had promised was there. 

With a poof of dust, the bulb unveiled a world of intrigue and mystery. Piles of old boxes crouched in the corner, a broken chair sat forlorn, a steam trunk stood stout and grumpy, its leather handles cracked from the heat. The room had a sense of business interrupted, as if my appearance had caused them to pause in mid-debate over their state of abandonment. I was mesmerized. Careful to place my feet only on the wooden floor sections, I made my way deeper in, examining everything as I went along. 

Reminding myself of the task at hand, I snapped out of my reverie and resumed searching for the orange Halloween buckets. I wanted to be a good girl and please my mother with a job well done.

Just as I spotted them, a book fell at my feet, knocked over by my clumsy caution. The once elegant red cover was etched in gold, its pages yellowed brown paper. The book was stuffed with pictures meticulously pasted into tiny black corners. And each one was covered with my mother’s handwriting and another I didn’t recognize.

I had stumbled upon, quite literally, my baby book. I sat down right where I was and began to leaf through its fragile pages, my mouth agape at what I saw. I had never seen myself as a baby before that moment. The first three years of my existence were a carefully shouted mystery, my father absent from my life. Mother had long since remarried and we never spoke of my biological father.

Then I turned a page, and there he was. My father.

I gasped in shock.

He looks exactly like me.

Slamming the book shut, I grabbed it, forgetting the jack-o-lanterns. Emerging from the attic, I called to my mother and showed her what I’d found.

“You can have it. Now, where are those jack-o-lanterns?” 

She seemed very calm and casual considering I had just discovered why I look like I do and read words written by my very own real father in his own hand.

I could not believe my luck. I could have it!!!!

Laying my new treasure gently on the ledge I scrambled back up and retrieved the jack-o-lanterns. Closing the door with a slam, I grabbed the book once again and raced to the bathroom.

The bathroom had a lock on the door, and I had private business to attend to.

Turning to the page with his college photo, I removed my father’s picture. Holding it up to my face, I leaned close into the mirror and stared from him to me and back again.

That’s my nose, I thought as I looked at his and traced mine with a trembling finger.

That’s my hair! I laughed as I looked at his dark curls and ran my hand through my identical ones.

Those are my eyes! I marveled as I looked at his, framed in dark lashes.

My mother and sister both have red hair. People often commented to me when they looked at us together, “You must look like your father.” But until today, I’d had no way of knowing. It didn’t feel like a compliment when they said that. I felt odd, outside, unacceptable. For so many reasons. I wasn’t sure who I was.

I never met my father. But I do know I look like him. That day a piece of my identity was restored deep inside.

I have met my heavenly Father. He came to me in a small, rural church at around the same time I found my baby book. Through the words of a country preacher who taught the Bible, I learned I was made in my heavenly Father’s image and He loved me so much He sent His son Jesus to die on the cross for me. So I would know who I was.

Thinking back on it as I tell this story, the timing strikes me as an act of extravagant compassion and love.

God cares for the fatherless. He sees them. He knows them. He wants them to know who they are, created in His image to be loved and accepted, not abandoned. #FathersDay #insteadofshamehonor Share on X

Over the years as I learned who God was, I learned who I was.

He is the Truth (John 14:6). I was made to walk in Truth (Psalm 51:6).

He is Life (John 14:6). I was made to walk in new life (Romans 7:6).

He is forgiving. I am forgiven (1 John 1:9).

He was sent to remove my shame and give me honor instead (Isaiah 60:7). I am honored in His sight (Isaiah 45:4).

I frequently hold His picture up and study it, looking to see how I resemble Him. I want to look just like my Father.

Happy Father’s Day, my true Father. Thank you for rescuing me from shame and teaching me who I am. Honored. Loved. Accepted.

@audreycfrank

Lord, thank you for being a father to the fatherless on Father’s Day. Amen.

Has abandonment by an earthly father filled you with shame? Write to me at audrey@audreyfrank.org and let’s talk about who God says you are. Honored. Loved. Seen.