It's the only picture I have of him. Dusty, shoved to the back of the shelf, I look at it from time to time, trying to see a trace of myself. Is it the shape of the eyes, the bright smile, or the too broad forehead? I gaze intently and try to grab hold of something that says "This is where I came from," this is how I "look like my Dad."
But trying to look for similarities in his face feels as flat as the one dimensional image before me. The picture of this man has not been cherished. No one has rubbed off the gold gilt from the frame because of excessive handling. No greasy fingerprints have been left on the photo from an adoring princess, because this man stepped out of my life, to move on to a different one.
Picture after picture rolled by me of loving fathers on my Facebook feed last week, and I traced my friends features in the men that they call "Dad," rejoicing with them over a dad that loved them, a dad that decided to stay.
The hardest memory of my dad was years later, when I met him for an attempt at some sort of reconciliation. He told the story of 3 year-old-me waiting patiently outside for him to come home. "That's MY daddy!" I used to tell the kids, when he came around the corner. Why did he mention that? A moment of regret? It just made me feel worse.
Fortunately, In these last few years, I have come to a deeper understanding of being God's beloved child, and the memory of my biological dad fades more and more into the background. As I walk deeper into the love God has for me, the disappointments and failures of the past have just made more places in me that God can fill with himself. He is a perfect father, and I will always be his completely loved, and cherished child.
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