From Abandonment to Acceptance 

A 3-year-old boy stood at the window and watched as his father climbed into the family car and drove away. 

Night after night, dad would return home from work, a bar or time out with friends and reenact a predictable scene. Though I understood little of the shouting and the cursing, I remember how he would chase around the house until he caught mom; then the physical abuse would follow. This time, however, was the worst of all. 

There were four little Whitings, all of us 13 or 14 months apart with the fifth one on the way. The emotions connected to the pregnancy multiplied the instability in the household, causing mom to cry even more than usual these days, whether dad was at home or not. We kids missed him through the day but were all troubled by what he brought to the family at night. This time he pinned her down, clenched his fist and hit her repeatedly, not being satisfied until he pounded her swollen womb as well. When she could catch her breath, she screamed so loudly that it seemed inhuman. My protective nature kicked in as I ran over and whacked him on the knee and yelled with vehemence, “You leave my mommy alone!” He shrugged me off and went out the door. I watched from the window as he climbed into the car. He had lost his license from a DUI but undeterred, he started it up and drove away. 

I stood there at the window watching and waiting for him to return. It is a funny thing that little people can be so forgiving of their parents. Even now I wonder at how a little person thinks because I actually wanted him to come back. He had driven away before, but this time seemed very different. It seemed final. How long did I stay at the window? A few minutes seem so long to a 3-year-old. What I remember is that I saw him coming back down the road, and I excitedly announced, “daddy’s coming!” But when he passed by the house and kept going, it was clear even to me that he was not returning. 

Mom walked to the neighbors to borrow a telephone. Then grampa with his old car showed up and took us to his house where we stayed for the next four months until the baby was born. We received no financial support from my father, nor did we hear anything about his whereabouts or activities. He simply disappeared.

A few years later mom remarried. She chose another angry man five years her younger who could not hold a job, slept much of his life away and quickly became an alcoholic. He deeply regretted buying into a relationship that included five stepchildren. He refused to eat with us at the table, demanded instead to be served in bed and habitually said, “10 or 20 of you kids get out of here.” 

A child’s self-image is largely affected by his father. Sadly, the fathers in my life dominated their families, had little to do with the children, had nothing to do with God, were angry most of the time, blamed us for their heavy drinking and disappeared on a whim. I didn’t think fathers liked me very much, nor did I think I had given them much reason to like me because I had never pleased anyone for very long. I was able to make a good first impression, causing most people to like me until they got to know me better. Then they would turn from me just like the other important people in my life had done. 

I also did not think God liked me very much; after all, he is a father. Yet, by the Holy Spirit, he called to me just the same. 

From my earliest years, I was drawn to know the God of the Bible. I walked to Sunday school when no one else in the family would go. (I cannot take credit for this, for the Father himself had placed that desire within me.) When the liberal church I was attending ended their Sunday school for the summer break, I walked to the only church in town that continued its program through the summer, the Advent Christian church. It was there that I heard the gospel message for the first time. When the preacher gave an invitation to come forward and invite Jesus Christ to take away my sins and to live within my heart, I hesitated only briefly before getting out of my seat and walking forward to pray. 

As time went by, I found myself becoming part of a new family. People were happy in this church family, unlike our family situation at home. Sunday was a break from the constant arguing, the messy house and the drunkenness. People here laughed together, sang happy songs and actually seemed to like each other. They would stand to their feet during a church service and “testify” (a new word to me) of how good God had been to them. I wanted to be with these people as much as possible, so I joined the choir, youth group and attended Sunday evening services. 

It became clear to me that God wanted me to become a pastor, so I studied at Berkshire Christian College and entered the pastoral ministry after graduation. It was a bit early to become a senior pastor at the ripe age of 23, but the biggest challenge I faced was not my lack of experience. The biggest challenge for me was my lack of a prayer life. I would preach and teach on the necessity of meeting personally with God in prayer, yet I had a very difficult time doing so. Some others with a similar issue might complain about finding the time or a quiet place to meet with the Lord, but those were not my excuses. I had plenty of time to meet with God and I had my choice of quiet locations. My excuse was something I dared not to mention to anyone, not even to myself. Every time I closed my eyes to the world around me and concentrated on God, I pictured him as being very disapproving of me. I would confess my sins, but it was never good enough. I always saw God as shaking his head, signaling that I would never measure up. I could not seem to gain his approval; he was, after all, a father. The Lord Jesus I could speak with, but the image of God the Father was a tough one for me to handle. He kept calling to me nonetheless, drawing me, until I allowed the healing to begin one unexpected night. 

It was Wednesday prayer meeting night in the northeast kingdom of Vermont, and though it was snowing quite heavily, I decided not to cancel the meeting in favor of the few who might venture out. As I had expected, there were only four of us present. We sang a couple of songs, and I asked the group what we might pray for. A little Pentecostal lady, who had joined us that evening said, “I want to pray for you!” Though I was not fond of the idea I, being the pastor, could not say no. She came around the back of my chair (I was not in the mood for this) and placed her hand on my head. Then she prayed in a way I had seldom heard before, “Oh, Lord. This young man has so much pain within him. So much pain … Give it to me instead.” I removed her hand from my head and protested, “No, don’t pray that way.” Thud! Her hand was quickly back on my head and forcing it downward. I had little choice but to comply. “Lord,” she continued, “So much pain. Walk back with us to the time of this deep hurt and bring your healing.” 

Walk back … walk back. With my eyes closed I saw a 3-year-old little boy standing at the window watching as his daddy left the family. The entire scene came back to mind, and I began to cry. In that prayer meeting I cried like a little boy who had just lost his father. The group then prayed prayers of assurance, that God the Father was not like that. He would never walk out on me. They prayed acknowledging his calling, that he had preserved me over the years and patiently drew me to him. Similar sessions followed, where I expressed forgiveness to the father-figures in my life, each one freeing me a bit more to accept the holiness and love of my heavenly Father.

Knowing God as my father has profoundly changed me. He sees me at my worst and still wants me. He pursued me, pardoned me, adopted me, justified me and is sanctifying me to be like Jesus. I now see a Father so pleased with me that he smiles, including me in many of his plans and winking knowingly when I’m awed by his handiwork.

There’s a profound freedom in knowing you are hand-selected by God — adopted, safe and secure for all eternity.