I wish I could remember the first three years of my life. I wish I could play them back in slow motion and watch my father navigate the world. I wish I could see the dimples, placed perfectly on his cheeks, as he laughed at his own jokes. I wish I could see the moments that prompted his beautiful poetry. I wish I could remember our long drives circling the neighborhood to keep me from crying. I wish I could taste his southern style cooking that I hear about every holiday. I wish I could touch his face and cradle my head in the crook of his arm.
Most of my childhood daydreams were about my father. Sometimes I would lock myself in my room and practice saying the word 'Dad' because it felt so foreign to my lips as it fell awkwardly off my tongue. Other times I would hide away and watch the home movies that my grandmother gave me, searching for hints of who this man was.
I've seen the river where they scattered his ashes. I've cried over his memorial brick in Sentential Olympic Park. I've read his poetry and heard his stories. It's been nineteen years and it still hurts sometimes. I never understood how you could ache so much for something that you don't even remember. But I do.
I've spent the past ten years of my Christian life handing this ache to Jesus, only to find myself taking it back again. I spent years looking for something to ease the gnawing pain, just to avoid actually giving it away. I didn't want to surrender it. I just wanted to hold onto it without it hurting.
Month five of the World Race was a stunning time for me. I woke up extraordinarily early every morning to worship and watch the sunrise with my Creator. I got to know His heart in beautiful ways in the wee hours of the morning while the rest of my community was still asleep. He began to fill my heart with visions of our future together. He began to beckon healing from parts of my heart that I had long forgotten were hurting. He began to speak to me in dreams.
In one dream I was cooking in a rustic kitchen. The walls were paneled with wood and perfectly complimented the hardwood floors. I began to twirl and sway to myself as I made my way from the stove to the cupboards, skimming my socks on the hardwood. I hummed softly, a song that only I knew.
And then He came over to me. He looked like no one that I had seen before, but He was so familiar. He wore a cable knit sweater and some old Levis. His hair was dark and his eyes bright blue. In the dream, I knew He was my father, even though He bore little resemblance to my earthly father. The grin on His face felt like home. He held His hand out to me, asking me to dance. I took his hand in mine and he spun me across the floor. As we twirled about the room, I remember thinking, "So this is what it's like to have a father." Joy spread all throughout my mind and heart. He made a tender joke about my inability to let him lead and set me securely upon his feet. We slow danced this way for a while, my head resting on his shoulder.
"I love you," He whispered.
And I let His words bridge the span of my fatherless heart. All at once, I was whole.
Someday, I will see my father. I will hold his hand. I will play music with him. I will tell him that I understand. I will tell him that I've missed him every day that he has been away. I will let him call me "doodle" and I will get to laugh at his jokes. I will worship next to him for all eternity.
But even more beautiful is the Father that I know now. The Father that provides and heals and loves in ways too deep for my mind to comprehend. The Father that speaks in dreams and is so tender and intimate. The father that sets me on His feet when mine are too weary to go on.
I may not be able to remember the first three years of my life. But that's okay. Because what comes next is a glorious redemption. It is the story of a girl finding her father. The journey of an orphan's heart becoming whole. And I wouldn't trade that journey for the world.
