My biological father left us when I was six years old.
From that moment on, our home—our lives—were marked by a quiet resilience. My mother, left to raise four children on her own, never voiced bitterness. She never spoke ill of the man who gave us life, yet gave little else. I can only imagine the ache she must have carried—especially in moments when our table was bare, and mouths still needed feeding. I, the oldest, witnessed her resolve, her silence, her strength.
My father was not absent in the absolute sense. We had contact—six to ten times a year, scattered throughout seasons. But his support, his presence, his fatherhood... was minimal. As a child, I craved more than brief visits or occasional calls. I needed a protector, a provider, a father in the fullest sense.
And yet—despite all he lacked, I choose not to live in the shadow of ill-will. I have come to believe that one of the most disrespectful things a man can do is not something visible, but something painfully absent: the failure to provide for his own children. To be physically alive but emotionally and practically unavailable is a quiet form of betrayal.
But God, in His mercy, has given me a gift: the capacity to remember good will. To choose good will.
I choose to hold onto seven moments—seven simple, sacred events my father gave me. Seven memories that break through the heavy fog of disappointment and allow shafts of sunlight to pour through. They are not perfect, not even sufficient—but they are mine. And I treasure them.
I remember building and exploring in a dune buggy with him, laughter echoing as we bounced through rivers and over dunes ~~ I remember the honor of receiving batting lessons from Babe Dahlgren—yes, the Babe Dahlgren who succeeded Lou Gehrig. ~~ I remember my very first backpacking adventure into the Sierra Nevada, up to Silliman Pass in Sequoia National Park—a moment of wonder, of majesty, of connection to something greater than myself.
And there were more—perhaps quiet, perhaps small—but each one a thread in the fabric of a complicated relationship. A fabric I could easily rip apart in anger… but instead, I choose to mend with gratitude.
Thank You, Father in Heaven, for these memories. Thank You for helping me hold onto these moments—not because they erase the pain, but because they remind me that good will is a choice. One I make not because my earthly father deserved it, but because You, my Heavenly Father, poured it into me.
Where ill-will should have reigned, good will rises instead. That, too, is a gift—a reflection not of him, but of You in me.
Should I not ... Because of His undeserved Goodness ... Should I not ... Return goodness to others 'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me
Your goodness is running after, it's running after me
With my life laid down, I'm surrendered now
I give You everything
'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me
Finding "Good Will"—at times, it feels
almost impossible to imagine.
And yet... it’s often tucked
within the folds of another’s life, quietly waiting to be
noticed.
More often than not, it’s there—if only we are
willing to look beyond the momentary distractions,
beyond the
noise, the wounds, the unmet expectations.
Good will may not
shout. It rarely demands attention.
But if we are still enough…
open enough… humble enough…we just might find it—
not in
the grand gestures, but in the quiet mercies.
A memory … A
gesture … A simple act of presence once offered.
And
sometimes, that is enough to carry us through.