I was in my twenties when I met the father who gave me life. Up until that point, all I had were the stories—his drug addiction, the long nights he spent away, his propensity for alcohol. It’s all I knew of him, the only tangible clues I had to the mystery that left me questioning all of my life.
And it was there, in a dimly lit restaurant, that I sat across from him and saw the stories etched into his face for the first time. I saw the shame in his eyes and heard the remorse in his voice. And it became clear that the stories I had heard were the stories he was still living out. The drugs, it seemed, still held the spotlight in his life.
At first, I wanted to run. I wanted to remove my presence from his life like he from did ours so very long ago, to walk away from the sin he was perpetuating.
Yet, something called me deeper.
It began as an invitation, a follow-up email to our meeting with an I hope you’re doing well sort of quip. And then it grew. It grew into swapping stories and answering deeply held questions. It grew into love.
I’ll never know what sort of impact our tiny relationship had on my birth father because he passed away a few years ago. I only know of the impact it had on me. I know of the broad capacity of love and the profound significance of mercy.
Sister, I don’t know the tax collectors who may be sitting at your table, or whether you also feel the need to run from their presence. I only know that a deep mercy comes when we choose to love.
So, pull up a chair. Let us share His love.Let us share His love. // @iambritcal Click To Tweet
Thank you for being here.
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