The Stories I used to Tell Myself

stories

 

I started writing them in my head when I was about four years old, although the words never hit paper until I was about seven.

 

Stories… Faces changed. Far off lands varied. Plots differed one from the other–But two characters always stayed the same. There was always a little girl (me), and there was always a man.

 

But unlike most little girls who dreamt of meeting their Prince Charming, I dreamt of meeting a different man: my father.

 

Not my biological father, I already knew who he was–a broken human being whom I’d later come to understand had wounds of his own.

 

No, the man in my stories was different. He was a hero. And he loved me. I spent most of my time running away from him, but he always found me, and his response was always the opposite of what I expected.

 

Instead of shouting at me in anger or disowning me, he embraced me. It didn’t matter how far I’d run or how much trouble I’d put him through, he never stopped caring. He never stopped chasing after me. He never stopped embracing me. He never stopped loving me.

 

His looks changed a lot over the years (pretty much whichever TV hero I was enamored with at the time), but his character was always the same.

 

For the longest time I thought this man was purely fictional. I thought this loving father was too good to be true. Surely no one would ever want me that much. No father could ever forgive that much, love that much.

 

Years have passed, and my mind still drifts back to those stories from time to time… Although now I know who the man in the stories was. He exists. He’s real. He forgives me that much. He pursues me that much. He loves me that much.

 

His pursuit began long before I ever existed, and He signed the adoption papers the night He wouldn’t let a three and a half year old girl go to sleep until she had asked Jesus Christ to be her Savior.

 

The rest, as they say, is history. I’ve done a lot of running. I’ve done a lot of hurting. I’ve resisted His embrace; I’ve doubted His love, but He has never left me. He’s never given up on me. He’s never stopped loving me.

 

I finally got the Daddy I’d always wanted. And every day He takes me deeper and deeper into His love.

 

He was speaking to me through those stories all these years. He came to me in ways a child could see and understand. He told me those stories and He held me as I fell asleep.

 

The stories fade as I grow older, but He’s becoming more and more clear. Each day I learn something new about this Father of mine and His relentless love for me.

 

He loves you too, you know. And He’ll never stop pursuing your heart. He wants nothing more than for you to fall into His loving embrace.

 

If you know Him, find rest and peace and wholeness in His love. If you don’t know Him, ask Him to show you His face. It all starts with a man named Jesus and the sacrifice He made for you and me.

 

Ephesians 1:5-7

“God decided in advance to adopt us into His own family by bringing us to Himself through Jesus Christ. This is what He wanted to do and it gave Him great pleasure. So we praise God for the glorious grace He has poured out on us who belong to His dear Son. He is so rich in kindness and grace that He purchased our freedom with the blood of His Son and forgave our sins.”

 

 

John 1:12

“Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.”

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2 Comments

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2 responses to “The Stories I used to Tell Myself

  1. This is so beautiful, Adelee. I’m reminded of the Scripture that says He’s the husband of the widow and the father to the orphan. Praise God, you met the Abba (Daddy) of your dreams.

    Liked by 1 person

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