After my husband left, I stayed in that giant, echoing house for as long as I could. Just me and the silence. And one night, I cracked.
I laid in our empty bed and let the anger rise. Not at him. Not at myself. At God.
And I prayed the most disrespectful prayer I've ever prayed.
I didn't just pray. I raged. I accused. I blamed. I spat every bit of venom I had at the sky and I dared God to answer.
I told Him it was His fault.
His fault I got married.
His fault I got divorced.
His fault I felt so abandoned.
His fault I was here, alone, furious, broken.
I sobbed for hours, just yelling at the ceiling. Cursing the same God I still, somewhere deep down, believed in. Hating Him. Blaming Him.
Eventually, I got up to find something, anything, that might bring me comfort. There's this letter my mom wrote me back in eighth grade. I've kept it all these years. It's been through dozens of moves, hundreds of breakdowns. That letter is probably my most prized possession.
But that night, when I opened the box, her letter wasn't the one sitting on top.
Instead, I found a different letter. One I'd forgotten about.
It was from my dad. The letter he gave me the night I told my parents I was getting married.
That night, they took me to dinner. They begged me to wait. Told me they'd help me plan a real wedding, a better one, if I just gave it time. I didn't listen. I was stubborn. And when my dad handed me that letter, I read it through the lens of resentment. I saw judgment where there was worry. I saw criticism where there was fear. I read it like he was ashamed of me.
I didn't just think my dad was judging me, I knew it. I was so sure he'd given up on me. That letter? I read it like a funeral. Like he was mourning the daughter I used to be and washing his hands of the one I'd become.
And I hated him for it.
I tucked that hate into the folds of my heart and let it stay there, year after year, convincing myself I was the wronged one. That he never really loved me. That he'd rather control me than see me happy.
I shoved the letter to the bottom of the box like it had burned me. And I never touched it again. Until now.
This time… I saw it differently.
It wasn't a scolding. It was a plea. A desperate, brokenhearted attempt from a father who didn't know how to reach his daughter. A man who loved me so much he didn't have the right words, just the raw ones. And buried in the last line of that letter, he wrote:
"Never be too proud, too ashamed, or too embarrassed to come back to your father's loving arms."
And something inside me broke open.
Because I realized then: I had thrown my rage at everyone. My husband. My parents. Myself. Even God.
So I prayed again. Not angry this time. Just wrecked.
And that's when it happened.
I've only ever heard God in my head a handful of times in my life. And this was the first. It wasn't a booming voice. It wasn't anything dramatic. It was my voice, but the words weren't mine. Not in a million years would I have said this to myself in that moment.
This is what I heard:
"The pain your father felt? That's what I feel, for every single one of my children.
I didn't tell you to marry him. I didn't want that for you. But I gave you free will. You chose. And I love you still.
There is nothing you've done that I haven't wept for beside you. My heart breaks when yours does.
You never have to be too proud, too ashamed, or too afraid to come back to me.
I am always waiting. For you. For all of you.
My love for you is unconditional. That means you can't earn it. You can't buy it. You can't do anything to deserve it.
It's a gift. Freely given. Because you were always worth it."
And that moment, that letter, that whisper in my soul, it was the beginning.
I realized I'd made God wear my dad's face. Every time I imagined God, I imagined someone disappointed in me. Someone who thought I'd ruined my life. Someone standing just far enough away to make sure I knew it was my fault.
I didn't just need to forgive my dad. I needed to forgive God, or at least stop blaming Him for every hole in my heart.
The first real step toward healing my relationship with my dad.
The first time I let myself believe that maybe not all of it was his fault.
And maybe not all of it was mine either.
Forgiveness didn't happen overnight. It rarely does. But something softened in me that night. A crack where the light could finally get in.
And as for God?
No, I didn't become the perfect, pew-sitting, hymn-singing, always-praying woman.
I still wrestle. Still doubt. Still get mad sometimes.
Faith has never come easy to me.
But I know He's real.
I know He loves me.
And I believe with everything in me that He wants that same kind of connection with every single person, no matter where they've been or what they've done.
I'm not here to preach. I don't have a pulpit.
But if you've ever felt unloved, unwanted, or unforgivable…
Just know this:
Even if you don't believe in God. Even if you cuss Him out sometimes.Even if your faith is more scars than scriptures,You're still loved.I know.Because somehow… so am I.