Every child needs to hear: Daddy’s here

Father’s Day can be complicated.

For some, it is a day of gratitude. For others, it is a day of grief, anger, regret, or longing. Some remember fathers they dearly loved. Others struggle to remember a father at all.

The best fathers point toward a greater Voice. The worst fathers cannot eclipse it.

Thinking about Father’s Day recently, a friend sighed and said, “I guess I’ll have to figure out a way to honor my father.”

The hesitation said more than the sentence.

Years ago, a caller to my radio program spoke of caring for his aging father, an abusive alcoholic who at that point required assistance. The caller was 52 years old, yet he confessed that whenever he was around his father, he felt 11 again.

The years had passed. The wounds had not.

Another friend put it more bluntly: “My father was a pedophile.”

No explanation followed. No attempt softened it. Just the stark reality of a life marked by a father’s betrayal.

I once heard a well-known minister recount standing at his father’s grave at 16, feeling as though he were losing his mind. Looking at the headstone, he cried through his tears, “You can’t leave. You didn’t tell me what you think of me.”

He was not grieving the loss of money, advice, or even protection. He was grieving the loss of a verdict.

For all our confusion about identity, one truth remains stubborn: People know when something essential is missing. Despite endless debates about who we are, millions spend their lives searching for the same thing — a father.

Men sire children every day. Being a father is something else.

A father forms. He blesses. He corrects. He protects. He teaches. He commissions. With a word, he can instill courage or fear. He can strengthen a child for the journey ahead or leave wounds that linger for decades.

A father’s voice can penetrate places explanations never reach.

Forty-three years ago, my wife awoke from a three-week coma following a catastrophic automobile accident. Broken, disoriented, and in unimaginable pain, she did not know where she was. She did not understand what had happened. She could not comprehend what lay ahead.

The first words she heard were spoken by her father.

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“Daddy’s here, Gracie. Daddy’s here.”

She did not know where “here” was. But she knew her father’s voice.

Years later, one of our sons fell on a playground and split his chin open. I rushed him to his pediatrician, where he needed stitches. As I held him while the doctor sewed him up, he looked at me with fear, confusion, and the unspoken question every hurting child eventually asks: Why are you letting this happen?

He knew nothing about infection, wound care, or why stitches mattered. No explanation I offered could bridge the gap between what he experienced and what I understood. So I kept repeating the only thing I knew to say.

“It’s OK. Daddy’s here.”

The explanation would have meant nothing to him. Presence meant everything.

There are fathers who leave too soon. Fathers who abandon. Fathers who wound. Fathers who spend a lifetime trying to repair the damage they have done. There are fathers whose voices still comfort decades later and fathers whose words still wound.

Many spend years trying to wipe their father’s face off God.

But Scripture does not ask us to measure God by our fathers. It asks us to measure our fathers by God.

Even when his only begotten Son cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” the Father had not surrendered his authority, abandoned his purpose, or ceased loving his Son. The darkness was real. The suffering was real. But the cross was not chaos. It was the predetermined plan of God for the redemption of his people.

Life eventually leads all of us into terrifying places we do not understand: hospital rooms, funeral homes, gravesides, cancer centers, long nights, and hard diagnoses. In those moments, we want explanations. Yet faith does not require complete understanding.

The older I get, the more I understand how my son felt lying on that examination table. He was too small to grasp what was happening to him. He could not understand why I allowed it. He only knew I was there.

Living in Montana, I am reminded daily of how small we all are. The mountains were here long before any of us arrived. The rivers carved their courses before our names were spoken. The wind that sweeps across this valley pays little attention to our plans, fears, or accomplishments.

We are smaller than we imagine.

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Yet older than the mountains, older than the rivers, older than the wind itself, is a Voice that has never fallen silent.

When Gracie’s father sat beside her hospital bed and whispered, “Daddy’s here,” he gave a frightened young woman waking to a world she could not understand a gift beyond explanation.

But even that voice was only an echo.

Every good father is.

The best fathers point toward a greater Voice. The worst fathers cannot eclipse it.

When explanations fail, that Voice still calls to his children.

Perhaps that is why those words still move me after all these years.

“Daddy’s here, Gracie. Daddy’s here.”

In a frightened world, they remind me of a greater promise.