God is Like My Mom

Growing up, everyone called God "Heavenly Father." Over and over again, Christians would pronounce this with a giant smile plastered on their faces.

They would recite Bible verses about God as our Father. It was supposed to be some great comfort.

I was raised in the church. So, I heard this iteration every chance I got. Everyone, everywhere kept reminding me: "God is your Father."

With this constant reminder, I couldn't help but see God as like my earthly father. I mean, who else could I compare Him to?

What else would that even mean?

It sunk deep into my core.

"God is like your father."

But my father was not good. I had no idea of what a "good father" would even look like-so how would this be any comfort?

Of course, no one else knew about my dad, so they didn't see a reason to add, "but not like that," on the end.

We weren't allowed to talk about him. We didn't know why-we weren't even told we couldn't talk about it-we just knew we couldn’t.

And a God like him? That was more terrifying than I could imagine.

I was constantly afraid-afraid of a misstep, of failure, of retribution and wrath.

My father specifically singled me out.

He hated me more than anyone else. He'd insult me, criticize me, belittle me, etc.

From as far back as my memory stretches to when I went "no contact" at 20 years old, my father abused me. He withheld finances, spending what little money we had gambling and drinking over providing food and clothing.

My father was incredibly judgmental and notoriously impossible to please, especially when it came to me.

I don't know what about me specifically upset him, but it did. He would abuse me when no one was around, mock me to the family, and withhold money and love that he provided my siblings with.

He waved off my illnesses and their crippling effect on my life. He took credit for my success. He blamed me for his problems.

He took great delight in scaring me, specifically that I'd messed up somehow and didn't know it. He began a lifetime struggle with paranoia and fear of failure.

I didn't realize at the time that he was inflicting mental and emotional abuse. I was just a child. It was building and solidifying my idea of what a dad is every day.

I could no more understand him than I could God.

So, when my physical/mental health gave way in a landslide of epic proportions, the idea of God being just like my father seemed to ring true.

There were verses to support this image of a fearful and vindictive Judge™ so I didn't know what else to think. My church had no problem construing Him that way.

My abuse led to intense anxiety, panic disorder, C-PTSD, and people-pleasing. All traits that fit perfectly into the Southern faith I was being taught.

At that point, I was still trying to please my father-trying to please God. I doubled down, trying to be the perfect Christian.

I became a willing outcast among my peers as if I was a sacrificial lamb on the Christian alter.

I was in pain, but this is what God wanted, right?

God didn't care about love, joy, or peace for me. Like a father, he demanded excellence and perfection. Anything short was failure. And failure meant an eternity of hellfire.

I was afraid of God

More afraid of him than rejection. More afraid of him than losing friends and being disliked. In fact, I thought I was supposed to be disliked. (Yes, the Bible says the world rejects believers. But it shouldn't be because we inflict judgment and self-righteousness.)

I was just a kid, carving out an island of loneliness and despair, trying to please a God I was scared of.

I was trying to not get sent to hell with eternal damnation and brimstone fire (and all the other fear-mongering tactics Southern Christians love to employ).

Looking back, I had created the exact relationship with God that I had with my father.

Someone I hated, but was afraid of. Someone I despised, wanted to be nothing like.

Someone I felt pressured to please, knowing ruthless punishment would be meted out upon my (imminent) failure.

So, in 2019, when my mom finally left my father, I left God.

I washed my hands of the two most abusive and toxic relationships in my life. It was like a deep cleaning of the soul.

When I went no contact with my dad, I also did with God. I was angry, hurt, confused, and felt betrayed.

I had spent nearly 20 years trying to please both, only to feel unloved and abandoned.

Only to feel hated and despised.

Only to feel like it was all my fault both relationships failed.

So, for the last few years, there has been radio silence between the three of us.

After all, God is my Father, and I don't want anything to do with my father.

But, over the last few months, that still small voice has begun speaking again.

At first, it was uncertainty. It was nostalgia for the familiarity of the not-so-good old times.

And in turn, the familiarity provided a sense of security as my life spiraled out of control from illness.

I did nothing more than listen. After all, jumping back into a religion which has severely hurt me, and my loved ones, was not something I was eager to do.

But my life became a mirror for my relationship with God, showing me, for the first time, who He really is.

My dad exchanged us with another family. He had the funds to draw out a painful divorce battle that my mother just couldn't afford.

She settled with much less than she deserved while also bearing the financial responsibility of the rest of the family.

We'd gone in debt just struggling to survive.

My medical conditions were a large part of it. My mother had willingly taken it on without complaint. Her concern was trying to help me recover and stay alive.

But spending money on my medical treatment had been a point of contention between my parents, so I felt to blame.

Neither my mom nor my brother blamed me.

I blamed myself as my unhealthiness put the 2 people I love most in dire straits.

Yet, instead of the anger, resentment, and blame I was accustomed to, they came up beside me, and help bear the weight of my failing health.

I wouldn't be here today without my mom and brother.

I don't say all of this to slam my dad (mostly) but to draw an accurate picture of what being a "father" meant to me.

In my experience, fathers were unreliable, uncaring, and extremely manipulative.

I had a hard time separating this from my idea of God.

Then one day, my entire world shifted.

I was texting to my mom, discussing our financial distress and what we would do.

Out of nowhere, she told me she was going to sell her plasma to make ends meet.

Immediately, tears sprang to my eyes.

My mother was literally selling parts of her body, her health, to help me recover mine.

She was going to the extreme to ease the burden. She was making up for what I couldn't.

In that moment, a small voice whispered to me, "This is what God is like."

I was speechless, paralyzed at the thought. Everyone said God was like my father.

But really, the God that died for me, that loves me, -that God is like my mom.

The thought changed my entire viewpoint.

It made me reconsider everything I had known, all I had been taught, about who God is.

If God was worth believing in, His existence was personified by my mother's love.

She is self-sacrificing. She has endless love, constant acceptance, and is willing to do everything she can to bridge the gap.

Isn't that who Jesus is supposed to be?

I still don't know everything. But the God I believe in is a lot more like my mother than my father.

How I see God, and myself, has changed.

The combination of my father's treatment and the Church's reminder taught me one thing: God was here to judge me, and I would never measure up.

This affected my self-worth, confidence, mental health-everything.

With my new perspective, I can see a God who is worth loving (and being loved by).

I can understand for the first time the acceptance, protection, and nurturing I was supposed to get.

I still struggle. I don't understand it all. I doubt I ever will. And I know firsthand that, for many people hurt by the church and their family, it's not an easy transition.

But for the first time in my life, I can see the cross as an act of love, rather than a weapon of manipulation, because of my mom's own self-sacrificing behavior.

I can see the promises of peace and protection that God makes to me, not the expectations that I need to be perfect.

The beauty of Christ-birth, life, and death-was only made clear to me by the love extended to me through my mom.

I wouldn't know peace, freedom, or security. I wouldn't have discovered a God worth believing in, worth being loved by. She has been the image of God for me.

"When I look back on my life, I see a woman who gave me everything she had to give. And then gave me a little bit more" - Spring Breakthrough