The Father’s Day I Never Expected

Loving My Children From a Distance

Father’s Day is supposed to be a day filled with handmade cards, hugs, laughter, backyard games, and memories. For many dads, it is a day spent grilling outside, playing catch in the yard, sitting beside their kids at church, or simply enjoying the blessing of being called “Dad.”

For me, Father’s Day weekend has often meant a trip to Cedar Point with my boys. It became one of those traditions I looked forward to every year, riding as many coasters as possible, swimming in the wave pool, and spending time on the beach, the memories made in the world’s greatest amusement park.

But this year is different. This is the first year I am not allowed to be with them.

This year, I’m walking through one of the hardest seasons of my life, a season where I don’t get to wake up and see my boys’ faces. I don’t get to hear their voices down the hallway. I don’t get to sit on the sidelines cheering them on the way a father’s heart longs to do.

And I’ll be honest, it has broken me. One of the hardest parts is seeing life continue from a distance. Seeing pictures online of my boys attending Vacation Bible School, Trail Life, school programs, and experiencing moments that I desperately wish I could be part of.

I look at those pictures and feel two emotions at the exact same time. First, joy, because I love my boys. I want them smiling. I want them laughing. I want them surrounded by people who care about them. I want them learning about Jesus. I want them enjoying the childhood memories every kid deserves.

But right beside that joy is a deep sadness, because every picture is also a reminder of the moments I’m missing.  Moments stolen away from me.

I don’t get to help my oldest son practice his pitch. I don’t get to keep score at his games. I don’t get to watch the small improvements, the big moments, or the quiet frustration that comes with learning and growing.

I don’t get to build Hot Wheels monster truck raceways with my youngest. I don’t get to see his imagination come alive, outside turning plastic tracks and toy trucks into an entire world of crashes, jumps, and laughter.

I don’t get to hike, geocache, or kick the soccer ball with my middle son. I don’t get those simple outdoor moments that used to mean so much, walking trails, finding little treasures, passing the ball back and forth, and just being together.

I don’t get to play football, basketball, or ride bikes with them. I don’t get the games. I don’t get the high-fives. I don’t get the conversations in the car after practice. I don’t get the little moments most parents don’t think twice about, the moments I would give anything to have again.

It is hard not to feel anger in a season like this. I believe false allegations and a broken court system have helped place me in a position that no loving father should have to endure, separated from his children with no clear end in sight.

That is painful to write. It is even more painful to live. It’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

But even as I say that honestly, I also know I cannot let bitterness become the loudest voice in my heart. If I allow anger to consume me, it will only steal more from me than has already been taken. So I bring that anger to God.

I bring Him the grief.
I bring Him the confusion.
I bring Him the longing.
I bring Him the empty Father’s Day weekend.

It’s a strange kind of grief when the people you miss most are still here. When your children are growing, changing, laughing, and living, but you’re watching tiny slivers of their lives from the outside.

But even in this pain, I’m reminded of something important: My identity as their father was not given to me by circumstances, and it cannot be taken away by circumstances. God made me their dad.

Psalm 127:3 says:

“Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him.”

My boys are not possessions. They are gifts God entrusted to me. And even when I cannot be physically present the way my heart desires, I can still be their father.

I can pray.
I can love.
I can grow.
I can become the man God has called me to be.

I think often about the story of the prodigal son, but lately I have found myself thinking more about the father in that story. The father waited. The father hoped. The father loved even when there was distance. He didn’t stop being a father because his child wasn’t home. Distance did not erase love, and it doesn’t erase mine.

This Father’s Day hurts. There’s no pretending it doesn’t. Faith does not mean we ignore grief. Some of the most faithful people in scripture cried out to God from places of deep pain.

David wrote:

“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle.” – Psalm 56:8

God sees the tears nobody else sees.

He sees the father sitting alone looking at pictures.
He sees the dad who should be keeping score at a baseball game.
He sees the dad who should be kicking the soccer ball, hiking trails, building raceways, riding bikes, shooting hoops, and making memories.
He sees the prayers whispered at night.
He sees the quiet apartment, and the broken heart.

But I also believe He sees the story that is still being written.

One of the verses I have held onto during this season is found in Joel:

“I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten…” – Joel 2:25

That verse means something different when you have lived through a season of loss. When you have lost moments you cannot recreate. When you have missed birthdays, holidays, games, conversations, and memories you desperately wanted to be part of. The truth is, I may never get those exact moments back. I may never get this Father’s Day weekend back. I may never get the baseball and soccer games I missed, or the ordinary nights at home that I once took for granted.

But I serve a God who specializes in restoration.

Restoration does not always mean God rewinds the clock and gives us the exact same thing back. Sometimes restoration means He heals what was broken, rebuilds what was damaged, and creates something beautiful out of what looked impossible.

My prayer is that one day there will be more games, more laughs, more hugs, more conversations, more Cedar Point trips, and more memories together. My prayer is that restoration comes, not just of time lost, but of hearts.

Until then, I will keep loving my boys. I will keep praying for them. I will keep trusting God with them. Because being a father isn’t only about the moments you get to experience. Sometimes fatherhood is loving faithfully through the moments you painfully miss. Even when I cannot hold my children in my arms, I can continue placing them in the arms of my Heavenly Father, because He loves them even more than I do.