The summer I turned eleven, my father gave me an ultimatum that set me on my life\u2019s course.<\/p>\n
He sat beside me on the picnic table bench in his backyard, elbows resting just above his knees and a hand-drawn chart clasped in one hand. The sun glinted off the cuff snaps on his blue plaid cotton shirt. His wife stood in front of us, hands on her hips. Smoker\u2019s cough occasionally interrupted his words.<\/p>\n
He pointed to the chart. \u201cThis is how many hours a week you spend with your mother. This is what you spend with me. If you want to go to church, you have to do it at your mother\u2019s house. You have two weeks to decide. If you insist on going to church while you\u2019re here, you can\u2019t come back.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at the chart as it shook in his hand. He made his case: Spending an hour in the little church across the street took away time he deserved.<\/p>\n
I forced myself not to look at him or his wife, determined that they wouldn\u2019t see me cry.<\/p>\n
The night before, the two of them picked up my three sisters and me for our every-other-weekend visit. We drove the hour from our home to theirs. As usual, we went straight to the trailer house, connected to the main house with a breezeway. We shared the two bedrooms in the trailer while our two stepsisters slept in the main house.<\/p>\n
Of the four of us, I was the only one facing this decision, because I was the one who loved going to church.<\/p>\n
Shoulders stooping, my father stood and walked inside. \u201cThink about that,\u201d he said. Then I was alone. Still fighting tears, I walked to the side of the house. I didn\u2019t want anyone, especially my stepmother, to see me.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Thoughts swirled in my mind. Every other week, my sisters and I visited my father and his wife. He didn\u2019t pay much attention to us. Instead we were told to play outside or in those little trailer house bedrooms. We didn\u2019t laugh during meals or stay together in the living room after dinner.<\/p>\n
Just a few times before this summer day, I had felt that I mattered, that I was my father\u2019s favorite. I had a vague memory of him before he left us. He sat with me\u00a0at dawn before he went to work. He leaned on the kitchen counter as he silently drank his coffee and I my hot chocolate. During those few quiet moments, I was special.<\/p>\n
Another of those rare moments came during our camping trip the summer before, when I was ten. We stayed in a national forest campground, our camper surrounded by pine and aspen trees. My father popped corn over the campfire one night while we sat on logs near the fire. My sisters and I slept on the floor of the camper shell along with our stepsisters.<\/p>\n
The next morning before daylight, I climbed over them to be the first one up. Coffee and water boiled above the campfire, and my father handed me a cup for hot chocolate. I sat near him on a log. In the stillness we fed the chipmunks leftover popcorn and watched the fire dim as the sun rose. The spell was broken as, one by one, others got up.<\/p>\n
In those times, it was just the two of us, making me feel as if I were his special girl.<\/p>\n
But now I had a decision to make. I lifted my head. The church across the street came into view. It wasn\u2019t fancy or big, but it was a place I felt welcome. The children\u2019s teacher knew my name. She always seemed glad I came.<\/p>\n
The steeple cross rose from the church roof like a crossroads. That\u2019s how I felt: at a crossroads. Though I didn\u2019t understand why my father wanted me to choose, I sensed that making the right decision really counted.<\/p>\n
When church time came, I sat in the trailer house bedroom instead of walking across the street. My father and his wife took us home late in the day. I crawled out of the blue Rambler and followed it with my eyes as they drove away.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Two weeks to make a decision, and I didn\u2019t know where to start. My mother didn\u2019t go to church, so I decided to talk to someone who did. I asked my pastor \u2014 Brother Grant, as we called him \u2014 to help me with two questions: Do I give up my church? Do I give up my father?<\/p>\n
Looking back, I am glad he didn\u2019t say he felt sorry for me or tell me exactly what to do. He just listened and prayed. Brother Grant encouraged me to search the Bible myself, then prayed with me for wisdom.<\/p>\n
One scripture sealed my decision: \u201cBut seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well\u201d (Matthew 6:33). I wanted to be important to my father, to feel his love and know his approval. But this verse told me that God\u2019s kingdom comes first. Seeking God before anything else was my responsibility. Working out the consequences was God\u2019s.<\/p>\n
I wrote to my father explaining my choice. Going to church was part of my faith, so that was what I was going to do. Brother Grant read the letter before I mailed it. He affirmed my words and agreed that I\u2019d left the door open for a relationship if my father wanted it.<\/p>\n
My father broke all contact with me. My sisters received birthday cards and Christmas presents; he never sent any for me. If I answered the phone when he called, he hung up. I would be lying if I said that those things didn\u2019t make me sad. Mostly, though, I experienced peace that confirmed my choice was the right one.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
That summer gave me a glimpse of the local church\u2019s potential in the life of a child. I found wise counsel, people who prayed for me, and people who adopted this spiritual orphan. My church taught me to use biblical principles and prayer to guide me. Though I never knew my biological father\u2019s spiritual leadership, several godly stand-in fathers taught me. Sometimes they even made me feel as I did when it was just my father and me staring at the morning campfire \u2014 that I was someone\u2019s special little girl.<\/p>\n
During the five years my father didn\u2019t talk to me, I continued to grow in my relationship with God. About the time I got my driver\u2019s license, my father and his wife moved closer to us. I felt it was time for me to establish a relationship with him. Another Bible verse guided me: \u201cIf it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone\u201d (Romans 12:18).<\/p>\n
When I began reconnecting with my father, I clearly came with my faith intact and no hidden agenda. Building a new relationship was awkward. At first I made the thirty-minute drive to their house and stayed for a half hour. Eventually I worked up to a couple of hours and tried to make cheerful talk about the weather, school, and their yard \u2014 with varying degrees of success. The encounters were never comfortable, but I kept making the effort.<\/p>\n
My father died two weeks before I turned 24. We were as reconciled as he, or perhaps his wife, would allow. At his funeral I found myself grateful for both decisions I had made: choosing faith over father and choosing reconciliation without compromising faith.<\/p>\n
Decades later, I look back on that day without confusion or bitterness. Instead, I feel like God\u2019s special little girl who has the best Father ever.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Claudean Boatman<\/strong> writes from Windsor, CO. Scripture quotations are from the New International Version.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The summer I turned eleven, my father gave me an ultimatum that set me on my life\u2019s course. He sat beside me on the picnic table bench in his backyard, elbows resting just above his knees and a hand-drawn chart clasped in one hand. The sun glinted off the cuff snaps on his blue plaid […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":279,"featured_media":4160,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"sync_status":"","episode_type":"","audio_file":"","castos_file_data":"","podmotor_file_id":"","cover_image":"","cover_image_id":"","duration":"","filesize":"","filesize_raw":"","date_recorded":"","explicit":"","block":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[37],"tags":[],"yoast_head":"\n