Marked by a Moment: How My Dad’s Last Hug Shaped My Story

I can still hear the heavy thud of my father coming up the stairs. He was pretending to be a monster. At six years old, those footsteps filled me with a nervous hope. Maybe tonight, my dad was coming to say goodnight to me.

He came into my room as the “tickle monster,” roaring and laughing as I squealed beneath the covers. I was terrified and thrilled. And when he finally stopped and I surfaced, breathless, I jumped into his arms. I wrapped my arms around his neck. He hugged me, spun me side to side, and I kissed his cheeks, giddy with joy.

I felt chosen. Delighted in. Loved.

And then, just as quickly as it started, it ended.

His arms let go. He peeled my hands from his neck. “That’s all,” he said, setting me back on the bed. He turned off the light and walked out. And I lay there in the dark—alone, confused, and unsure what had just happened.

What I didn’t know then is how much that moment would shape me.

When the Joy Turns to Confusion

I couldn’t make sense of it. Why did that moment of affection vanish so abruptly? Why did it feel like love had been offered only to be snatched away?

As a child, I didn’t have words for what I was feeling. But a silent story started writing itself inside me—a story that said:

• Don’t get too attached to love.
  
• Don’t believe too deeply in being chosen.
  
• Watch for the moment the affection disappears.
  

And I carried that story with me.

Into adulthood.
Into friendships.
Into romantic relationships.
And, quietly, into my relationship with God.

When Human Fathers Write Faulty Scripts

Looking back, I don’t believe my dad intended to wound me. I don’t think he had any idea what that abrupt goodbye would do to my heart. But the damage was done.

That single moment became the lens through which I started to interpret love, especially from men. Deep down, I was always bracing for the “that’s all”—for the moment when delight would dissolve, and I’d be left again.

Even in relationships where love was present, I had trouble believing it would last. I saw every closeness as temporary, every embrace as conditional. I worked hard to people-please, to stay in good graces so that I might win others' affection and get to stay close.

I see now how this pattern has repeated itself in my life. Even for the 31 years I was married, I held my then-husband at arm’s length emotionally. Like the shore says to the waves, you can only come this far, I had drawn an invisible line in the sand that kept him—or anyone—from really knowing me. In the end, when he said he didn’t love me anymore, I was left again feeling like I had misread everything. I think I subconsciously believed marriage was going to inoculate me from abandonment. I had believed our love was secure. But just like that night in childhood, it ended without warning.

Projecting Pain Onto God

What’s even more painful to admit is this: I didn’t just carry these fears into human relationships; I carried them into my relationship with God.

Without realizing it, I had projected my earthly father’s emotional withdrawal onto my heavenly Father. I feared that maybe God was just like him—warm one moment, distant the next. That if I said the wrong thing, displeased him, or needed too much, he’d eventually turn off the light and close the door on me too.

I would never have said I believed that. But my heart lived like it did.

I feared that God’s love could be exhausted. That his delight in me was fragile. That someday—even after seasons of closeness—he might quietly whisper, “That’s all,” and leave me in the dark.

This Father Is Different

But here’s what I’ve learned—through trauma work, deep spiritual reflection, and the brave act of writing my story:

God is not like my dad.

He doesn’t love for a moment and then retreat.

He doesn’t delight in me and then pull away.
He doesn’t say, “That’s all.”
He says, “I am with you always.”

Where my dad’s affection felt fleeting, God’s presence is steadfast.
Where my dad left me wondering what I’d done wrong, God invites me to rest in a love I didn’t earn and can’t lose.
Where my childhood was marked by sudden silence, God speaks consistently—through scripture, through others, and through his Spirit—of his unchanging love.

And unlike my human father, God doesn’t wound and walk away. He heals. He stays.

A Father’s Day Reflection

This Father’s Day, I hold space for both grief and healing.

I grieve the love I longed for and didn’t receive. I grieve the confusion and fear that followed me for decades. And I honor the little girl in me who just wanted to be held, delighted in, and loved for a lifetime.

But I also celebrate the Father who has never turned away. The One whose love doesn’t hinge on my performance. The One who has never once said, “That’s all.”

If your story includes a father wound—whether sharp or subtle—I want to remind you: God is not the same. He can be trusted. Even when our hearts brace for rejection, he is patient. Even when we project our fears onto him, he meets us with grace.

From Wounding to Witness

Writing this story has helped me see how early pain shaped the way I interpreted love and loss. But it’s also shown me that my story doesn’t have to end there.

The wound doesn’t define me. It becomes a place where healing begins.

Because the more I remember honestly, the more clearly I see the contrast between what was and what is. Between the love I craved and the love I now receive.

Between my earthly father—and my heavenly one.