The Show:

When I was eighteen, I did everything in my power to be a guest on the Gordon Elliot Show.

Don’t remember Gordon Elliot? Well, you totally should. He was like the knock-off Maury Povich; the second string Sally; the vanilla Montel Williams – and he was my chance.

The Call:

I remember watching his show late one evening while I was all alone in my dorm room. The room was dark, and messy, and full of emptiness. I sat there staring straight ahead, devouring each story while wallowing in my own emptiness – tears welling up in my eyes. I watched intently as he reunited family after family – finding long lost loved ones. It was an odd reality TV night , one filled with nothing but happy endings and hugs. The episode ended with a plea: anyone desperate to find a long lost loved one should contact the show immediately. Gordon was ready to help.

I was ready to receive it.

Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was sentimentality. Whatever it was, I was desperate. So, I picked up the phone right then and dialed that number. I was so caught up in hopefulness that it didn’t even occur to me that the likelihood of a real human answering the phone in the middle of the night was pretty slim. I was only slightly saddened when an answering machine fielded my call. Undaunted, I left a long, rambling, sob-soaked plea… begging them to find my father.

I remember waking up the next morning, totally excited to tell my roommate all about it. She was a bit weirded out and almost completely unimpressed. But, it didn’t phase me. I was certain that Gordon himself would hear my message, find my father, and surprise me with a Hallmark movie ending to my heartache.

Gordon didn’t call that day.

He didn’t call the next day.

He didn’t even call the next day…. but one of his staffers did. And, I almost wet my pants.

They were planning to help me…. In fact, they had already found some promising information about the whereabouts of my father. All they needed from me was some information. They asked me approximately 137 questions (most of which I could not answer), and then they said that they would need to contact my mother. My heart sank. For as long as I could remember, my mother had protected me from my father. Something horrible had happened, and like any good mother, her desire was for my safety. Though, I knew it would likely go quite poorly, I gave the show’s rep my mother’s phone number…. and waited.

It didn’t take long for my mother to call me to let me know that I would not be appearing on the Gordon Elliott show. I will never forget the hurt in her voice when she called. I never meant to hurt her, but y’all… I just couldn’t shake the emptiness of not knowing my father. No Hallmark movie ending for me.

The History:

Most people don’t know this, but my mother and father divorced when I was really young – maybe 2 or 3 years old. The only real memory I have of him is him driving up in a red convertible. I don’t remember hugs or bedtime stories or vacations or snuggles or birthdays. I can’t remember his face or his smell or his voice.  And, I don’t remember his love.

That has plagued me my entire life. Without warning, hopes of some evidence of my father’s love would destroy seemingly happy moments. Every birthday brought the hope that a special card might show up in the mailbox, but no cards ever arrived. Every Christmas, I watched the mail to see if any mysterious packages arrived, but none ever did. Every major life event was tainted with a secret hope that I would look up and notice someone in the crowd who resembled me, but no one ever came.

I spent my entire life desperate to find someone who I thought would love me. Though my mother was very present, her love didn’t seem to be enough. I craved my father’s love. I wanted him to want me – and I could not understand why he didn’t.

The Lunch Date:

This longing never went away. My desire to see my father never subsided. Off and on through the years, I would seek him out – unsuccessfully. Until a few years ago. Feeling empty and longingly nostalgic, I mentioned my desire to see my father’s face to a trusted companion in my life. He made it his mission to find my father… and he did.

But, I did not get the happy ending that I had dreamed about. Instead of seeing his face, hearing his voice, or feeling the warmth of his embrace, I had to settle for meeting a half brother that I had never known. Unbeknownst to me, my father had passed away in 1998. Four years after my Gordon Elliott escapade.

I was terrifically nervous about meeting my brother, but I scheduled a lunch date with him anyway. He was charming and kind and compassionate – and our eyes matched… that was so very comforting to me. With pain in his voice, he carefully answered my questions, and told me stories from my time with my father. My father was everything I had ever hoped he wasn’t. And, truthfully, I simply cannot bear to elaborate any more than that today. Our lunch was devastating simply because I left just as empty as I had been when I arrived. And, I was sad – heartbroken, actually.

I drove away from the lunch date in a silent car.

 I haven’t really talked much about it since then, but a realization about that day has been welling up inside me.

The Reality:

I have struggled with feelings of worthlessness and insignificance all of my life. Though I have had people who loved me, I never really felt loved.

Many of the most foolish things I have done, the most blatant sins in my life, the deepest darkest shames that I carry, many of the hardest moments have all stemmed from feeling unloved. As I reflect on my past, I am almost too embarrassed to even allow my history to play out in my memories – because it is so hard to see myself crying out to be loved – to be chosen – to be cherished – to be the most important thing in someone’s life.

For years, I thought that finding my father would fix that void. I was certain that he would run to me with open arms and tell me stories of how he cried every year on my birthday because he missed me; stories of piles of letters lovingly written to me — waiting to be delivered; stories of years spent searching for me- of near misses…. And, I thought that he would love me with reckless abandon.

But, he didn’t. He just lived and died. Without me.

The Point.

Why on earth would I share this story… all these years later? Truth be told, I am a sucker for a good story. My favorite sections of the Bible are the historical narratives. Those stories captivate me.

It’s the backstory for me. Like the familiar story in Exodus about the parting of the Red Sea. What a miracle, right? Boom. Waters part. God’s people walk through on dry ground. YAY! It’s a cool story.

It becomes not just cool, but POWERFUL when we examine the backstory. The Exodus story unfolds over THIRTEEN chapters before we get to the Red Sea moment. It’s in the backstory that we discover WHY God’s people needed Him.

We connect. We understand. We recognize that our struggles are not unique. We aren’t alone in our fears and failures – and the same God who moved on behalf of His people back then is able to move on our behalf now.

THIRTEEN chapters of STORY set us up to hear about a God who rescues His people.

Their story reminds us of our own story. Our own need for rescue.

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I think that’s why I am so compelled to share my own backstory. Something I have come to understand through years of following Jesus is that often the deepest failures and hurts in our lives – those stories that we hide deep in our hearts – are what He calls us to share as we point others to Him. The stories that we tell are powerful connectors. They captivate others and provide those little moments of rest in the human soul when we can exhale and say “you too? I thought I was alone.”

By sharing our own narrative of transformation and resilience from the hardships we have faced, we become beacons of hope for those who are navigating similar challenges. The journey from brokenness to healing, from longing to fulfillment, carries a hope- filled message of possibility and redemption. Through our stories, we convey the profound truth that pain can be transformed into purpose, and that wounds can become sources of strength.

Who better to minister to the brokenhearted than someone who has experienced heartbreak?

The hurting need to know that healing is possible.

The unloved need to know that there is a love that is unfailing.

In the hands of our Jesus, hurt isn’t wasted. Sharing the story of my ache for a relationship with my earthly father opens the door for me to tell different stories. Stories of redemption and hope and astonishing love. Stories about a father who will never leave me, never forsake me, never fail me. Stories about Jesus in my life.

Everything my father wasn’t, Jesus is.

Every hurt my father caused, Jesus healed.

It wasn’t wasted.

Perhaps my story is a lot like yours (or nothing like yours at all). Perhaps that ache in your spirit, that painful thing, that thing you wish you could change – perhaps THAT thing is THE thing that the Lord is calling you to use for His glory. Give it to Him.

Tell the story.