The Stranger at My Birthday Party: Early Glimpses of Fatherhood

The earliest memory I have of the foreignness of a father was a childhood birthday. I can’t recall the age, but if I had to guess, I would say between ages 5-7. My mom decorated my grandparents’ living room into a play area to celebrate me. Balloons, strange kids that I didn’t know, and a mountain of white sugary confection with words of icing spelling, “Happy Birthday, Deja!”.

It’s an oddity that I can’t remember my age, who came, the gifts given to me, or the sound of kids singing the traditional birthday song off-key, but I do remember the feeling of my little cake and ice-cream filled stomach sinking into my backbone when my mom told me my dad would stop by. “Dad?” I thought to myself. I don’t know this man. Tall. Skin kissed by the sun. Wide and unassuming eyes like me. This man was a stranger. He worked at the local Ford Auto Dealership not to far from my grandparents’ house. He was my father. But, that’s about all I knew about him.

To make matters worse, my little cousins found out he was coming and made sure to remind me. I think fear was a thing I knew then that I would have to slay continuously for the rest of life. Though I was young, this innate sense of “knowing” permeated me and even now, it is beyond my understanding. The stars chased away the sun and it was evening. No sign of the foreigner, yet. Until the familial creaking of the front door provided an entrance for a tall man with a red work shirt on.

I stared at this great oak of a man coming toward me. Looking at his features and their striking similarities to mine. He was coming toward me. Hands like sturdy branches. As far as my memory can be of service to me now, the one thing I do remember is sitting on his lap smiling for a picture.

He left. My father would make occasional entrances in my life on certain occasions. After a while as I got a little older those visits became less and less occasional.

Though I don’t remember this moment, I know that I was free from fear. Free to imagine. Free to build. Free to make a laundry basket into a car and take my granddaddy’s keys as my own to make my vehicle travel across the living carpet. Free. Unbothered and unburdened by the fetters of statistics, expectations, and pain. That smile was real, and so would be the pain of brokenness that would surface years later.

Looking back, that fleeting moment of freedom—where imagination reigned and fear momentarily bowed out—feels like a glimpse of the joy God intended for us all. Though the pain of brokenness would come, it didn’t have the final say. Those moments, however brief, remind me that even amidst uncertainty and absence, God was present. He saw me, loved me, and had already begun His work of restoration.

As an adult, I’ve wrestled with that brokenness, but I’ve also come to realize that God was always there, shaping my story.

The smile in that photo wasn’t just a reflection of the innocence I once had—it was a seed of hope for the healing and joy that would come.

And, the joy came.

If this story resonates with you, I encourage you to reflect on your own moments of joy and fear. What pieces of your childhood still speak loudly to you today? Sometimes, the most pivotal experiences in our lives are the ones we don’t fully understand until we look back with fresh eyes and an open heart.

This is just the beginning of a journey—one of healing, understanding, and discovering the beauty that God can bring out of brokenness. In the next blog, I’ll explore how the absence of a father in my life became an opportunity for God to reveal Himself as my true Father, filling the gaps and redefining my identity.

Let’s continue this journey together. Share your thoughts, memories, or reflections in the comments—I’d love to hear from you.

Your story matters, and so does the One who’s writing it. Stay tuned for what’s next.