I end every written prayer the same way:
Your daughter.
Those words did not come easily.
For many years, I lived without the covering of a good earthly father. In that absence, I spent a lifetime seeking approval—first from men in authority, and most deeply from a surrogate father figure: my grandfather, my father’s father.
I longed to be seen, affirmed, chosen. I did not yet understand that the ache itself pointed to something eternal.
Then came the day in church that changed everything. I was in my early 40s. During worship, without warning, I fell to my knees, buried my face in my arms on the seat of my chair as though it were the only thing anchoring me to the earth. I broke open—deep, uncontrollable sobs, the kind that come from a place far older than language. In that holy unraveling, the Holy Ghost illuminated a truth that split my life in two:
I was not a victim.
I was divinely kept.
In that moment, my story reframed itself. I began to understand that God, Who sees the end from the beginning, had chosen my parents for me fully aware of their limitations. He knew my father would struggle—often fail—to love me as he should. My father’s abuse was not my destiny; it was the work of darkness ravaging a broken soul. God was not absent. He was guarding what eternity required.
I came to believe that God placed within me an uncommon endurance—not to excuse harm, but to survive it, to outlast it, and ultimately to overcome it. Where I saw only day-to-day pain and circumstances, God saw eternity. He saw the woman I would become. He saw victory forming beneath the weight of hurt, fear, and confusion.
A few years later, a seemingly ordinary moment sealed that understanding. I was watching a science fiction movie. A teenage girl was terrified as books flew from the
shelves of her bedroom. Her widowed father—an astronaut in training could not explain the phenomena and was frightened for her.
He went on a mission and died.
Unknown to her, he had returned in spirit, desperately trying to communicate with his
daughter, to let her know he was still near. He was pushing the books off the shelves onto her floor.
Suddenly, it hit me.
Sitting in the den of my home, I jumped to my feet and cried out,
“That’s it!” startling those around me.
That scene captured what words never had: God’s vantage point. Past, present, and future held all at once. Creation. Conception. Birth. Choice. Consequence. Eternity. Fully visible. Fully known.
Since the fall of Adam, humanity has been reaching—aching—to return to intimate relationship with our Creator. And in that longing, I finally understood my own heart. I was never fatherless. I was always His.
Revealed in an unexpected God moment on the floor of a church and then, brought home visually by a science fiction movie in my den.
That is why I sign my prayers the way I do.
Not as a title.
Not as sentiment.
But as truth reclaimed.
“But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name: who were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.” – John 1:12, 13 NKJV
I would love to hear from you in the comments. A word, a thought, an experience. What moment have you had that changed how you see yourself in the eyes of God?
Gritty Granny here. Living in the here and now.
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