By Pastor Dave Holland
“Something happens when you become a father. Hold that little piece of you people call a baby, and something shifts in your heart. Liquid courage floods your veins, and suddenly, you’d work day and night, fight off enemies, climb mountains—whatever it takes—because you’re now earth’s truest superhero. You are Dad.”
But fatherhood is more than protection and provision—it’s formation. Your child learns to walk like you, talk like you, carry themselves like you. Even if you leave.
My dad left when I was five. But I still walk like him. I still sound like him. I am him all over again.
As a boy, I would run to the door when I heard his car, waiting for my hero. But then… he stopped coming home. I remember looking to the bleachers during my little league games, searching for his face. He never showed.
I promised myself then I would never be that kind of dad.
Thankfully, I’ve come to know another Father.
One whose presence lingers like an aroma in the air. One who, even when silent, still surrounds me.
Yes, there were seasons I felt distant from God, but looking back, I see—He never left. And since believing in His Son’s death and resurrection, I hear Heaven’s voice in my soul: “Come home.”
When my kids were small, I’d pull my old Chevy Nova into the driveway and hear them squeal, “Daddy’s home!” My heart would soar. Those were the happiest sounds of my life.
When they left home to marry and start lives of their own, I rejoiced for them—but missed them every day. The girls found new superheroes. And my son became one.
At age 50, our family gathered in Colorado for my nephew’s wedding. My sister Linda won box seat tickets to a Colorado Rockies game, and I got getting volunteered for the on-field “Coca-Cola Challenge.”
Before the seventh-inning stretch, a Rockies PR rep explained I’d need to sprint from left field to second base, then to first, in under 25 seconds. Easy, I thought.
Then the gun fired. I ran for my life in front of 47,000 screaming fans and a national TV audience. Huffing and puffing, I lunged across first base—barely.
The crowd roared.
As the jumbotron replayed my race, I looked up and saw my dad waving his hat wildly, cheering for me.
My mind flashed back to all the games he’d missed, all the years I looked for his face in the crowd. And in that moment, God washed it all away. The hurt. The resentment. The longing.
You see, divorce leaves scars. Fathers fail. Even superheroes have their kryptonite.
But there is One Father who never fails. One who never walks away. One whose love heals even what seems too broken to mend.
Today, a tribe of grandkids calls me “Papa Dave.” Some folks call me “Pastor Dave.” But in my heart, I’m still just a dad—longing to be like my Heavenly Father.
Happy Father’s Day to every dad showing up, every father healing from hurt, and to the One who never left us.
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