A Father From Afar: My Love, Longing, and Letting Go
I once looked up to him not only as a father in the Lord but as a divine voice—a man whose words stirred the heavens and awakened something deep within me. His sermons were like thunder wrapped in glory; they made me crave the anointing he carried. I hungered not just for God, but to walk in the very shadow of his mantle.
“His sermons were like thunder wrapped in glory.”
He wasn’t just a preacher. He was a beacon. He was the voice I turned to when the world felt silent. His teachings became my compass. His prayers seemed to move mountains. And in those moments, I wasn’t just a listener—I was a disciple from afar, leaning into every word, writing down every revelation, praying to become a son in the Spirit.
In my heart, I believed we were spiritually connected—that he saw me, that he knew I was one who genuinely drank from the well of his ministry. I reached out—again and again—during my darkest storm, hoping the one I called father would answer. But silence met me every time.
“For three years, my calls, messages, and quiet cries for spiritual covering went unnoticed. The absence pierced deeper than words.”
The Long Silence
It wasn’t just about unanswered calls. It was about unseen tears. Nights spent in warfare, holding on to the last sermon I had downloaded. Reading old notes. Replaying YouTube videos of his teachings just to feel covered. I was not asking for fame or visibility—I simply wanted the reassurance that I was not alone in the battlefield.
But the silence continued. And in that silence, a slow erosion began. Not of my faith, but of my expectations. I began to realize that sometimes, those we crown in our hearts as heroes are still human—fallible, forgetful, perhaps overwhelmed.
The Wilderness Season
I would love to tell you that I handled it well. That I stayed strong. But I didn’t. I felt rejected. Abandoned. Invisible. I began to question whether I was even worthy of mentorship. Maybe I had made it all up. Maybe I wasn’t really seen.
Yet, in the rawness of that pain, something holy happened. The wilderness, which I thought would destroy me, became the altar of divine intimacy. God stepped in.
“And yet, I survived. God sustained me in the wilderness. I found strength in the silence, direction in the delay, and power in the pressing.”
The God I had longed to meet through another man’s voice, began to speak directly to me. I started waking up with scriptures in my heart. I began to pray without needing background music. My spirit began to catch fire—not because I was seen, but because I was sought after by God Himself.
The Reappearance
Then came the day when I saw him again. Glorious. Anointed. He walked into a meeting with the same fire that once lit up my soul. The crowd erupted. Cameras flashed. I watched, not with bitterness, but with a strange peace. I realized something within me had changed.
“Now, as the storm settles, he reappears like a glowing figure—angelic, powerful, moving with fire again. But something within me has changed.”
I didn’t rush to reconnect. I didn’t push to be seen. I simply observed. Honored. And quietly whispered, "Thank You, Father, for using him to light my path. But thank You even more for leading me Yourself.”
The Beauty of Letting Go
Letting go didn’t mean dishonor. It meant perspective. It meant placing God above the vessel. It meant understanding that my destiny was never in the hands of a man but in the hands of the One who made me.
“I still honor him. I still value the deposit his ministry made in my spirit. But I no longer idolize his voice over the voice of the Holy Spirit.”
This journey taught me to love deeply, but not depend blindly. To honor men, but not to worship them. To be grateful for impartation, but not anchored by human validation. The shift was subtle, but seismic.
When Silence Speaks
We often think silence is absence. But silence can be divine strategy. Had he answered, I would have anchored myself to him, not to God. Had he replied, I may have built a tent around his approval. But in his silence, God’s voice echoed louder.
“I’ve learned that sometimes, the silence of men makes room for the loudness of God.”
The True Fatherhood
I discovered the Fatherhood of God. Not through dramatic encounters, but in the gentle way He carried me daily. Not through prophetic utterances, but in the still small voice that met me in the kitchen, on the street, at 3 a.m. when I wanted to quit.
And though I may never hear from that man of God again, I know now that I’m not fatherless. I’m fully known, fully loved, fully carried.
Healing Without Confrontation
This healing didn’t require a conversation. It didn’t need closure. It came from surrender. From allowing God to rewrite the narrative in my heart. From releasing resentment, and choosing gratitude for what was, without demanding what could have been.
Some lessons aren’t taught by words. They are carved in silence. I walked away not with bitterness, but with a blessing.
“The storm didn’t drown me—it baptized me into something deeper.”
Final Thoughts: A New Honor
I still listen to his sermons. I still quote his words. But now, I see them for what they were—arrows that pointed to God, not substitutes for Him. I walk lighter now. Freer. Rooted not in platforms or relationships, but in Presence.
To anyone out there who’s felt unseen by the one they looked up to: You are not forgotten. God has not overlooked you. There is a divine plan in the silence. Let God father you. Let Him prove to you that He is enough.
“He will never leave you nor forsake you.” — Hebrews 13:5
Call to Action
Have you ever felt abandoned by a spiritual mentor or someone you looked up to? Share your journey in the comments. Let this be a place of healing and hope. And if this post resonated with you, consider sharing it with someone walking through a similar season.
May you discover the Father’s voice clearly—even when others are silent.
