It’s bold, not subtle.

An inked portrait of my daughter spanning my left shoulder blade, captured exactly as she looked the day she was born in November 1995. Beneath it, the words “Now I Know Love” flow seamlessly, declaring what that moment meant to me. I didn’t get it until years later—when she was in high school. By then, her mom and I had long since divorced. A second marriage had come and gone. And I’d chased every half-baked worldview that promised to fill the void. None delivered.

So, I found myself running on empty, caring about nothing—except her. 

Back then, I said I didn’t believe in God. But let’s be honest—I wasn’t a true atheist. Like a lot of people, I was just an angry-with-God agnostic—hurt that my daughter didn’t live with me, furious that I was alone, and completely disillusioned with the life I was living. It looked nothing like the one I imagined when I became a father at twenty-eight.

When my daughter was born, I thought I could hold it all together. But by the time she hit high school, she was the only thing keeping me from coming completely undone. I thought about ending my life more than once. Why didn’t I? That tattoo was part of the reason. Every morning, it reminded me—if I believed she still needed me, I had to stay. Others in my life would make do; they were grown, living their own lives. But she wasn’t. So I stayed. One more day. And then another. And I would until the day came when she didn’t need me anymore. ‘Now I Know Love’ wasn’t just ink—it was a promise. A lifeline. A reminder reflected in the mirror every morning that her life was worth every day of the hell I was enduring.

I’ll never forget one weekend when our visit time was up. She was almost five. Goodbyes were always brutal for me, but this one cut deeper. As I pulled away from the curb in front of her mom’s house, she ran down the sidewalk beside my car, crying, “Papa, please don’t go. Please don’t go.” I wept most of the ninety-minute drive home, wrecked with guilt. It felt like I’d abandoned her.

That night, a couple of friends—sensing I was needing a distraction from the moment—dragged me to see The Patriot. We smuggled in a fifth of Captain Morgan to spike our Cokes, hoping the movie and a little numbness might lift the weight. It didn’t—just the opposite, in fact. And if you’ve seen the film, you already know why.

“Oh. That scene,” you might be thinking.

Yeah. That scene.

Mel Gibson’s character, Benjamin Martin, is about to ride off to war again. His young daughter, Susan—who’s barely spoken since her mother died—suddenly finds her voice. She chases after him, sobbing, “Papa! Papa! I’ll say anything! Please don’t go!” And he does what every caring father wants to do. He drops the reins, jumps off his horse, and scoops her into his arms. She’s clinging to him, and through his tears, he chokes out the only thing that matters. “I’ll come back. I’ll come back.”

I crumbled—right there, front row, in the dark between my two friends. The sobs weren’t loud, but they carried. Anyone nearby could hear the broken sniffling, the ragged gulps for air, the muffled gurgles I couldn’t hold back. Because that wasn’t just a movie scene. That was my scene. That was my daughter chasing me down a sidewalk only hours earlier. That was my heart, my life breaking wide open.

All these years later, she still calls me Papa. And that name—it runs deeper than ‘dad’ or ‘father’ ever could. I called my father ‘Daddy,’ and it was special. But to me, Papa means even more. It means you’re the one who comes back. Maybe that’s why, even when I was fuming with God, I couldn’t quite let go of the hope that Papa is who God wants to be, too. Not just some distant Sovereign, but a Father who runs to you—after you, even. A Father who won’t leave, even when you feel lost and alone on some deserted road.

Maybe we’ve overcomplicated this relating to God thing. Maybe it was always meant to be this personal.

 

Why This Book – Religion or Relationship

Centuries ago, Isaac Newton—often regarded as the most brilliant scientist to have ever lived—didn’t see his work as separate from faith. Instead, he believed that science itself was a way to know God. Newton once wrote, “This most beautiful system of the sun, planets, and comets, could only proceed from the counsel and dominion of an intelligent and powerful Being.” In other words, discovering patterns in the cosmos was discovering the mind of the Creator.

If that’s true for the physical universe, why would it be any less true for the social and emotional world—our relationships, our struggles, our faith?

Let’s be clear—while I speak of theology and even sprinkle in a little science, this book isn’t about either in isolation. It’s about something bigger—and deeply personal. It’s about how I believe we were always—and I mean always—meant to relate to God.

You see, just as astronomy reveals the fingerprints of God in the heavens, psychology can help us glimpse His reflection in the soul. The more we learn about human thriving, the more it echoes what Scripture has said all along—we were built for relationship. Designed to be known. Wired to matter. “It is not good that man should be alone” (Genesis 2:18).

The research is only now catching up with what God has been wanting us to grasp since the beginning of time itself. He wants relationship with His children—not a religious following. The problem is that many of us—maybe the majority of us—never established that relationship early on. Sure, we confessed our sin. We accepted Christ as our Savior. We went to church. Even participated in church functions. But though we forged that lifeline with God, we never actually established the intimate bonds of relationship.

Consider one of the most eye-opening discoveries that comes from the Bucharest Early Intervention Project, a long-term study of children raised in institutions and orphanages. The findings were sobering. It revealed that if a child failed to form secure attachments early in life, the chances of bonding later were drastically reduced. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to love or be loved—it was that the window for relational development had narrowed. Without emotional safety and consistent presence, something foundational never took root. Years later, many of these children still struggled to trust, to regulate emotions, or to form lasting bonds. The lesson was clear—we’re wired for relationship from the start. If it doesn’t form early, it may still come later, but the road is far harder.

Other studies confirm our need for true, reciprocal relationships. A 2015 study of Italian adolescents found that when kids felt their parents were intrusive—using guilt, manipulation, or constant correction—it didn’t just sting in the moment. It eroded their sense of agency. They began believing their choices didn’t matter, which bred learned helplessness. By 2018, follow-up research showed that this pattern also made them more fragile under pressure. They gave up faster. They became hypersensitive to failure. It wasn’t the rules themselves that broke them down—it was the relational dynamic. Their voices weren’t welcome.

The pattern showed up again in a 2023 study in Kenya. Students who felt psychologically controlled by parents reported far more helplessness. But here’s the surprising twist—if those same students believed effort still mattered, the impact didn’t cut as deep. Even in harsh environments, hope and engagement gave them resilience.

Do you see the pattern? When children—and let’s be honest, any of us—feel shut out, controlled, or unheard, something in us collapses. But when we feel welcomed, safe, and seen, even challenges become stepping stones.

So, what does this tell us about our relationship with God?

In a word—everything. 

If children flourish when parents invite them into relationship rather than smother them with control, why would we expect our Heavenly Father to act any differently with His children? He designed us this way because He Himself relates this way. These aren’t just psychological insights—they’re theological affirmations. They echo what Scripture has always revealed—God doesn’t just want obedience. He desires connection. He doesn’t just want servants. He longs for sons and daughters.

And that’s why this book isn’t about cold theology or empty ritual—it’s about relationship. A God who listens. A Father who invites. A Papa who guides, corrects, and yes, even allows consequences—but never at the expense of love.

He could have chosen control. But instead, He chose relationship. And that choice is the clearest picture of love you’ll ever find.

Now, let’s walk with Him. Let’s ask hard questions. Let’s think deeply. Let’s reason together with Him (Isaiah 1:18). Because in the end, this isn’t about “reimagining” God’s greatness—it was always there. It’s about rediscovering His invitation into relationship. Because more than anything else, God is personal. Not just holy. Not just all-powerful. Not just eternal. He’s deeply, relentlessly, personally invested in you.

Plenty of books allude to that—but often as a passing statement, a theological footnote before shifting into all the benefits of His divine nature. But for some of you reading this, that’s not enough. You’re not just looking for a doctrinal bullet point. You want something practical.

And I get it—because for decades, I didn’t understand either. I missed the connection. Instead of finding relationship, I kept memorizing verses and fumbling through wandering prayers, never quite grasping that the same God who carved mountains might actually want my voice—even at 4:00 a.m., when all I carried was a storm cloud of intrusive thoughts swirling in my head. And that detachment cost me more than I ever knew—stealing joy, dimming hope, and leaving me wandering in the dark, grasping for something I couldn’t even name until decades later, when I finally began to see Him for who He truly is. 

That’s precisely the space this book was born from. Not to impress. Not to systematize or simplify what can’t be boxed. But to help you see—whether you’re someone who just accepted Christ, a long-time believer, a skeptic, a seeker, or just someone who’s tired—that your voice matters to God, and even more, that your relationship with Him is what He’s been longing for all along.

When the Word ‘Papa’ Hurts

Let’s stop here for a second. I know what some of you are thinking right now.

“Good for you. You had parents who loved you, and a daughter who loved you. You had something to hold onto. But my story? It’s not the same. Some of us never had a dad to hold onto. Or worse—we did, and we wish we hadn’t.”

So, when I say, “Papa,” something in you flinches. You don’t feel warmth. You feel that old ache—that flash of disappointment or betrayal or abuse that’s been hiding just beneath the surface.

If that’s you, please hear me. Don’t shut me out.

I’m not writing this to sugarcoat your pain. I’m not trying to slap a happy ending on a story that still keeps you up at night. I don’t know what your father did—or didn’t do—but I’m not going to pretend it was okay. If he left, if he hit, if he used you or ignored you or shamed you… I’m sorry—deeply, genuinely so.

But more than that, I want you to hear this—really hear it.

The God I’m talking about isn’t the one who walked out. He’s not the one who made you feel invisible or worthless or like you were too much, or not enough. And He’s not the one who turned His back when you needed someone to stay.

The Bible says our heavenly Papa “will never leave you nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5). That’s not religious fluff. That’s the promise of a present father who saw every moment—every single one—and never looked away. Even when you thought no one saw you, He did. Even when you thought no one cared, He did. And if you were hurting, so was He.

I know, it’s hard to trust that. It might even make you angry or leave you asking, “Then why didn’t He do something?” That’s okay. He can handle your anger. He’s not afraid of it, and He’s not offended by your questions.

And I promise you this. Whatever you missed from the man who raised you—or didn’t—your Heavenly Father still has it. The tenderness. The patience. The fierce protection. The kind of love that stays when it’s messy, when it hurts, when you’re not even sure you want it.

You may not be ready to call Him Papa or Daddy yet. That’s okay—I get it. I still think you’re reading this for a reason. I think maybe your soul’s been whispering that word—quietly, stubbornly—hoping someone would finally tell you it’s safe to say it again… or perhaps for the first time.

Let this be your first moment. Not the end of your ache, but maybe the start of your healing… and consider a new title for Him in your life.

Dear child,

I’m still here. I’ve always been. And I’m not going anywhere.

Papa