The Parent I Always Needed

I think my relationship with God is changing.

Not in the sense that I love Him more than I used to or believe in Him more than I did before. God has always been part of my life. I've always turned toward Him.

But I'm realizing that the way I related to Him was shaped by the relationships that taught me what it meant to need someone.

For most of my life, I came to God after I had tried everything else first.

I would think through every option.
Make the lists.
Analyze the possibilities.
Try to carry the weight myself for as long as I could.

Not because I didn't trust God.

But because somewhere deep inside me, I learned to be careful with my needs.

I learned to be independent.

To not ask for too much.
To not inconvenience anyone.
To not interrupt.
To handle what I could on my own.

And if all of that failed—if I found myself overwhelmed, uncertain, or out of options—I would finally bring it to someone else.

Even then, there was often an expectation attached to it.

The sigh. The eyeroll.
The annoyance.
The feeling that my needs interrupted something more important.

The message, spoken or unspoken:

"You should have figured this out yourself."

So of course I approached God that way.

I don't think I realized how much my experience of earthly parents had shaped my understanding of God.

I assumed that being "mature" meant not needing much.

That I should only bring Him the really important things.

That I should do my part first and only ask for help when I had exhausted every other possibility.

But lately, I'm learning something different.

I'm learning to bring Him the little things.

The decisions before they become overwhelming.

The conversations I'm rehearsing in my head.

The uncertainty about what direction to take.

The hopes I'm almost afraid to admit.

The ordinary details of my everyday life.

Not because He needs the information.

But because healthy parents delight in relationship.

Healthy parents don't only show up for emergencies.

They kneel beside a child tying their shoes. They don't say, "You'll figure it out" They teach. Mentor. Guide.

They listen patiently to stories that wander nowhere.

They answer the same questions over and over.

They celebrate tiny victories.

And if I'm honest, there's still a part of me that hesitates and doesn't trust this closeness.

Not because I don't love God.

Not because I doubt His goodness.

And not because I've forgotten that He's there.

It's because my nervous system remembers.

It remembers what it felt like to carefully evaluate whether my needs were important enough.

It remembers trying not to ask for too much.

It remembers the subtle calculations:

Is this worth bringing up?

Can I figure this out myself?

Am I asking for too much?

Will I become an inconvenience?

So while my spirit recognizes God's invitation into closeness, another part of me is still learning that I don't have to earn access to His attention.

I don't have to qualify for His care.

I don't have to save my prayers for emergencies.

I don't have to justify need. 

I can bring Him the small decisions.

The passing worries.

The moments of uncertainty.

The joys worth celebrating.

The desires I barely whisper aloud.

Because love welcomes relationship.

And every time I come to Him—whether with something monumental or seemingly insignificant—He continues to meet me with the same steady presence.

Not annoyed.

Not inconvenienced.

Not distracted.

Just there.

Patiently teaching me that dependence isn't weakness and that being His child means I never have to qualify for His attention.

I think there is grief in realizing this.

Because the kind of parent I'm describing is the kind of parent I always deserved.

Maybe that's another layer that is healing.

Learning what should have been present from the beginning.

Eva