When “Good, Good Father” Didn’t Feel Good

There was a season when the song “Good, Good Father” played almost every Sunday at church—and every time it did, it felt like sandpaper against my soul.

The song became popular during one of the most painful moments of my life: we had just lost our son after many long years of trying to conceive. After all the waiting, the praying, and the hoping, our son’s heartbeat stopped. And singing “You are a good, good Father” didn’t sit right.

I heard others declare God’s goodness with conviction, and I sat there wondering, How can I trust Him like that?

Why does the word “Father” make my chest tighten?

What’s wrong with me?

Why don’t I feel safe with God anymore?

Losing our son became another layer of trauma—one that shocked me, because I had such deep faith. I genuinely believed God would work everything out. When it didn’t, I was left spiraling.

That grief triggered old wounds: moments of abandonment, neglect, and inconsistent love from my parents. All of it resurfaced. Suddenly, even God felt unsafe—like someone else who couldn’t be trusted.

For me, the word “Father” never automatically meant safe. From the womb to age 24, our nervous systems are shaped by our earliest experiences. If love felt unstable, or care inconsistent, that blueprint doesn't just disappear when we grow up. It becomes embedded in our bodies, our beliefs, our relationships—including our relationship with God.

So when I came to Christ and heard words like “Abba”—a deeply intimate, tender word for God—I didn’t feel comfort. I felt exposed. Because for so long, “father” had been connected to pain.

I desperately needed to know that God wasn’t just a Father—I needed to know He was a different kind of Father.

That He was:

• The Father who stays.

• The One who sees and responds.

• The One who nurtures, not punishes.

• The One who is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.

Because my nervous system had been trained to expect abandonment, betrayal, and unpredictability, scriptures alone weren’t enough. I didn’t need more theology—I needed more experiences.

Here’s something I’ve learned (and am still practicing): Healing happens at the pace of safety, not theology. I didn’t need to fake trusting God. I needed to build trust with Him.

My prayers didn’t sound like polished declarations—they sounded more like:

• “God, I want to trust You, but I don’t know how.”

• “I don’t feel safe with You right now, but will You stay anyway?”

• “Please don’t turn away from me.
  

Brick by brick, experience by experience, I began to trust Him again. Verses became lived realities. God didn’t just stay—He stayed close. I realized I didn’t have to perform or earn His love. I could grieve. I could be raw. I could question. I could be me—and He wasn’t going anywhere.

We are made for secure attachment. And the heart of the Father is not just an idea to study—it’s a reality to encounter. One filled with patience, love, and presence.

You don’t have to force a connection with Him.

You can unlearn fear.

You can relearn love.

And you can do it at your own pace.

With God who stays.

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