The Search Is Over

When my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he did not simply become sick. The diagnosis shook the foundation of my world. Pancreatic cancer did not enter our lives as only a medical diagnosis. It came carrying the terrifying possibility that time was running out — not only on my dad’s life, but on everything between us that still felt unfinished.

I remember driving after hearing the devastating news, talking to God out loud. “Okay, God… now You are messing with my soul.” God had already been confronting my faulty belief systems and changing nearly everything I believed about life, love, faith, security, and myself. It felt as though so much of my life had already been taken apart. My marriage was done and gone. The money was gone.

I was raising four children on my own, trying to undo the damage caused by years of destructive thoughts and beliefs. I was attempting to rewrite the story of my life, and none of it was easy, but this was different. This was my dad. The man I looked to for my answers to my soul questions. His sickness meant, I was facing the loss of the opportunity to finally receive from him the answers to the questions of my soul, the questions  dwelling  at my center.

Who am I?

Am I loved?

Do I matter?

Am I valuable?

Am I enough?

These are not small questions. They are the foundation upon which we build our lives. Our relationships, choices, boundaries, beliefs, and even the way we allow others to treat us often grow from the answers we carry within us. When the foundation is built on truth, a life can rise with strength, stability, and freedom, but when the answers are formed through silence, rejection, absence, or lies, the structure becomes faulty. We begin building our lives on beliefs such as:

I am not worthy.

I am difficult to love.

I must earn my value.

I have to prove that I matter.

I am never enough.

Eventually, what has been built upon those lies begins to crack.

Relationships collapse.

Boundaries disappear.

We abandon ourselves in order to be chosen. We chase approval, tolerate what wounds us, and keep trying to receive from others the answers we were never able to establish within ourselves. A faulty foundation often does not reveal itself immediately. We build on it for years before realizing how much of our life has been left in ruins. Somewhere inside me, I had always looked to my father, my the leader, the first man to love me, to help lead and guide me into the knowing of who I was.

A little girl and boys often looks into the eyes of their parents to begin discovering themselves. Through their words, affection, attention, and presence, they begins to understand they are loved, seen, protected, valuable, and capable.

My dad was a good man. He was hardworking, dependable, and a man of integrity, but he was not a man of many words. He could not give me the emotional language I had spent much of my life waiting to hear.

“I love you.”

“I see you.”

“You matter.”

“You are enough.”

“You have what it takes.”

His diagnosis forced me to face the possibility, he might leave this world before I ever received those answers from him. The hope of one day he might finally speak truth into the questions living at my center was suddenly running out of time. That was the exact place God was reaching for. Not only my fear of losing my father, but the little girl inside me who was still waiting for him to tell her who she was.

I remember talking to God:

“Now, You are not touching the surface anymore. Now, You are messing with the core me. You are going after the deepest place in me and I am terrified.” For the two years before my dad’s diagnosis, God had been teaching me trust through a steady stream of miraculous provision.

When I needed food, it appeared.

When I needed transportation, a car came.

When I needed work, a job opened.

When I needed shelter, a place was provided.

Even the smallest comforts, like a cup of coffee, arrived countless times at the exact moment I needed reassurance God sees me and I had not been forgotten. Again and again, God met me in ways I could not have arranged or explained. Each provision became another piece of evidence: I was not alone. I was being carried. God was trustworthy. What once seemed impossible kept becoming possible. The needs grew larger, but so did the provision. Little by little, God was building a history of faithfulness with me, showing me on the outside what I would eventually need to believe on the inside.

God had taught me to trust step by step through everything happening on the outside in order to lead me back to myself on the inside. Every miraculous provision was more than an answer to an immediate need. It was a pathway inward. God was using the visible things; food, transportation, work, shelter, even coffee to reach the invisible places within me. The outside miracles were preparing me to return to the parts of myself I had abandoned, hidden, or built upon lies. God was not only teaching me that my life could be provided for. God was leading me home to the truth of who I was.

I heard God saying:

“I have been meeting you in the visible places so you will learn to trust Me in the invisible ones. Every provision has been showing you the same truth: I am here. I see you. I know what you need. I can be trusted. I taught you to trust Me on the outside so I could lead you back to yourself on the inside. I needed you to learn to trust Me with everything happening around you so one day you could trust Me with everything happening inside you. All of the provisions were not only about meeting your physical needs. I was showing you little by little I could be trusted. Now, I want to enter the places within you that have been devastated for a long time, the places you have protected, guarded, and shielded even from Me. Let Me in. I can be trusted.”

God had to teach me to trust with the outside things in order to give hime access on the inside. Now God was asking to step into the places long devastated in my souls. 

The grief.

The lies.

The unanswered questions.

The places where identity had never fully formed.

The longing to be seen.

The ache of waiting for words that might never come… and so much more.

As my dad became sicker, I began to understand, I was not only grieving the possibility of losing him. I was grieving the hope of one day something between us might change.

Perhaps, he would finally say the words.

Perhaps, he would finally see what I had spent my life wanting him to see.

Perhaps, I would finally receive the affirmation that would settle the shaking foundation of my soul. 

What a burden that is to place upon another human being, to expect someone else to answer the deepest questions of your soul.

Who am I?

Why am I here?

Am I lovable?

Am I worthy?

Do I matter?

We often ask people to answer questions they do not even know how to answer for themselves. The grown woman in me eventually had to release my father from this responsibility.

It was no longer his burden to carry.

This did not mean the little girl’s pain was not real. It did not mean what was missing did not matter. It did not mean, I had not been shaped by the his silence. It meant, I could no longer require my father to become the answer to my soul. As I watched my dad die, I felt something else dying too. It was the hope of one day, where he would become the father I had continued waiting for. It was the hope he would finally speak the words my heart had spent a lifetime longing to hear.

He simply could not.

Not because he was a bad man

Not because he had no love for me

But because his own woundedness had kept him frozen in fear and silence. Silence protected him from facing what lived inside him, it also prevented the love within him from reaching me in the ways I needed as well as, in the ways he I am sure wanted to express it and wished he could.

He was not empty of love.

He was trapped behind everything he had never healed.

The day he died was one of the most beautiful fall days I have ever experienced. As my dad took his last breath, the front door suddenly blew open, the nurse walked over quickly and closed it. We turned our attention back to my dad and watched him take his final inhale. Then, as he released his final exhale, the front door blew open for a second time. There was no clear explanation but God had made know to us, Dad was being lead home with God. It felt holy as if the presence of God had entered the room, remained with us through his final breath, and then walked back out with my dad spirit.

Later, I got onto my motorcycle and rode the back roads home. 

The trees were ablaze with color. The leaves danced above and around me along the road. The reds, oranges, and golds seemed more vibrant than I had ever seen them before. The air was crisp and clean, but there was still a softness and warmth to it. The sun was absolutely glorious, I could feel the golden rays of light hitting me. It was a perfect fall day, the kind of beauty that seems impossible for the world to look so magnificent when your heart has just been broken open so deeply and yet perhaps this was the gift hidden inside the pain.

In the moment of the greatest suffering I had ever known, I was also given a glimpse of just how perfect and beautiful the world could be. The laws of polarity seemed to be unfolding all around me: grief and beauty, death and life, heartbreak and wonder, all existing in the same breath. I was experiencing the deepest sorrow I had ever known, and somehow, in God’s goodness, I was also being shown its opposite.

The colors were brighter.

The air felt cleaner.

The world seemed more alive.

It was as though God was reminding me, suffering does not erase beauty. Even in the moment when my heart was breaking, creation was still speaking of life, goodness, and something eternal. Maybe I could see the beauty so clearly because I had never felt pain so deeply. The God, of mercy, allowed me to experience both at once, the unbearable ache of losing my dad and the breathtaking reminder even in death, beauty had not left the world. Death does not have the final word. As I rode, the words of a song kept playing over and over in my mind:

The search is over, I have been with you all the while.

It was a love song about searching everywhere, only to discover the one you were searching for had been there all along. Suddenly, I understood. The song by Survivor, and somehow became a worship song for me and became sacred.

My search was over and God, had been with me ALL the while. 

I had survived.

I had survived the torment of the unanswered questions, the pain of the lies I had believed, and the silence which had shaped so much of my life. I had survived the ache of waiting for another person to tell me who I was.

Not because I had been strong enough to carry it alone.

Not because the suffering had been small.

Not because the wounds had suddenly disappeared.

I survived because of the One who had been with me all along.

God had been there through every silence.

Through every unanswered question.

Through every moment I felt unseen, unworthy, or forgotten.

I had spent years searching for someone to give me the truth that God had been patiently leading me toward all along. The search was over because I finally knew where to look. I had been searching outside myself for what God was waiting to awaken within me. On a motorcycle, surrounded by the breathtaking beauty of creation and carrying the deepest grief I had ever known, I realized I had not been abandoned. God had not remained silent.

I had been accompanied.

I had been held.

I had been loved through every mile of the journey.

The search was over. I had survived because God had been with me all the while. God, in all goodness, is still leading me home every day.

Home to God.

Home to myself.

Home to truth.

Home to wholeness. 

Home to healing. 

Home to Joy.

Home to all that brings life. 

Home to wonder, possibility, love, and the sacredness of being fully alive.

The search for my earthy father may have ended that day, but the journey home continues. Each day, God gently leads me away from the lies, the fear, and the silence that once held me captive. Each day, I am being returned to the person I was created to be- whole, loved, free, and no longer searching outside myself for what has been waiting within me all along. God is not merely leading me away from the pain of my past. God is leading me back to life.

Back to truth.

Back to love.

Back to God.

Back to myself.

Back home.

The search was over.

Not because my dad had finally given me what I needed.

Not because the wound had disappeared.

Not because every unanswered question had been resolved.

The search was over because I felt God saying:

“Your dad time here is done, Rebecca.

But I am not. I have been here all along  and now we are going to do the deeper work.”

God lesson was clear to me, You cannot place the full weight of your soul upon another human being.

Not your parent.

Not your partner.

Not your child.

Not your friend.

People can love us.

They can encourage us.

They can speak truth over us.

They can walk beside us.

But they cannot become the foundation of our identity without eventually collapsing beneath the weight of it. No person can fully answer the deepest questions of who we are, why we exist, or whether our lives have value. This marked the beginning of a deeper journey into the heartbreak, the unmet needs, and the places I had never fully trusted God to enter. My father’s death was not the end of my journey.

It was the beginning of finally coming home, coming home meant grieving the father I had lost, while also meant grieving the father I had hoped he might one day become. It meant releasing the words I had waited my entire life to hear, acknowledging what was missing mattered, no longer pretending I had not been wounded by the silence,  but also releasing my dad from the responsibility of becoming the answer to the questions living at the center of me. I wonder how many of us are still searching.

How many of us are placing the weight of our worth, healing, identity, or sense of being enough upon people who were never meant to carry it?

Parents.

Partners.

Children.

Friends.

Success.

Money.

Recognition.

Approval.

Achievements.

We continue searching outward, hoping something or someone will finally quiet the ache and the trembling of instability inside us.

We wait for a parent to affirm us.

We wait for a partner to choose us.

We wait for a child to appreciate us.

We wait for success to prove that our lives matter.

We place our identities into hands which are human, wounded, limited, and sometimes empty, but what if the ache is not only evidence something is missing? What if it is an invitation?

An invitation to stop running.

An invitation to come home inward.

An invitation to allow God to meet us in the places we have avoided, protected, hidden, and kept locked away.

What if the search does not end when another person finally validates us?

What if it ends when we stop asking other people to define us?

What if the search does not end when life finally makes sense?

What if it ends when we trust God with the deepest questions of our souls?

Maybe the search is not over because everything has been fixed, put in order and make sense.

Maybe it is over because we have finally discovered where we belong.

Maybe coming home is not the absence of grief.

Maybe coming home is realizing even inside our grief, we are still held.

Maybe the search ends when we finally allow ourselves to be found.

This story is not only about what we needed but did not receive, but a call to consider what we are giving to others.

Not just as parents.

Every person God places in our lives is a human being entrusted to our care in some way.

A child.

A partner.

A friend.

An employee.

A neighbor.

Even a stranger whose path crosses ours for only a moment.

We are one of the ways they experience love, dignity, safety, compassion, and even a reflection of God. 

This is a sacred responsibility, so say the words.

“I see you.”

“You matter.”

“You are valuable.”

“You are loved.”

“You have what it takes.”

Do not assume people already know. Do not allow your own wounds, fear, pride, or silence to keep love trapped inside you.

Speak life.

Call out the goodness you see.

Help the people God has placed in your life remember who they are when pain, rejection, failure, or the cruelty of the world causes them to forget. We are not responsible for becoming the foundation of another person’s identity. Only God can hold that weight. We are responsible for how we reflect God to the people entrusted to us.

May our words lead people closer to truth, not deeper into shame.

May our presence remind them of their value on this earth.

May the people who encounter us leave more aware they are seen, loved, and worthy of care than they were before they met us.

Who or what have you been asking to answer the deepest questions of your soul?

Whose approval are you still waiting for?

What words have you believed you must hear before you can finally feel loved, chosen, valuable, or enough?

Releasing people from the responsibility of defining us does not mean the pain was not real. It does not erase the absence, dismiss the wound, or pretend what happened did not matter. This means, we stop asking another person to become the savior of our souls. Sometimes, we must grieve more than the loss of a person. We may also need to grieve the words we never heard, the apology that never came, the relationship that never changed, and the version of the story we spent years waiting to receive.

Grief can become a doorway.

Greif can lead us away from the endless search for human validation and into the presence of the One who has been with us all along. Coming home begins when we stop asking another person to tell us who we are and allow God to meet us in the places  remaining unseen, unprotected, and devastated for far too long. The search may not end because every wound has healed or every question has been answered.

The search may end because we are finally willing to be found.

Where am I still searching outside myself for something only God can establish within me?

What words have I spent my life waiting to hear?

Who do I need to release from the responsibility of validating my existence?

What relationship have I continued hoping will become something it may never be?

What part of my heart have I protected because I was afraid to trust God with it?

What would it look like to stop running and allow myself to be met there?

God of mercy,
God who has been with me all along, meet me in the places where I have searched for love, approval, safety, identity, and belonging, meet me in the words I never heard, the affection I never received, the apologies that never came, and the relationships that could not become what I needed them to be.  Help me grieve what was missing without allowing the absence to define me. Give me the courage to acknowledge the wounds I have carried and the grace to stop demanding another person heal them for me. Forgive me for placing the weight of my soul upon people who were never created to carry it. Release them from this burden. Release me from the endless searching. Teach me to have unwavering trust You with the places I have protected, hidden, and kept far from Your presence, enter the long-devastated places within me.  Speak truth where silence has lived.

Bring tenderness where I have become guarded.

Bring rest where I have spent my life striving to be seen.

Remind me,  I am loved before anyone chooses me.

I am valuable before anyone validates me.

I am known before anyone understands me.

I belong before anyone welcomes me.

Help me release the story I kept waiting for and receive the life that is still being written. When grief opens the door, meet me there. When memories rise, hold me there. When the old search begins again, remind me You are still here. You have been with me all the while. Lead me home to the truth of who I am.

Let the search end, not because everything has been fixed, but because I have finally found where I belong.

Amen.