Embracing Our Generous Father

New Year’s Resolution

So also, when we were underage, we were in slavery under the elemental spiritual forces of the world. But when the set time had fully come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those under the law, that we might receive adoption to sonship. Because you are his sons, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, “Abba, Father.” So you are no longer a slave, but God’s child; and since you are his child, God has made you also an heir. - Galatians 4:3-7

I grew up an immigrant kid with parents who worked weirdly long hours to afford a house in the "nicer" neighborhood—one we couldn’t really afford. My Dad would work 12-hour days in his landscaping business, and his Latino machismo didn’t always make for a comfy relational fit with me, his… well, admittedly not-so-macho son. Still, there’s one thing I knew about my Dad—he would give me anything he had, always.

This giving spirit took a lot of shapes… surprising me with a trampoline when we lived in an inner-city apartment (quickly removed by a frustrated landlord who wanted his parking spots back) or tickets to the Pokemon Movie 2000 the second they went on sale. If you grew up with me, you’d be caught in the “splash zone” of my Dad’s generosity—Pokemon tickets in your hand, invites to family trips, or an avocado milkshake as you walked through the door. 

I’m reminded of this when I read Galatians 4. Having a dad who gives - even gives sacrificially - blesses me so much that it blesses others.

As we move from Christmas into a new year, I’m reminded of a Father who sends a Son to invite more kids into the family. A Father who’s interested in giving until the giving spills over.​​​​​​​

If I’m honest, though, I can waste a lot of time avoiding my Dad. Scared to ask for what I need because some weird lie of independence has convinced me I have to set out to build for myself, make for myself, and care for myself. Old wounds make me fear rejection, and rejection makes me fear asking. I live not as an heir, a son, but as a worker, a servant, trying desperately to earn his keep.

In 2024, I’m trying to live like God’s kid. I want to quickly ask my Dad for what I need because I know He’s been generous in the past. I want to trust that my heavenly Father wants to care for me with the same generosity my earthly Dad did as he plopped that trampoline in a 4-car parking lot. 

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