What began as a whisper in prayer became a quiet declaration of faith, a costly one.
This piece has been sitting with me for a while. It wasn’t easy to write, but it felt important not just for me, but maybe for someone else who’s been unlearning, relearning, and slowly moving closer to God in a different way than they were taught.
If that’s you… I hope you find yourself in these words. Not perfectly, but honestly. This is where I am now. And this is the faith I’m choosing to live out loud.
I didn’t grow up calling God “Dad.”
In the church I was raised in,
we honoured God with formality,
with structure,
with reverence wrapped in tradition.
We called Him “Heavenly Father”…
never casually,
never too close.
He was holy,
and holy felt distant.
But lately,
without planning to,
I’ve found myself
saying something different in prayer.
Not “Heavenly Father.”
Not “Lord.”
Just…
Dad.
And at first,
I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to.
The religious part of me
whispered that it was too familiar,
too informal,
too much.
But then I remembered
what Jesus said
in the garden.
“Abba, Father.”
The same Jesus who taught us how to pray also showed us how to come close.
“Abba” wasn’t formal.
It wasn’t rehearsed.
It was personal.
Intimate.
A word for children.
A word for those who belonged.
And in that moment,
Jesus didn’t perform holiness…
He stepped into relationship.
Maybe this is what God’s been leading me into all along.
Not away from reverence,
but deeper into closeness.
Not rebellion,
but relationship.
Leaving the Samoan church
wasn’t a single decision…
it was a slow release.
A quiet, aching shift
that took months to settle in my heart.
I didn’t broadcast it.
I wasn’t sure if I needed to.
But somewhere along the way,
my prayers started to sound different.
My worship felt different.
And then last Sunday, during service,
the preacher said something that stopped me.
He talked about how many Christians are ashamed
to be bold about their faith.
How we hold back,
worrying what others (especially our families) might think.
And then he said it…
“Your family already thinks you’re nuts.
So why not go all in?”
I don’t know why that hit me the way it did.
But it did.
It was like someone flipped a switch.
I’ve always known people probably thought I was different,
but something about hearing it said out loud
made me realise… they already know.
So what am I still hiding for?
This post, these prayers, calling God “Dad”…
maybe some believers will read it and think I’m strange.
But I don’t care anymore.
If I’m going to be called a little crazy,
then let it be for being completely His.
I still carry the songs,
the scripture,
the rhythm of how I was raised.
But now, there’s something new threading through…
a closeness I never knew I was allowed to have.
I call Him Dad now.
And I mean it.
I carry this quietly,
but I pray often for my family,
the ones who grew up in the same spaces I did.
I pray that they experience God
in the way their hearts most need,
personally, tenderly, unmistakably.
Not because I have something they don’t,
but because I know what it’s like
to feel close to Him…
after feeling far.
I know it’s God who draws hearts,
and He does it in His own perfect timing.
But still, I hope…
I hope for that closeness for them too.
This isn’t about changing churches,
it’s about a heart that’s finally come home.
Not to a place,
but to a Person.
And now when I say “Dad,”
it’s not out of rebellion,
it’s out of love.
Out of healing.
Out of truth.
Because this is the same holy God,
but I am no longer a stranger at His table.
I am a daughter.
And He is my Dad.
“The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’”
— Romans 8:15 (NIV)
This post cost something.
Not because it was dramatic,
but because it was real.
It cost me comfort.
It cost me quiet.
It cost me invisibility.
But like the woman with the alabaster jar,
I’ve chosen to pour it all out.
Not privately, but publicly,
not because I need to be seen,
but because He is worth it.
And if it speaks to even one person,
if it makes someone pause and wonder if they can be bold too,
then let that be its fruit.
Because what costs something in surrender,
often carries the most weight in the Kingdom.
Authors Note:
As I share this piece, I want to acknowledge something quietly: my earthly dad is still here, deeply loved, and still a steady presence in my life. This shift in how I speak to God doesn’t replace the respect I carry for him. It’s simply the reflection of a faith that’s become more personal. I hold both with honour.
Eden & Ashes 