My story is not unique. Many people are victims. Some have experienced sexual abuse, physical abuse, or both. But my struggle has always been different.
What if you are not a victim in any obvious sense? What if the only abuse you can remotely point to is spiritual abuse—the constant emphasis on works, the pressure to earn God’s favor, the endless reminders of what you must do?
After I understood the gospel and came to faith in Christ, one of the most difficult realizations I faced was recognizing that my family did not possess saving faith. It took me a long time to be certain of that conclusion. I did not arrive there quickly or willingly.
Perhaps that is why this loss has been so difficult to process. I was not leaving behind people who had no value to me. I was not escaping cruelty. Much of what I left behind was good. Much of it helped shape me into the person I am today.
That is what makes the loss so painful.
Like the Apostle Paul, I have had to learn that something can hold great value in my life and still not be the foundation of my faith. Paul wrote:
“But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ” (Philippians 3:7).
Paul was not denying the significance of his past. He was simply recognizing that even good things must take second place to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ.
That distinction has been one of the hardest lessons of my life.
“But what things were gain to me (even very good things), those I counted loss for Christ. Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ” (Philippians 3:7–8).
There is a part of me that wants my parents to be recognized and seen for who they were to my siblings and me. They lived what they taught. They did not simply hand us a set of beliefs and expectations; they modeled them. Their lives matched their words.
I also know that my desire to hold onto that can become a form of pride. It is the same pride that our family, and perhaps our entire community, struggled with for so long. We believed we were the people who had our priorities straight, the people who had our ducks in a row. We saw ourselves as a uniquely obedient people.
Yet there is another side to this struggle.
Part of me believes that my parents deserve honor for the role they played in shaping me. The instrumental value they instilled in me led me toward moral value. I want to honor them for being instruments in God’s hands, much like the Word of God itself is an instrument that points us to something greater. But I do not want to elevate them above what I have in Christ.
That is where the tension lies.
When Paul spoke of his lineage, his heritage, and all the things that once gave him confidence, he said he counted them as loss—indeed, as dung—compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ.
That is what I want to do. Not because those things had no value, but because they cannot hold ultimate value.
This is where the distinction between instrumental value and moral value becomes meaningful to me.
The things my dad taught me—a healthy fear of God, a love for truth, a respect for righteousness—were gifts. In spite of the fact that I now believe he was a lost man, God used him. By being the man he was and by living consistently with what he taught, he became a means to an end. God used those qualities to cultivate in me a love for truth and a desire for righteousness.
God also used my father’s stability to shape my understanding of His character.
Many people struggle to believe that God loves them because of the pain, neglect, or abuse they experienced growing up. Their view of their earthly father becomes the lens through which they see their heavenly Father. Because of that, they find it difficult to trust God’s love.
I do not carry that particular struggle.
I never doubted that God loved me. My father’s steady presence, his consistency, and his commitment to what he believed gave me a framework through which I could understand God’s faithfulness. In many ways, my understanding of God was first shaped by the man my father was.
For that, I am deeply grateful.
Yet gratitude can become idolatry when it is allowed to compete with Christ.
That has been my struggle.
The things I received from my family were good gifts, but they were never meant to become the treasure itself. They were signposts pointing beyond themselves. God used them to lead me toward Him, but they cannot take His place.
I have had to wrestle with that truth in the Word of God. I have had to learn how to honor what was good without worshiping it, how to be thankful for what shaped me without allowing it to define me.
As I have read through 2 Timothy 2:5–12, I have found myself returning again and again to the same conclusion. The Christian life is not about preserving everything we once treasured. It is about enduring, remaining faithful, and keeping our eyes fixed on Christ.
That is what I want to do.
I want to honor the good that God gave me through my parents. I want to acknowledge the value of what they taught me. But above all, I want to count every earthly treasure—no matter how precious—as secondary to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ.
Good Gifts, Greater Truth
God uses many things to bring us to truth. Sometimes, He uses suffering. Sometimes, He uses blessings. Sometimes, He uses faithful parents, a strong family, good examples, and a home where love and stability are present.
I am grateful for the things my parents gave me. My father taught me a healthy fear of God, a love for truth, and respect for righteousness. By his example, God planted seeds that would later help me recognize the gospel when I heard it.
Those gifts had tremendous value.
But they were never meant to become my identity.
The same God who uses hardship to draw people to Himself can also use good gifts. Yet whether our story is marked by pain or by blessing, we face the same danger: making those things ultimate.
For some, wounds become their identity. For others, family heritage, traditions, accomplishments, or moral upbringing become their identity. Both can distract us from who God says we are.
The gifts God gives are meant to point us to Him, not replace Him.
The Apostle Paul understood this. He did not deny the value of his heritage, his upbringing, or his accomplishments. Yet he counted them all as loss compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ.
That is the balance I continue to seek.
I want to honor the good God gave me through my family. I want to be thankful for the ways He used them in my life. But I do not want to build my identity on those things. The moment I place them above Christ, gratitude becomes idolatry.
My story is not ultimately about my family, my upbringing, my losses, or even my blessings.
My story is about Christ.
The greatest gift God has given me is not a heritage to preserve, but a Savior to follow.