In the run-up to Fathers' Day, I told my wife I did not want any fuss over me. I just wanted a quiet day with the family and made it clear that it was not mandatory for my children to come home. Some of you may be wondering why I did not want to be fussed over. After all, Fathers' Day only comes around once a year and it is an opportunity for the family to show their appreciation.

There were a couple of factors. One, I did not want my children spending too much and secondly, I was tired after a long week which ended with a two-day conference in London. I just wanted to lie on my sofa and do nothing.

Did they listen to me? You must have guessed right, they did not. I did appreciate the effort they made to mark the day special for me. They recognised that I needed rest and so kept everything minimal, which I really appreciated.

While I tried my best to be present for my children, I have found that as they have grown into adulthood they are needing me less. I am also recognising that I need to create room for them to make their own choices, while being ready to step in whenever they need me. It is a delicate balance that every parent eventually faces.

I met the Lord when I was a teenager, and it came at a time when my father was not present. It was hard going to my friends' houses and seeing how close-knit their families were and how freely they were able to speak with their dads. There was a longing in my heart for that kind of relationship, until I realised that I could only find it in God, the only One who is capable of being truly present at all times.

What struck me most was that this is not a new revelation. David, writing in Psalm 139, captures it with remarkable depth: "Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there" (vv. 7-8). David was not writing this from a place of comfort. He had known abandonment, betrayal and seasons of deep isolation, yet his conclusion was that God was inescapably, unrelentingly present.

The prophet Isaiah brought this same assurance to a people who felt forgotten. God's word to them was direct: "Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!" (Isaiah 49:15). The tenderness in that passage is striking. God reaches for the most intimate human bond we know, that of a mother and her nursing child, and says even that bond, remarkable as it is, can fall short. His cannot.

For those of us who grew up without that consistent parental presence, these scriptures are not just comforting words. They are a corrective to the lie that our circumstances whispered to us, the lie that we were somehow less worthy of love, less deserving of someone who would stay. 

Jesus himself, in the upper room discourse, made a promise to his disciples who were about to face the terrifying reality of his departure: "I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you" (John 14:18). The word used for orphans there is the Greek orphanos, which speaks not only of those without parents, but of those left bereft and without a guide. Jesus knew what that feeling was, and he spoke directly into it.

This Fathers' Day, whether you had a wonderful father, a difficult one, or none at all, the good news remains the same. There is a Father who has never once been too tired, too busy, too distracted or too distant. He does not need reminding when you need him. He does not have to work out how to be present from a distance. He simply is.

And that is perhaps the greatest comfort of all. Where earthly fatherhood, however loving and sincere, will always have its limits, our heavenly Father knows no such constraint. 

To every heart that has ever longed for a father who would stay, He says simply: I am here.