There are wounds that time does not heal. Wounds etched into the soul by absence, neglect, betrayal, or abuse. For many, the deepest scars are not physical but relational. They come from parents who failed to protect, nurture, or love. Some were abandoned. Others were manipulated. Still others were raised in homes devoid of godly example, where confusion reigned and identity was twisted.

These wounds often shape how we see ourselves, how we relate to others, and even how we perceive God. The word “Father” itself can evoke pain instead of peace. The idea of belonging to a family can feel foreign, especially the family of God. And yet, the gospel speaks directly to this ache. It does not ignore it, Christ redeems it.

Through Yeshua/Jesus, the abandoned are not just comforted, they are adopted. They are not simply healed, they are renamed. They are not only restored, hey are crowned. The journey from orphan to heir is not poetic metaphor, it is a Gospel reality.

Whether through death, divorce, dysfunction, or distance, the absence of a godly parent leaves a void. Children are wired to receive identity, affirmation, and protection from their parents. When that is withheld or distorted, the result is often insecurity, shame, and a fractured sense of self. Looking for this affirmation, we often look for the path of least resistance. 

Many grow up asking questions that echo through adulthood: “Am I wanted?” “Am I enough?” “Can I be loved without condition?”

These questions are not answered by achievement, relationships, or even religious activity. They are answered by the Spirit of adoption, by being received, renamed, and redefined by the One who never abandons, the One who is the same yesterday, today and forever.

In Psalm 68:5, God is described in this way, “Father of the fatherless and protector of widows is God in His holy habitation.” This is not symbolic language; it is the language of covenant promise. God does not just sympathize with the abandoned; He intervenes. He draws near. He adopts.

In John 14:18, Jesus says, “I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.” This is the heartbeat of the Gospel. The Father sends the Son to bring home the lost, the broken, the rejected. Through Yeshua, we are not just forgiven, we are now family.

God’s fatherhood is not like, and it cannot be compared to earthly fatherhood. He is not distant, volatile, or conditional. He is faithful, gentle, and just. He does not wound, He heals. He does not abandon, He abides.

Paul writes in Romans 8:15–17: “For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.”

This is not theological theory; it is transformation in the Spirit. Adoption is not a metaphor, it is a legal and relational reality. Through Messiah, we are brought into the household of God. We are given a new name, a new inheritance, and a new identity.

We are no longer defined or limited by our earthly lineage, but by our heavenly citizenship. We are no longer victims of abandonment, but recipients of holy affection. We are no longer orphans, we are sons and daughters of the King of kings.

One of the deepest fears of the abandoned is lack: lack of love, lack of safety, lack of provision. But God is not only a Father who adopts, He is a Father who provides.

In Matthew 6:31–33, Jesus says: “Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.”

God’s provision is not just material, it is emotional, relational, and spiritual. He provides peace in the storm, wisdom in confusion, and comfort in grief. He provides community through the Body of Messiah, healing through His Spirit, and purpose through His calling. The orphan spirit says, “I must fend for myself.” The adopted heart says, “My Father will provide.”

Parental wounds can distort identity. Words spoken in anger become internal an internal monologue. Neglect becomes a narrative of worthlessness. Abuse becomes a lens through which everything is interpreted. But God does not just erase the past, He rewrites the story. He gives a new name, a new nature, and a new narrative, while using the old identity to bring glory to Christ and godly encouragement in need. 

In Isaiah 62:2, God says, “You shall be called by a new name that the mouth of the Lord will give.”

In Revelation 2:17, Jesus promises a white stone with a name “known only to the one who receives it.” This is personal, intimate, and eternal. He writes your new name on a symbol of innocence, because you have been redeemed by His blood. God does not call you by your trauma, He calls you by your new name.

You are not “unwanted.” You are “chosen.” You are not “damaged.” You are “redeemed.” You are not “forgotten.” You are “engraved on His hands” (Isa. 49:16).

Healing from these wounds is not instant, it is a journey. It involves grief, forgiveness, and maturity in Christ. But it is possible. And it begins with surrender. Surrendering the need to earn love. Surrendering the lies spoken over you. Surrendering the fear of rejection. The Lord does not rush the process. He walks with you. He weeps with you. He restores you.

Psalm 147:3 says, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” This is not a form of poetic comfort—it is a blessed assurance indeed. The Father does not ignore your pain, He enters it; and He brings resurrection.

If you carry these deep wounds, know this: you are seen. You are not invisible. You are not forgotten. You are not cursed. He knows the depths of your internal cry. Your story does not end in abandonment, it begins with His adoption. Your identity is not defined by your earthly parents, it is secured by your heavenly Father. You are not alone. You are not unloved. You are not unworthy. Through Jesus, you are a son. You are a daughter. You are an heir.

The gathered family of God, the church for short, must be a place where the wounded are welcomed, not judged; by trusting in Christ, the Judge has been judged for them already. It needs to be a place where the abandoned are embraced, not pitied. Where the orphaned are adopted, not just by God, but by His people.

We must speak identity over the broken. We must model the reality of godly adoption and parenthood. We must be spiritual mothers and fathers to those who never had one. The Body of Christ is a family. So let us be the family of God to those who need it most.

In the end, all the redeemed of the Lord are welcomed home by the Spirit of adoption. The Father running toward the prodigal, toward the abandoned, all who have fallen short. The Son is preparing a place, just for you. And the Holy Spirit is causing us to cry out, “Abba,” “Father.” 

Let the abandoned come home. Let the wounded be healed. Let the orphans-no-more know that they have become heirs.

Maranatha. Shalom.