The Father I Never Knew, and the Hands That Held Me

The Father I Never Knew, and the Hands That Held Me

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I was raised in the Crescent City, where the scent of gumbo rides the breeze and the beat of second lines echo through your chest like an old familiar prayer. Life down there moves to its own rhythm part joy, part sorrow, all soul. But in the middle of that beautiful chaos, my life had a gap. Not a small one either. We had food on the table, laughter in the kitchen, and enough love to make it through but there was no father in the house. And that silence? It wasn’t quiet it howled.

Not having a daddy ain't just about missing a ride to football practice or not getting that pep talk before prom. It’s the absence of divine reflection. It's not just someone to show you how to tie a tie or fix a flat. It’s someone who teaches you how to pray with boldness, to love with strength, and to walk with purpose. It’s someone to hold up a mirror and say, “You come from something holy.”

I didn’t get that. But I did get the hands of the Divine wrapped tight around me in the form of my grandmother, Mrs Celestine. Now that woman? She was heaven wrapped in a house dress. She could quote scripture with her eyes, make miracles out of leftovers, and silence your storms with a hymn. She didn’t preach much, but her spirit would make your soul sit up straight.

Celestine didn’t just raise me she resurrected me. With every “baby, come here” and every prayer she whispered while stirring a pot of red beans, she taught me how to carry peace in my bones. She moved with grace and walked with a knowing that angels knew her by name. And even when my little boy heart ached for a man’s affirmation, her love cradled that wound.

But let’s keep it real her love was deep, but that ache still pulsed. That quiet sorrow of wondering, “Was I not worthy of staying for?” It’s a question that don’t need volume to shake your soul. That kind of hurt don’t scream it lingers. It hums in the background of your triumphs, like a note slightly off key.

I see it all around me now. Boys growing into men without a map. Girls chasing affection that don’t feed the spirit. Society tries to rebrand fatherlessness as independence, but the truth is it’s a wound. And it shows. Especially when a boy tries to find God without someone to show him what holy manhood looks like.

Let me tell you a little parable:

There was once a sapling, planted all by itself in the middle of a windy field. It reached for the sun every day, but it leaned heavy to one side. Crooked. Fragile. One day, an old farmer walked by and said, “This little one’s been fighting storms with no shelter. It needed another tree beside it. One with deep roots to block the wind and teach it how to sway without snapping.”

That’s what a father does he don’t just provide, he protects from winds that you don’t even see coming. He stands beside you so you learn how to stand tall.

I never had that living tree. But the Creator? Oh, He planted His own shade over me. Sent messages through strangers, comfort through memories, and strength through my grandmother’s soft rebukes. He didn’t just cover me He corrected me. Taught me how to weep and worship in the same breath. Showed me that just because a man wasn’t present doesn’t mean I wasn’t being prepared.

You ever been re-rooted? It’s painful, sure. But it’s also holy. And that’s what happened to me. My roots were dug up from disappointment and pressed into divine soil. I stopped chasing a missing man and started learning from a present God.

To every person with a father-shaped hole in your story hear me: That hurt is real. It matters. But it ain’t the end. Sometimes, the Creator Himself steps in, becomes both the map and the mentor. And there’s no shame in being raised by heaven.

And now, to the mamas I gotta say this, from my chest to yours: Please, let the good fathers in. I know it’s hard. I know hurt makes us build walls. But when a man stands in truth, prays with open hands, and shows up with humility don’t block that. We need both hands holding the child. Yours and his. And if the biological father won’t do right, make space for a spiritual one. Let a real man plant roots where absence tried to grow weeds.

Because our kids? They need examples. Boys need to see strength wrapped in gentleness. Girls need to see what sacred love looks like. And if we keep shutting out the men who show up, we raise kids who don’t even recognize what they’re missing.

I grew up in the Crescent City without a father. But I was raised by hands dipped in prayer, shoulders kissed by mercy, and arms strong enough to hold my calling. My pain became my path. My silence became my sermon. And my story? Still unfolding with every word I write, every young man I mentor, every tear I no longer hide.

I don’t share this as someone bitter I share this as someone blessed. A vessel, cracked and filled with light.

To every child with unanswered questions you ain’t alone. To every man breaking cycles you’re seen. To every mother doing double duty you’re revered.

But mamas, please: open the door. Let the good ones in. Let the windbreaks grow beside your babies.

So one day, they won’t just survive the storm they’ll rise up in the rain and dance like the Crescent City taught us to.