Growing up, my father and I became rather close, at least I thought so at the time.  I certainly wanted to be close to my dad.  My mother had passed when I was only two, so he was all I had left.  I had no full blood brothers or sisters, and although my father remarried, I didn’t have a good connection with my step mother.  But as a boy, I clung to my father.  He was a hard worker and worked odd jobs to make ends meet and to take care of the family, so he would frequently come home from work, eat dinner with the family, and then go do work for someone on the side who needed his expertise as a construction worker.  As I grew, though, I soon learned how different we were.  He was very much a person to work with his hands, but I preferred working with my head.  He encouraged this in me, as well, because he saw the potential for me to live a better life where I wouldn’t have to work so hard and could make more money and live more comfortably.  But our personalities were different, too, and as I grew, my family and friends of my mother would tell me how much like her I was.  That explained why I didn’t relate to my father as much as I wanted to, but there was still the need to do so.   He wasn’t into sports much, and neither was I, so he tried to find activities for us to do.  We’d go trout fishing every year on the first day of the season, though it wasn’t my favorite thing to do.  Sometimes we would go to tractor pulls, or steam engine conventions, where old farm machinery that was run by steam was displayed and demonstrated.  Of course, there were the family camping trips, and the late-night talks by the campfire.  My step mother and sisters would always go to bed early, but Dad and I would sit up late by the fire and chat.  At home this would happen on the front porch, where my father would retire on a warm summer’s night to relax and collect his thoughts.  We didn’t have air conditioning when I was growing up, so sitting on the front porch was a way of staying out of the hot house.

My dad always supported me in the activities that I did, whether it was in the Boy Scouts, or in a play at school.  When I got my paper route at the age of fourteen, I delivered papers seven days a week.  Six days, Monday through Saturday, I delivered the evening paper, and could do so on my own, but every Sunday, I had to deliver the morning paper.  This was an early rise, and I had to get up at about 5:00 AM and walk several blocks to where my papers were delivered, assemble them and deliver them.  My dad decided to help me out, so each Sunday we would get up early, and go in his pick-up truck to pick up the papers.  He would assemble the different parts into one paper package, and then I would load what I could into my paper carrier, which I wore over my shoulders, with pockets in front and back.  The Sunday paper was so much bigger because it contained advertisements and coupons, more news than normal, special editions, and, of course, the comic section. So, I couldn’t take nearly as many papers in each load, like I could during the weekdays.  So, my dad’s truck would serve as a pick-up station, as he drove around and would meet me at the end of a street.  After I was done, we would go for donuts or breakfast somewhere.  We did this religiously for two years.

I remember when I wanted to go on a Spanish class trip to Puerto Rico in the ninth grade, he worked extra to help provide the money.  I saved what I could from my paper route for spending money.  At seventeen, he helped me go on a ten day backpacking trip with the Boy Scouts in New Mexico, also by helping with the money to go and buying all the necessary equipment.  As I look back, I see that, although we were quite different, and didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, I was his son, and that’s all that mattered.

When I grew up, I went to college to study computer science, but midway through I made up my mind to go a different direction that he didn’t approve of.  I completed my degree but my face was set like flint in another direction.  I wanted to go into the ministry, and it was the one thing he didn’t want me to do, especially if it meant becoming a missionary.  In retrospect, I don’t think it was because he was against me serving the Lord, but rather he was afraid it would leave me dirt poor, and that was just the opposite of what he wanted for me. Furthermore, it would take me far away.  We both had some words over it, but I knew better than to please my dad over my heavenly Father.  I felt that I had left him down, but I knew what I had to do.  I was a man now, and I had to make my decisions on how I would spend my life.  Somehow I knew that living my life to please someone else would only end in many regrets.

I remember when I decided to go to seminary in Kansas City, over 1000 miles away from my home in eastern Pennsylvania.  I was so thrilled at the anticipation of the new adventure, but scared at the same time.  I said good-bye to my dad and his new wife, and drove off to my new home just in time for the fall semester to begin.  I was the first person in my family to ever go to college and earn a bachelor’s degree, which I did not far from my home town, and now I was headed to earn a seminary graduate degree, and live in a distant city.  Our family just didn’t do that.  They stayed close to home.  Most of my nuclear family, and extended family, grew up in the same area, and are even buried in the same cemetery.  But for me, I was not content to do that, and somehow I grew wings with the desire to fly the coop.

After three years of hard work, I finally graduated.  True to form, my dad was there for commencement ceremonies, as he had been for both high school and college.  He flew across the country to see me walk the stage to receive a Master’s degree.   I lived in a small apartment in an old house up the street from the church I was attending and serving in during my seminary years.  After the Sunday service, as he and I and my step mother walked up the street toward my place, my dad broke down and cried.  It wasn’t a loud cry, but the tears were present, and his voice was quivery.  It was then he told me how proud of me he was.  Those are the words that every young man longs to hear from his father, and somehow we never forget.  I wasn’t sure if I would ever hear it as an adult after I took the road less traveled by, and deviated from his hopes for me.  By this time, I had become more focused on pleasing my heavenly Father, but there is always a place in our lives for those special words spoken by our dad.  It was definitely a turning point for us, for it seemed from that point on that he understood why I had to do what I had chosen to do.

After many years of working with urban youth in various capacities, and watching them grow up, I was awarded the opportunity to take in two different teenagers at two different times to finish raising them, becoming a godfather to them, in that both of their fathers were tragically killed, as too often happens in the urban core.  I was reminded of the words of the psalmist that proclaimed God as a “father to the fatherless.”  I felt his nudge to take on that role for His name’s sake.  And although I never married, I took the challenge of fatherhood seriously, quitting organized ministry and outreach and became “dad” for the duration of their teenage years.  The youngest one stayed with me the longest, and we grew quite close.  He reminds me so much of my dad.  He’s really nothing like me at all.  He prefers to work with his hands, and his ways of thinking mirror my dad in many ways.  He has made decisions I don’t agree with, as all kids do as they grow, make mistakes, and wrestle for their independence, but he’s a hard worker, respectful,  with a tender heart, and doesn’t give up when life gets tough.  I wouldn’t trade him for anyone.  Like my dad, I plunged myself into supporting him in sports and any activities that I could.  I taught him to drive, traveled, camped, swam, and road roller coasters with him.  We worked on cars together, and as any dad, I learned how to lay myself aside for his good.  It really wasn’t hard, because that’s what love does.

I often read the words of Matthew’s gospel where he tells the account of Jesus’ baptism.  After Jesus comes up out of the water, “a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my dearly loved Son, who brings me great joy.’” (Matthew 3:17, NLT).  No greater words can be spoken from a father to a son.  No greater words can be heard by a son from his father.

As I raised my godsons, it was apparent that I could never replace their birth fathers.  There always seems to be that connection, and although I was only the surrogate, it was still a great privilege given to me by my heavenly Father to become a father figure to them.  I understood first-hand the desire to sacrifice all for their sake, to enjoy the little things, to forgive the mistakes and shortcomings, and to encourage them to be their best, especially when life dishes out the sour milk.  But the greatest privilege of all is to say those words, to make it a point to let them know how proud of them I am, and to watch the gleam on their faces as the words sink deep into their heart, taking their rightful place in the formation of their manhood.  Though I have used the phrase more than once in their formative years,  I choose the time and frequency carefully so as not to overuse it.  And now, especially, as I see my youngest working to overcome some difficult odds in his life, and now as a father himself, learning the art of sacrificial love, I can truly say “this is my son, who brings me great joy.”

Categories: Just For Men

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