What I learned from my fathers

fa·ther

noun
1.  a male parent
2.  a father-in-law, adoptive father, or stepfather
3.  any male ancestor, especially the founder of a race, family, or line; progenitor
4.  a man who exercises paternal care over other persons; paternal protector or provider
5.  a person who has originated or established something:  the founding fathers.

Father's Day is celebrated in 48 nations around the world.   In the United States, we celebrate on the third Sunday in June, which happens to be today.   There was a time when the idea of a father was pretty straightforward:  the man who, with your mother, conceived you and then after your birth raised you to adulthood.  We know that in today's world that is certainly not always the case. 

Many of you know my story, perhaps a few do not.  I was born the day after my mom's 17th birthday. When I was not quite 3 years old, my mom married Dave Sexton, so from my very earliest memories he was the only dad I knew.  Nobody ever told me that he was my dad, but as far as I knew, he was.  He always treated me as his own.  I can remember sitting on the floor of our apartment on Bee Street in Mineral Ridge as he taught me multiplication and division.  He was a coach on my football team.  He took me to my first professional basketball game;  to this day he's the only one who's taken me to Browns games.   I was seven or eight years old when I finally figured out he wasn't really my "dad."  As far as I was concerned, it wasn't that big of a deal.

My grandfather with my son Eli

When I was eight, I went to live with my grandparents.  My grandparents were in their thirties when I was born, so they're certainly young enough to be my parents.  More often than not, when people asked me how my grandpa was doing, the question was "How's your dad?"   Again, as far as most people were concerned, that's who he was.   Grandpa took me to work with him.  He was the one who dealt with other parents when there was a conflict in my friendships.  He was the man who walked across the football field with me on senior night. 

The year I graduated high school, I started working on my family tree and I finally got up the courage to ask my mom who my "real" father was.   She told me, and I spent the better part of the next 10 years believing that man was my father.  I wrote to him, met with his son, and spent hundreds of hours (and several trips south) researching what I thought was my family tree.    In my late twenties, ancestry.com offered a relatively inexpensive Y-Chromosome DNA test that could help you determine a relationship through common male lines.  In other words, your father's father's father has the same Y-Chromosome DNA as you, and so do any other direct male-line descendants of those men.  With the help of one of my suspected father's male line cousins, I determined beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was NOT my father.  It was genetically impossible.  I was back to having no idea.   All I knew was that somewhere out there, I had a father.   I might even have brothers and sisters, grandparents, aunts and uncles I'd never met.  Somewhere. 

A few years later something amazing happened.  I got a match on the ancestry.com database.  A perfect 30 for 30 genetic match.  That meant that the man I matched was a male cousin who had the same male line descent as me, within 5 generations.  What that meant is that his last name was my father's last name, and my father had to be a descendant of one of that cousin's male line ancestors within the last 5 generations.  All that was left for me to do was grab my mom's yearbook and start looking.  There were two men who went to school with my mom with that last name, and doing a little genealogy work, I quickly discovered they were in fact male line descendants of the ancestor of the man I'd matched.  One of them had to be my father.  

Again, I started the process of figuring out what to do next.  I knew that the chances were very good that my biological father had absolutely no idea I even existed, and most likely had a wife and children of his own.  Despite my strong desire to know who he was, and even get to know him, the last thing I wanted to do was to storm into someone's life 30 years later and cause devastating upheaval in his life.  I found an email address online and contacted one of the two men.  In our brief exchange he pointed me in the direction of his brother.  To make a long story short, one night I got a phone call from the brother, and began a surreal journey in which I was sure, at long last, I'd found my father.  Eventually we submitted a paternity test to find out once and for all.  I agonized for two weeks, waiting for the results to be posted on a secure site online.  At long last the day arrived...and the result was negative.  He was not my father. 

My head was spinning.  I was crushed.  I was so sure, my mom and potential father seemed sure as well.  I wondered if maybe the test was wrong, maybe somebody made a mistake.    Over the years I've come to discover that the other man is still in fact a distinct possibility, and there is even a fairly strong resemblance between me and at least one of his sons, but I haven't been able to confirm that through a test, even though genetically, DNA testing tells me it has to be him.  There are no other options.  I am writing about this because a few days ago, through a strange series of events, I found myself in the same room with that man for the first time.  We didn't speak, I'm not even sure he was aware of my presence, or if he had seen me, he'd have any clue who I was or who my mother is.

I share my story not to be "woe is me" about things.  I have had an incredibly blessed life.  As far as I am concerned, raising a biological child is one thing.  Raising someone else's biological child is quite another, and so in that sense, I am very blessed that two men were willing to be a dad to me.  To Dave Sexton and Ken Mowery:  I love you both, and I am incredibly grateful for all you have done for me.  I never say I didn't have a dad growing up, because I was never without a father.  Ever.  I share that story because I want to share what I've learned from my experience: 

1)  I am so blessed.  I have had two men in my life who raised me as their own.  I have a father in heaven who loves me unconditionally and welcomes me with open arms no matter how many times I turn my back on him.  I have children who love me and still get excited to spend time with me.  I am so incredibly blessed. 

2)  My heavenly father is the only father I need.  There's a reason the Bible tells us that God is our "Abba" Father....what that really means is that he's our "daddy."  That's the kind of relationship He wants to have with us, and that's the kind of relationship I have with Him.  If I have Him, I have enough.  An earthly father, or several, are just bonus.  

3)  My role, then, as a father, is to be a reflection to my children of my heavenly Father.   My daughter will be eight in a few weeks, my sons are 5 and almost a year old.  As they learn in church that God is our "father" they will inevitably form their earliest views of Him on their relationship with me.  The comparison is incredibly unfair, as our Father God will never fail us, and I will repeatedly fail my children.  But having said that, I have a responsibility to model God to my children to the absolute best of my ability.  I'm working on that.

4) There will always be things in life we can't change or control.  Though I'm absolutely certain I know who my biological father is, there is nothing I can really do about that.  I can't force the situation, I have no desire to disrupt things for his life.  I have to accept that while the circumstances aren't as I wish them to be, there's not much I can do about it.  My choice then is to be bitter and miserable about that, or to accept things as they are, and be grateful for all the blessings in my life....and there are so many.   I choose to be grateful. 

5) I'm determined to be the best father to my children I can be.   I have three beautiful children here on earth, and three I get to meet someday in heaven.  The past year has brought new challenges but I have never been closer to my kids, and I have never been more determined to make sure that I am the best father I can be.  Like all parents, I'm learning on the way.  I'm gonna mess up big time.   My kids will never need to wonder if I love them, and they will, I hope, always know that I'm here for them.  That's a lesson I learned from my fathers.  All of them.

Children, obey your parents because you belong to the Lord, for this is the right thing to do.  “Honor your father and mother.” This is the first commandment with a promise:   If you honor your father and mother, “things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on the earth.”  Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger by the way you treat them. Rather, bring them up with the discipline and instruction that comes from the Lord.  - Ephesians 6:1-4