Searching for A Real Dad Part II

A Follow-Up To A Previous Story

We pondered what makes “a real father” in a previous story, one that you would honor with the title, “Dad.”

Several readers wanted more: A follow-up to my husband’s encounter with his biological father.

And some wondered how he became such a devoted and loving father when he never had one to emulate?

When Craig witnessed his biological father’s indiscretion on Telegraph Road that one night when the man left the bar in an angry puff of smoke, he felt solid in his decision not to contact this man in the future. He had gone his whole life up to that point without a father; what really would change? He was not willing to try to squeeze this guy into a mold two sizes too small.

He was, however, slightly interested in his heritage. Through the very old-fashioned yellow pages, Craig got a hold of his paternal grandfather’s phone number, a man he had never met, and the woman to whom he was married, a second wife.

With a blended cocktail of trepidation and excitement swirling in his belly, he called the number.

Maybe he could meet some relatives further up the chain of ancestors. Maybe someone in the line, an uncle or a cousin, would have the sort of character Craig desired to get to know. Maybe his grandfather was nothing like his son who we learned lived in the basement of his third ex-wife’s house, sleeping on an old couch since he could not afford to keep a place of his own.

Maybe healthier genes from further up trickled down into Craig’s DNA.

It is an understatement to say the phone call was anti-climactic. It was more disappointing than that. Turns out that his grandfather had just passed away two weeks prior, so Craig never got to talk to him. And, of course, the man’s wife was no relation to Craig either, so nothing came of this phone call.

Many years later, Craig’s brother took steps forward that Craig did not and began a late-in-life relationship with their biological father. He sent Craig photos of six or seven half siblings out there who wanted to meet their oldest brother, Craig. He passed along messages from their father who had wanted to see his first-born son before he died as cancer was threatening to take him at any moment.

Craig takes longer than some to make such life decisions since he has built a fortress of protection around himself. The construction of that wall took 50 years, so digging out was not a simple feat. He had to find a chink in the stone to start chipping away for a larger opening, but time was not on his side.

Regretfully, the man passed away before Craig was able to dig out; he never got to meet him again or hear his, possibly, repentant words.  

A small seed of remorse rests in Craig’s chest, but he does not water it often. Sure, he feels that maybe he should have given the man a chance to try to make amends, but since Craig does not hold any condemnation toward his father, that sprout of regret has not grown much.

He views his father as some unfortunate man, unrelated to him. Sad that he died without patching up his frayed relationship but hopefully at rest now. Not really who he would call Dad.

Other people filled that role for him. Taught him a few valuable things about life.

Craig and I got married young, and Craig took to my dad from the start. My dad was an outdoorsman through and through, so if Craig wanted to get time with him, he’d have to follow him into the woods. Donning camouflage and tools for building a deer blind, into the woods they went. Often. Craig was hungry for those story-book relationships he had heard about from other young men and their fathers, and he gave himself plenty of opportunity to cultivate that with my dad. He learned life skills from hands-on training and quality time.

Many years later, when my father was hospitalized with sepsis for months prior to his death, Craig was at the hospital every day after work, assisting him in any way he could. Some of the staff assumed he was the son and I the daughter-in-law. During that stint, my dad experienced some depression, common for those suffering a long stay in a rehab center.

One day, I received a phone call explaining that the aides could not coerce my father to eat or drink, or to get into his wheelchair, so Craig called in sick to work and drove out to the facility without me. He wheeled my dad to the shower room and bathed him—that woke him up a bit. And upon return to his room, dad was hungry, and Craig fed him a good meal. My dad came out of that bout of despondence and perked up for his rehab. My dad called him, Son.

Becoming a son taught him about being a father.

Craig searched the men’s group at a congregation we liked for a spiritual mentor too, and he found one in a wise man a little farther down the life-path than he.

It’s such a gift to have someone willing to pass down sparkling jewels of wisdom that you can adorn yourself with if you figure out how to securely string those gems.

Coffee with this man every Sunday morning for years provided time to ingest the most nourishing spiritual food around. And even more so, this relationship, like a father and an adult son, grew into a deep friendship that still brings light to both of them. If the word “father” comes up in any casual conversation, this is the man who immediately comes to mind.

Again, what makes a real father? Both relationships with older men taught Craig lessons in fatherhood. And could it be that he inherited some natural instincts too? Perhaps both nature and nurture were at work here.

While Craig struggles a little with his decision to miss the whole deathbed scene with his biological father, he is secure in his knowledge of what makes a real dad.  

Solid, fatherly relationships do not always come from being related.

[Note: I wrote a book about grasping our identity, featuring my dad and what makes a true father. Publishing in the near future for readers on a search for self & inner peace.]