Before We Begin.
It’s almost Father’s Day 2026. What rises in your mind as you bite into that thought? What visions erupt in your imagination? Where in the spaces between the proverbial good, bad, and the ugly does your heart land? How do we make sense of these heroes and ghosts in our lineage? What are we to do, and what can we do? The questions are valid and, in some cases, essential. So, let me invite you to step up to the plate and take a swing at understanding who “father” might be, who we might be because of the one who has gone before us, and what, if anything, we can do about the journey we are on.
As you read these “letters” to dad, where do you fit in these stories and questions?
“Father, who are you, who am I, and where does it all end?”
Father, thank you!
Beyond doubt, the man I am today is because of you. Your presence demonstrated what it means to be a man of both strength and compassion. The confidence you instilled within sent me out of your home with purpose, a love for my bride and children, and the courage to create good in the world and to hold fast without capitulating to the lies that surround me.
“Beyond doubt, the man I am today is because of you.”
Father, thank you!
Your life and love have inspired me. More than just wanting to be like you, I long to carry your legacy into the world around me and into the lives of those who come behind me. As I think of your life, my memory also drifts to that old folk song by Dan Fogelberg, who anthemed to his own father:
“The leader of the band is tired, and his eyes are growing old. But his blood runs through my instrument, and his song is in my soul. My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man. I’m just a living legacy to the leader of the band.”[1]
I can’t sing like Fogelberg, but if I could, that is what would resound from my heart as I make my own attempt to press the ball downfield in such a victorious way as you have.
Father, I don’t know you.
They say you died in the war. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve seen the pictures. Their memories of you are something I hold onto and, at times, wonder if I’ll be as brave as you were when the moment of ultimate sacrifice comes in my journey. I wish I had known you. Maybe I can be like you someday too.
“I wish I had known you.”
Father, I don’t know you!
Why did you leave? After all these years, I can still see you teaching me how to ride a bike. We were happy, you and I—at least that is what I remember. Then, you were gone. Mother cried, the door closed, and you drove away. I didn’t understand. No one explained. It was just done, and life stopped. Sure, I moved forward. But something was dead deep within, and no one explained.
Father, I don’t know you!
I’m not sure anyone knows you. Silence! Nothing was ever spoken about you. Not a word. For a while, I probed for answers, but none came. There was never any purpose given to your life, and more importantly, there seems to be none given for mine either. Other men have told me to be strong, and I am! I’ve gone to the girl, and she has propped me up. But the lady by my side never fully heals, and the slaps on the back from other men are never enough. So, when I take the mask of self-confidence off in the aloneness of my nights, I still wonder: who am I, will I make it to the end of the race, will I make a difference?
“Who am I, will I make it to the end of the race, will I make a difference?”
Father, I don’t know you!
Though our eyes met from time to time, I never knew you. I honor you publicly for the solid work ethic you instilled in me, a character trait so often missing in our day. I suppose I honor you as I would other great men of valor. The noble generals or scholars brought victory and built society. I honor you, but I don’t know you. They say you were a great man, and I suppose in their eyes you were. But I don’t know the reality of your greatness. I know only the myth of this mysterious saint who entered occasionally, then flew away to rescue someone else or accomplish the next great triumph without me.
Maybe we’re both, you and me, just seated comfortably across the room, someplace in that ballad “Cat’s in the Cradle.”[2] It fits, as you always had time for work but never for me, and indeed, “I’ve grown up just like you,” and “it’s sure been nice talking to you.” But I don’t know you.
Father, I don’t know you.
If we’re being honest, I don’t want to know you! Dad? Why do I even call you that? I understand it’s the proper pattern for a son to take and all. I assume it’s kind of like when we all sat at your funeral, and everyone pretended the past was merely a bad dream. Truth wasn’t welcome in public, and we all said nice things out of politeness. What is true is not what the preacher talked about, at least about you, maybe about God, but not about you.
“Truth wasn’t welcome in public, and we all said nice things out of politeness.”
Ok, I can see it. Maybe we should accept that you probably did the best job you could under the circumstances. I mean, after all, I can see the father you had. You lived in constant fear until you were old enough to get out of the house and join the Navy. How could anyone expect anything different from your life when the wounds of your father cut so deep into your inner boy and left marks for the rest of your life? Yes, I can see your father’s name cut into your heart like the carving of two lovers’ initials, embedded so deeply in the trunk of an old oak tree that they never fade.
Father, I don’t know you.
But I can see the connections in the lives of those who do—between them and their fathers. I see how blessed they were because of you. I can see the same lines of curvature in their faces and the character traits that make them the men they are today. They know who they are and, while not perfect, can stand up straight and progress through life in a way that I strive to emulate. I wonder what it would have been like if you were my father. But you’re not. You have your own sons, and they are so blessed to call you dad.
Father, who am I?
I am proud to wear your name. Because of you, I can step forward with confidence, regardless of what the world throws at me. Regardless of the swings, the strikes, the hits and occasional home runs, or whatever may come, I can stand up straight and look toward the future with assurance because I know who I am. 
“Because of you, I can step forward with confidence, regardless of what the world throws at me.”
Father, who am I?
You left. Was it because of me? You said nothing, affirmed nothing, and noticed nothing. Except, of course, when I seemed to constantly fall short again and again—and again. Am I really that bad? Am I really just a failure?
I see the carnage and promise to never walk in your footsteps. I will never look back, and I will sacrifice to make my life a far cry from yours. I will be transformed and better than you. But why do I still wonder? Why do I still wrestle with these questions deep in my soul? Who am I?
Father, who are we?
Broken lives and trained embitterment have told so many women that we’re just not that important. Yet we see the world’s needs: to be productive and purposeful men who bring good into the lives of others. We long to rescue the maiden and be faithful husbands and engaged fathers. But we’re mostly seen as problems to be fixed or avoided. Now, some women say we are not even necessary. For them, marriage and children are only one of many options, and the family option is not as glamorous as it once was.[3]
So, we try to get it right, and we’re labeled toxic. We try to pull back out of respect, or just ignorance, and we’re told that we are weak and losers. We are told to be more tender—we are told to man up! What we are rarely told is: You’ve got this, you can do this, we are proud of you. Thank you; thank you!
“We try to get it right, and we’re labeled toxic.”
Often, quite often, nothing we put our hands to seems to hold much weight in the world around us. No one seems to care. Who are we, these men who long to rise to the occasion but continually appear to fall short—who are we?
Father, what can I do?
Yes, I’ve got this. I am stepping forward with confidence, and I am so grateful. So, I honor you, and I try to walk in your footsteps. But life is tougher today than it was for you. The world I know is not the one of your boyhood. Gray is the predominant color these days, if not utter darkness. It’s tough. Will I get it right as you did?
Father, what can I do?
I hear I am supposed to forgive you and let the past go? But what does that even look like?
Stumbling forward each day and pressing the ball downfield a couple of yards at a time seems to be the theme of my life. I am getting better as the days bleed into months and months into years. Grounded is a better description of my journey than it used to be. But I still wonder at times whether I can make up for lost time and make a difference now. Which way do I attack first? The voices are loud, the needs are pressing, and the directions are too many to count. What must I do?
“The voices are loud, the needs are pressing, and the directions are too many to count.”
I’ve done it. The past and pain are behind me, and I’ve achieved undeniable success. I have done my duty and regularly make a full court press. They call me an inspiration as I have produced way beyond what you ever did. But why do I still feel so empty inside? Why is my heart still frail? They may not see it, but the hole is there. What can I do?
So, I get out of bed and press on. What else is there to do? I push forward and fulfill my duty, which I understand is something real men are supposed to do. Duty . . . duty—what else is there but duty?
Heavenly Father, can You help?
You say that you are a “Father to the fatherless.”[4] Is that true? You told your Son, the “only begotten one,” as the ancient text says, that you were proud of him.[5] But you are the perfect Father, and your Son was the perfect one. Isn’t that to be expected? Thus, sometimes I wonder, do you have anything left for me?
These heartfelt praises and problematic emotions. These questions that never seem to find answers, and these curses of my unguarded heart toward the man who stood above me. These losses and acceptances, these affirmations and challenges. These thoughts, which come out of nowhere, hold me captive when I least expect them. How can I make sense of them? How can I move forward, live with peace and purpose, and build into those who come behind me?
“How can I move forward, live with peace and purpose, and build into those who come behind me?”
I remember that when your perfect Son began to breathe his last, he confidently looked up to you and prayed, “Father into your hands I commit my spirit,”[6] and apparently that was enough. You accepted him. You knew him, and he knew you.
I wonder, because you seem to have all knowledge of all the hearts and minds of all fathers and sons, I wonder.
So, I wonder.
Father, whoever you are and whoever I am, you seem to have an answer for everything. You seem to know what I do not. So, maybe I can “commit these questions into your hands.” Maybe that will be enough, at least for now. Maybe that will be enough!
[1] Dan Fogelberg “Leader of the Band,” Full Moon/Epic, The Innocent Age, 1981, https://youtu.be/lDByv7HoAyg?si=vZ96lv9klq5tV2ky.
[2] Harry Chapin, “Cats in the Cradle,” Elektra, Verities & Balderdash, 1974, https://youtu.be/5u-KWa3tL-0?si=LQQMqNq8HzXJ32Z3.
[3] Fabiana Buontempo, “More Women Are Ditching the Idea of Marriage, According to Study: ‘You Can Enjoy Life Alone,’ New York Post, April 21, 2025, https://nypost.com/2025/04/21/lifestyle/study-shows-women-are-not-getting-married.
[4] Psalm 68:5 (NIV): “A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.”
[5] Matthew 3:17 (NIV): “And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.’”
[6] Luke 23:46 (NIV): “Jesus called out with a loud voice, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’ When he had said this, he breathed his last.”
For more from Steve, see Kingdomology.com.
