It was the morning before Father’s Day and I was curled up on the couch with my Bible searching for something to ease the ache in my heart, an ache that only deepened each year without my father.
I was barely five when my dad died. Mom did a great job of keeping his memory alive through stories, videos and photos. “You were his whole world,” she’d say to my brother and me.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel cheated whenever there was a daddy-daughter dance at school, or when I had to face all the milestones—birthdays, graduations and, hardest of all, my wedding day, without him.
Father’s Day only reminded me of my loss. A loss I felt more than ever now that my husband, Brady, and I were trying to start a family.
“Bekah, you’re going to be the best mom,” Brady had told me a few nights earlier. “I hope so. I know you’ll be a wonderful father,” I’d said. “Our kids will be your whole world.”
I got choked up all over again now, thinking about my dad and how my kids would never know him. I set my Bible on the couch, closed my eyes and prayed: Lord, Father’s Day is tomorrow and it only makes me sadder than ever to be fatherless. Please comfort me.
Just then, I heard a voice, not spoken aloud but from deep within. Think, Rebekah, it said. You have me, and you have fathers I have put in your life. Three of them.
Three fathers? My eyes flew open. All I ever wanted was one.
My thoughts turned to my stepdad, Bernard. He married my mom when I was 11. My brother and I weren’t exactly thrilled. We’d had our mom to ourselves for six years. No way were we going to let this guy waltz in and take over our family!
Besides, Bernard and I were total opposites. I was a moody almost-teenager with a penchant for slamming doors. Bernard was a neat freak. He talked about the importance of order and discipline in our lives. I couldn’t hang out with friends on a Saturday unless the house was spotless.
“Someday you’ll appreciate practical things like this,” he’d say, demonstrating how to use the attachments on the vacuum.
“As if,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Not only did I not think of Bernard as my dad, I reminded him of that every chance I got. “Don’t tell me what to do! You’re not my father!” I’d shout.
I sat back against the couch shaking my head at how willful I’d been. I had to give Bernard credit. He never stopped trying. Never stopped being thoughtful no matter how thoughtless I’d been.
He took my car in for maintenance. While I was studying for finals, he brought me my favorite lunch. And at my college graduation, when I walked from the street to the ceremony, he followed right behind me snapping photos like a paparazzo. He was so proud.
Now I could see that he’d given my brother and me structure and love when we’d needed it most. He made Mom so happy. And yes, just the other day, I’d shown Brady how to use all the attachments on the vacuum!
Then there was Papa. My sweet Papa, my mom’s father and the only grandpa I knew. After Dad died, he looked after my brother and me while Mom went to work. He always called me “Sunshine.”
“Where’d that nickname come from?” I once asked him.
“Well…” he said, “when you were little, I’d pull you up on my lap and sing, ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.’ You’d break out in a fit of giggles. Your laughter brought your mom and me joy—especially after your father passed.”
My eyes fell on the Bible beside me. Papa also taught us the importance of faith. “Keep God first,” he often said, “and everything else will fall into place.” Most of all, he was fun! His black Yamaha was his pride and joy, and he let us ride with him.
Some may think that was strange, but it was more than a bike ride; for me it was like father-daughter bonding time. I looked up to Papa as a child and I always will.
And how could I forget my father-in- law, Bill? I’d known Bill for just six years yet couldn’t imagine life without him.
Brady and I met in our church youth group and became fast friends. Soon I was sitting with his family at his high school basketball games—and I mean every basketball game. Deep down, I hoped we’d be more than friends someday. One time after I took a seat on the bleachers with the Callahans, Bill turned to me.
“You and my son spend a lot of time together,” he said. “And you’re always laughing. I like that.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “Brady’s my best friend.”
Bill shot me a conspiratorial wink as if he knew there was potential for something more. Boy was he right. Bill had a heart of gold. The morning of my college graduation he gave me a rose and kissed my cheek. “For my daughter,” he whispered. My heart melted.
Most of all, I loved the way he got his point across while at the same time lifting you up, never speaking down to you.
I closed my eyes and held my Bible close. Thank you, Lord. There would be three wise and wonderful men I’d be calling for Father’s Day.
Now I have even more reason to celebrate Father’s Day. This July Brady and I will welcome our first child into the world. I can’t wait to introduce our baby to all the father figures who have made me who I am.
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