Back in 2009, I started my first blog as a commemoration of leaving my 20s and moving into the “dreaded” 30’s. It was a pretty big deal for me at the time. I was no longer “young”, I thought. Approaching the threshold of middle aged was pretty close to devastating for me.

(That blog still lives out there on the inner webs. I know where to find it, but that is my secret so don’t even ask. $20 to the first one that can send me a link. Not really.)

Obviously, I survived. Seven years later, I look back and feel a little silly.  I have been extremely blessed the last 7 years actually. God’s favor has been poured into my life in bucketfuls. His mercy and faithfulness is far beyond my capacity to comprehend. Every day finds me grateful he doesn’t grade on a curve and neither does He give us what we deserve. I have done absolutely nothing to deserve His abundant blessings except be crazy enough to believe I was even a candidate to receive them.

Anyhow, this blog from 2009. I recently jumped out there and copied a post with every intention of modifying it and reposting it here. I felt a little guilty and lazy about just ripping out a page of a closed book and acting as if it was fresh. So, I chose not to.

The post was about my father. He is a very difficult topic for me to discuss as he was an extremely complex individual.

“Noah was an enigma to everyone who knew him.” The gentleman had said, referring to my dad.  Indeed he was. Even to his own sons. “Probably because he was an enigma to himself.” I replied without really considering what I was saying. Their lack of a response spoke to their agreement and bewilderment at the man who was my father. Oh, they all liked him. He was a people person and the friendliest man on Earth. They just could never completely figure him out. That kinda makes me smile.

Noah Rodriguez passed away just a month after 9/11, within a couple of weeks of his 50th birthday. Man, he was young. Too young to die. Too young to permanently leave two sons he had basically walked away from about ten years before. Too young for his body to succumb to a horribly ravaging incurable disease.

This is extremely difficult for me to speak about publicly. Especially in this type of a forum. You all have no idea how painful this is to write.

Then again, maybe you do. I am not the only one who lives with pain. I wasn’t the only who has ever had his childhood shattered by divorce and separation. Surely, others have felt the abandonment, desertion, and loss that I felt as a confused ten year old little boy. Surely I am not the only who watched the father, whom he loved so dearly, choose his own selfish desires over his love for his sons. I know I am not.

So even if this hurts, I will power though and bleed across this screen. Because even though my scars have never healed and the tears can flow just as easily today as they did close to thirty years ago, I live in hope. I have peace. And I pray that you will share that hope and peace. More on that later.

After the divorce, my brother and I suffered through sporadic awkward weekend visits until my father decided to put even more distance between us by moving two states away. Honestly, it was probably for the best.

Through all of this I developed a shell of sorts around part of my heart. I wasn’t bitter or angry. I just adopted the attitude that I was probably better off without a dad. My mom was strong. Amazingly strong. She would probably disagree. I know she didn’t feel strong at the time, but she was. She was all my brother and I had. And through our preteen and teen years, she did an amazing job.

— Thank you, Mom. I know you felt like a failure at times. I know you didn’t get to take us to Disney or Magic Mountain as often as you would have liked. But you were unbelievably awesome. We never starved nor went without clothes. Your faith held us together and made Bo and I the men we are today. I love you. —

I remember a conversation I had with a friend of mine. He was from a split home as well. We came to the conclusion that we didn’t need our dads. We were tough guys. We were fine as we were.

We had no idea what we were talking about and couldn’t have been more wrong.

In the years following, my brother and I got married and started familes. My dad attended both weddings, but we rarely saw him or heard from him.

Until the late summer of 2001. We got a call in late summer that our father was very sick and probably had six months to live.

(I have been leaving out a lot of details here. I promise to write more about this in the future.)

For the last two months of his life I spent more time talking with him than I had in the previous 12 years. I am extremely grateful for that. Just shy of his 50th birthday in October, 2001, my father passed away.

It was at that moment I realized how much I needed him.

I was only 21 years old, with four children and another one soon on the way.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I was struggling to be a good husband. I was struggling to be a father and raise a bright ten year old little guy, a tiny eight year old cutie, and two littles under two. It wouldn’t be too long before another came along as well. We were barely scraping by as I wasn’t making much money at all. I was living way beyond my 21 years and constantly felt like a failure.

I had questions. I needed a shoulder to lean on or even cry on. I needed a mentor. Someone that had been there. Someone that had felt what I was feeling. Someone that could tell me it was going to be OK. Someone to point this young struggling Husband/Dad in the right direction and give him a little nudge and a lot of encouragement.

I suddenly realized that I was a Dadless Dad.

You never really know what you have until he or she is gone. And he was gone forever this time.

But even as the old wounds were reopened and I once again had to face the pain of the past, all hope was not lost. For while dealing with the tearing pain of divorce as a young boy, I had discovered that Psalm 27:10 says, “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take me up.” I found more truth in another Psalm that says, “A father of the fatherless…is God in his holy habitation.“

A Father to the Fatherless…even to a Dad-less Dad.

When my earthly father didn’t value me enough to stay involved in my life. When my earthly father chose his own desires over those of his sons, my Heavenly Father stepped in to fill the void.

He never left me. He never abandoned me. He has always poured out His love, mercy, understanding and grace into my life. Even when I have turned my back on Him and ignored Him. Even when I have strayed and selfishly chosen my own way, He was still there. Waiting with open arms to return to Him.

So, when I ultimately lost my earthly father, my Heavenly Father was once again my Haven, my Guide, my Light in the darkness, my Savior.

My Father when I was Fatherless. The ultimate Dad to the Dad-less Dad.

You know, I gotta be honest. I would love to share just one more phone call with my dad. Just one more hour to chat. Just one more conversation. Just one.

Though that will never happen, I can rest in the fact that I have a Heavenly Father that is just a whisper away. I am so thankful for that.

If your father is still living, make it a point to call him and chat for a while. (Today doesn’t count. 🙂 It is Father’s Day. You are supposed to call him.) Thank him for making you who you are. Take him out for dinner or a cup of coffee and talk about old times. Or just go visit him and spend some time together. Give him a hug. If he isn’t a hugger, do it anyway. Write him an email. Send him a text message. He won’t be around forever.

Can I ask you one last question? When was the last time you checked in with your Heavenly Father? He doesn’t accept email or text messages, but He is just a prayer away. If it has been a while, it is time to get reacquainted. He has been waiting to hear from you.

If you never have met Him, it is time you did. He will be like…a Father to you, as He has to me.