A few years later my dad found work in the Pacific Northwest on some of the dams being built in Oregon and Washington. We lived in what was available — a small trailer on one dam site with a community washroom and walls that kept no secrets between households. Playmates came and went as fathers were transferred to where their skills were needed next. I changed schools five times in the third grade. We had one constant: the love of our parents, and the assurance that unless there was a major accident our dad would come home at night, always with excitement to see us, and always with his big laugh and great, gripping hugs.

After the dams were built, men had to go wherever they could for work, and for my dad that meant the oil fields of Saudi Arabia. Our family was heartbroken that first year. We kids had our usual school days, and somehow my mother bore up at home, unused to independence. No big laughs and gripping hugs at night. But there were the letters, received with great joy and excitement and read many times. He wrote to each of us describing the dangers at work, the unbelievable heat, and the ways of the people of a culture not then known to us. And always in each letter was the assurance that he loved us and he was longing for home.

Then came the day he WAS home, out in front of my school with a new car and a big hug for me. Later came huge trunks of gifts from the Middle East he had shipped ahead — millstones and ivory trinkets, an Arabian coffee pot, a set of silverware, brocade skull caps, and sandals with soles made of rubber. This was more than Christmas — Daddy was home!

Years later my big bear of a father, who had lived through bombings in Morocco, tribal wars in Afghanistan, and conditions unbearable to most of us, and who had negotiated with kings and princes and nomads and gypsies, met a quiet enemy he couldn't deal with. For more than a year he used all his wiles to beat it back, but in the end there were tubes in those massive arms and he couldn't speak. We sat by his side and prayed that God would take this big, tough man gently, and he did. Early one morning we got word that he had just stopped. Daddy was home for good.

by Jeanne Krantz

Ray Stipp, my father, was a true role model and hero, who along with my mother (his wife of sixty-five years) raised me in a very caring, loving, and stable environment. He was a kind, gentle, and upbeat individual who enjoyed many of the simpler things of life: watching the sun come up, planting flowers, caring for pets, and the like.

Dad was always there for me, no matter what state of life I was in, encouraging me along the way. I cannot recall a single time (as a boy) when he was too busy to spend time with me, whether it was playing catch, knocking grounders or flies to me, going bowling, shooting baskets, or golfing with me. Later on I came to realize that there were probably many times Dad could have said he was too tired, given his normal 10- to 12-hour days as a carpenter-contractor.

The courage that this special gentleman demonstrated to me over the years was never more evident than in the last month of his life. He was faced with a surgery that is risky for individuals healthier and many years younger than he was. A successful surgery, he was told, could add some years to his life. He accepted the risks involved and agreed to the surgery. We were extremely happy when he came through the operation nicely. Our emotions went to the other end of the spectrum when complications arose … complications that his 89-year-old body could not handle.

There are no words that can adequately describe what Dad meant to me. The depth of my love and respect for this man was immeasurable. He raised, without knowing it, the standards of fatherhood to new levels … levels that I am, as a father, experiencing difficulty in reaching.

The Lord blessed me many times over for having a father like Ray Stipp. I will be forever indebted to this dear man for investing countless hours of his life in to mine … helping to shape me into the person I am today.

He was a great guy and an even better father! For this an extremely grateful son says, "Thanks, Dad … and Happy Fathers'Day!"

by Ed Stipp

I swallowed hard and answered, "Did your plane just land? Where are you?"

"Standing outside a restaurant across from our gate," the voice I had waited 36 years to hear, said. I looked up. He stood across the room, tall, broad shouldered, and imposing. I laughed at the coincidence.

"I'm in the restaurant," I said as I stood up. His eyes moved, searching for me in the crowd. I hung up my phone and crossed the room towards him. My arms extended in front of me, my eyes filling with silent tears; I reached out to this man I had never met before. He saw me; his smile illuminated the whole room when held out his arms to me. I buried my face in his chest shyly, wrapped my arms tentatively around him, and hugged him guardedly, as tears ran down my face.

I looked up into the eyes of this towering figure with the compassionate face, "I can't believe you're here. Hi, Dad."

It had been 36 years since I had been conceived. I had last seen this man when I was ten months old. All the thoughts, questions, and anxieties I'd had over the years were finally going to be answered. Answers to the times I spent staring into the mirror asking myself, "Do I look like him?" I had wondered about family health issues; now I would have answers. What was his family like? Did he have a wife, other children? Did they know about me? I had come to a conclusion years ago, and I was prepared to act on it. The only way for an adopted child to truly be able to answer the questions that plague them is to get to know their biological parent. It was my turn to get the answers to mine.

The conversation began with small talk, things about his life and mine. He was married and had two children, a girl and a boy. I had always wanted a sister, and now I could say I had one. This girl, his "other" daughter, had sent a gift, an ornament with "Sisters" written on it. I felt like I was one of the girls in Little Women, bonding deeply for reasons that only love could explain. His family had known about me the whole time they were growing up. There was a picture, the only one he had, of me in the family photo album. Even though I had never known about them, they had known about me.

I told him about my life; the good and bad things I had experienced. It was a life he hadn't been there for, and I wanted him to know what he had missed. It wasn't spiteful, I just wished he had been there for them. I told him about the wedding that he had missed, the granddaughters he had never seen, and the little girl that had grown into the woman sitting across from him. I could not stop staring at his eyes — pale, dreamy blue eyes like the sky when storm clouds begin to fade away. The eyes my mother had fallen for soaked up every word I said, sparkling with electricity that seemed to cause the lamps in the room to burn brighter.

Then we talked about the dark, distant past — about the high school sweethearts whose love had created me. I listened as he explained things I already knew, but this time I heard them from his heart. He spoke of the fear that had caused him to act like an ostrich stalked by the lioness, burying his head in the sand. His voice cracked, as he talked of the love he had, and still had for that sweet girl he knew in high school long ago. He showed me his ankle where he had tattooed my mother's initials when he was 16. He said my mother would always be a part of him, because of me. Then he begged for my forgiveness, on his knees as a serf would a baroness. Tears spilled from his eyes following the trail of lines in his world-weary face.

I reached out my hand and wiped his tears. I had gone through my life with a hole in my heart, that only this man could fill. I had longed to know that he had thought of me, had missed me, and had looked for me. Now I knew; he had. My heart swelled in my chest as if suddenly filled with helium. Better still it was like laughing gas; I was so happy inside. I leaned forward, arms around his neck, kissing both his cheeks. I felt joy like I had never experienced before.

In his eyes I saw he felt it too, joy in the moment, excitement for the future, and hope for a deeper relationship. He had feared rejection, even anger and hatred before he came here, but I felt none of those emotions. I told him that would be a waste of the little precious time we had. So much time had been wasted already, and we all had things in our past we wished we'd handled better. He though I might relegate him to part of my past or just another distant relative in my life; that fear faded like the sun sinking behind the hills.

And so at the end of the day, I was his daughter, and he was my father. We had talked, cried, and hugged until four in the morning; we were exhausted yet exhilarated. This chance to find the answers to my questions had given us an opportunity for so much more. While it would probably take years for the bonds to become cemented, we were like a master bricklayer and his journeyman; we had begun to build the foundation of a beautiful father/daughter relationship.

by Mia Cahoon

My father was a quiet, gentle man who rarely showed anger. He treated each person as a blessing. He taught me that everyone is worth trusting and extending the gift of friendship to. Yet by his mistakes he made he also taught me forgiveness.

He taught me that love endures and grows with both the positive and negative influences those we trust have on our lives. Trust, taught in this sense, becomes the greatest gift we can give another person, and forgiveness the greatest gift we can give ourselves.

He taught me that a life lived without integrity is really no life at all — whether that integrity includes taking ownership and asking forgiveness for the mistakes we make or learning to enjoy our accomplishments without boasting.

He taught me patience and steadfastness — that we can't always control what happens to us in life, but we can control how we react to it.

And 32 years after his death, he continues to teach me things like what the peace of God must feel like to be able to smile as he died to all he loved here on this earth to go to live in eternity with God. I have wondered so many times what else he could have taught me had we had only more time to learn together.

by Betty Childress

He was very smart, and graduated high school as valedictorian. Later in life he married a wonderful lady and became father to seven children. He had to work day and night, but his good sense of humor and public relations served as a perfect foil to the difficulties and frustrations he met along the way.

Looking back tenderly, I remembered Tatay often telling us about America — "the land of milk and honey." So, at an early age, I began to dream that someday, I could go and live in America.

My dream came true when I accepted a job as a nanny for an American couple in Hawaii. It was a sad goodbye to my family, and I remember seeing Tatay with tears streaming down his cheeks as I said goodbye to him. After five years, I was able to bring my parents to live with me in California.

Tatay and I have the same dreams and ambition. He loved America and also dreamed that someday he could come and live in this blessed country. But he became very ill and bed-ridden with cancer. However, it was clear he had peace and faith in Christ Jesus. Amid his physical pain and concern for those he was going to leave behind, he had the blessed assurance of his dream — to finally become a citizen of heaven — in the company of his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, in the real land of milk and honey. He was singing his favorite hymn "In The Sweet By and By" when God took him home that beautiful morning on April 25, 1995.

by Bee B. Bareng

He's the Father who wrapped his arms around me as I walked away from one of the two biggest gangs in the nation two years ago and feared for my life.

He's the One who took me by the hand and led me across the country from L.A. to Lynchburg to prepare for his plan for my life at Liberty University.

He's the one who is presently showing me how much my father missed out by not being a part of my life.

I'm about to marry a wonderful woman who has a 3-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy who have never known what it was like to see a father love his wife as well as them. It hit me one morning as we were dropping them off at school and the boy kissed me and said "Bye, Daddy!" Then and only then did I know how truly great my Father has really been to me.

by Randy L. Tuttle

Dad suggested two hard workers should eat at the local cafe. A hamburger sounded really good, I thought. Or maybe even a malt.

As we approached the turn to the cafe, Dad noticed a car in front of us having trouble with their brakes. The man driving the car slowed down abruptly in front of the cafe. "Stay in the car, Son," he said as he went to meet the other man. As the two men talked, I heard Dad explaining that the mechanics didn't work on Saturday.

He slowly came back to the car, and as we drove away, he explained to me a very important lesson that has stayed with me. He said, "Hard times impact us all — even poor people need to live the best they can. I'm going to help these people, then we'll have our dinner."

When we got back to the house he picked up a few car parts he had and told my mom we would be back soon. We drove back to the cafe where the man, his wife, and kids were huddling to keep warm. Dad repaired their car, took no payment, shook hands with the man, and sent them on their way. "See, Son, there are good people you can help. And in turn they will help another and another will be helped."

I still wish I could've had a hamburger and malt with my dad, but I'll never forget the warm feeling I got for helping another person.

by Robert McMahan

Fifteen years ago my dad felt compelled to go on a short-term mission trip to Honduras, putting his skills as a builder to work on a medical clinic. While there, he befriended a rag-tag group of children who played near the building site. They captured his heart, especially the 4-year-old boy named Ybor. He was the son of the village prostitute, usually left in the care of his elderly grandfather.

When Dad came home, he left a piece of his heart with a little boy in that seaside village. Over 10 years later, my father returned to Honduras after Hurricane Mitch ravaged the country. Ybor was not forgotten. Dad heard that the boy had been given up for adoption and hoped to meet the young man Ybor must have grown into.

Dad gave a lot of thought to a suitable gift for Ybor. He finally settled on a fully equipped toolbox, remembering how expensive they had been to purchase locally on his previous visit. Dad was unprepared for Ybor's reaction. Ybor grabbed the box and ran back into the little house where he lived with his adoptive family. When he emerged again, his face was wet with tears, as was that of his adoptive mother. She explained that Ybor had just been offered a rare opportunity as an apprentice, but the stipulation was that he needed to provide his own tools. The cost of tools locally was prohibitive, but they had prayed only that morning that God would provide.

God had planted a seed of love in the fertile soil of a giving heart over 10 years before, and it brought the increase just when it was needed most. My dad gave a box of tools, but I'm certain that what he received was more precious — the knowledge that as a giver, he is a powerful instrument of God's love.

by Tara Packham

Read more: Part 2 | Part 3