Sixty years of not knowing who my dad was. That’s a long time. Yes, it’s true—I was never adopted. And yes, my birth certificate just showed a blank line for “father”. And it didn’t help that my mother died when I was 37, taking her secrets of my dad to the grave with her.

Did I care that my dad was a mystery? Not so much in the beginning. Life was a struggle, then busy, then a struggle again. And then life settled down. That’s where you’re supposed to have peace. But a lifetime of drips on the forehead, “who is your dad, who is your dad?” could not be silenced. Like a teapot simmering on the stove my ‘having to know’ reached a boiling point. And then God answered.

Maybe you’re there. Or, maybe you’re in the simmering mode and wonder if it’s worthwhile to finally “know”.  There is a certain fear about that. A notion that your long-lost family member might say ‘get lost’ or, might be a loser or thug.