Chapter 1
Being a Dad in Tough Times
More than thirty years ago, I held my firstborn child in my arms. I vividly remember the thoughts and emotions that washed over me at that time. I looked down into the face of my newborn daughter, Kelly, wrapped in a soft yellow blanket. I counted her fingers and marvelled at the completeness and intricacy of her tiny form. She was helpless. She was priceless. And she was mine. As I gazed at her in love and wonder, I felt another emotion rise in my breast, an emotion I recognized all too well. Terror. “What am I doing?” I said to myself. “I don’t know how to be a father!” As a child, I never knew a father’s love. I never benefited from a father’s example. I can’t remember a single time when my father took me somewhere alone and spent time with me. I can’t remember feeling proud of my father or imitating him. In fact, I hated him. I grew up on a 150-acre dairy farm just outside a small town in Michigan. Everyone knew everyone else in that town and, of course, everyone knew about my father and his drinking. My teenage buddies made jokes about him, and I laughed, too, hoping my laughter would hide my pain. 1