The Hard Man Who Pushed Me To A Good Father

Breaking the Cycle, Finding Redemption, and Becoming the Father I Never Had

The Step-Father I Feared—And Freedom in Forgiving Him

I want to share a bit of my life with you—for whatever it might be worth.

A few days ago, I wrote a post about the role of the Father in religion—how the concept of God as Father sets Christianity apart from other faiths. I spoke about the power of an image, an idea, and how this single word—Father—might be the most important theological concept in the world.

Think about it:

• Muslims do not call God Father. They can’t. They won’t. It’s too intimate, too close.

• Eastern religions don’t call God theirFather either. It’s too material, too immanent—too much like us.

• But the Judeo-Christian “vibe” of God as Father? It is the seed from which Western civilization has grown.

When I published that post, I thought it would light up the internet. And maybe it still will. But after a few days of reflection, I realized something deeper—something personal.

The title of the post was “The One Word for God That Matters Most in Life”

Why It Matters To Me

What I should have clarified was that it matters most to me.

For me, the idea of God as Father hasn’t just been a theological concept. It has been the key that unlocked my entire life. It is the word, the image, and truth I have relied on for my entire Christian journey.

But why? Why did the Fatherhood of God matter so much to me?

And then it hit me: because of the man who raised me.

Not my natural father. But my stepfather—a man who was both insecure and abusive, a man who, in his own way, pushed me toward the only Father who could truly love and guide me.

And that led me to reflect on Nils—who he was, what he did and didn’t do, and why, at the end of his life, I felt only pity for the man who had once tried to harm me.

The Job I Couldn’t Quit—And the Lesson I Never Expected

“What was your first job?”

Most people can recall their first job with a mix of nostalgia and maybe a little embarrassment. Mine? It was assigned to me.

At 13 years old, I became the clean-up boy on my stepfather’s construction sites in Nogales, Arizona. It was the first job I couldn’t quit—because Nils wouldn’t let me. He was the boss. And as his stepson, I wasn’t getting any special treatment.

I worked long, lonely hours sweeping debris in The Americana Hotel, pushing dust into small piles, then hauling it away with a shovel and wheelbarrow. It wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t fulfilling. It was work. But that work, as I would later realize, was teaching me something.

Who Was Nils? The Man I Couldn’t Reach

My stepfather, Nils, was a big man—physically and in presence. At 6’4” and 280 pounds, he filled a room with his size and dominated it with his voice. He was intimidating. Gruff. Harsh. Never a man given to tenderness.

But beneath that imposing exterior, I think, deep down, he was deeply insecure.

He had only an 8th-grade education. I don’t think he could read. I never saw him read anything: a book, a newspaper, a magazine? Meanwhile, my mother—who adored me—made sure her children were surrounded by books, learning, and opportunity. That difference created a gap between us that was never bridged.

And yet, in his own way, he sought approval and loyalty—but not through love.

Nils was strangely generous to people outside the family, but never to us. Never to me. His generosity wasn’t rooted in kindness, but in transaction. If a friend or client (he was a home builder) admired something in our house—a mirror, a desk—Nils would give it away on the spot.

But not as an act of selflessness. It was a bargain—a way to buy favor, secure loyalty, maintain control.

I didn’t understand why Nils was the way he was until years later. It would take a college education, a seminary degree, hundreds of hours of counseling, my own failed marriage, and a second chance at a family with Fran, Jed, and Taye—my new family.

I learned what I know about Nils later in life because as a child, you don’t analyze parents like him. You survive them.

A Man Shaped by Hardship

Nils was a product of a hard, unforgiving world.

He was born into the grinding poverty of the Great Depression—a life that mirrored something out of The Grapes of Wrath. His father was cruel and abusive, and his mother—a Native American woman—was never fully accepted in our small town.

He had no education, no mentorship, no way out. There was no redemption story waiting for him—just the life he had inherited, a life he never questioned, a life that shaped him into the man he became.

And like so many who have suffered without healing, he passed that suffering on.

He paid it forward—not in kindness, but in cruelty. Not with love, but with control.

The Last Time I Saw Him

The last time I saw Nils alive, he was no longer the giant I remembered.

Years of two-pack-a-day Camels had ravaged his body, shrinking the man who once towered over me. His commanding presence was gone, replaced by a frail, hunched frame, his every step dragging an oxygen cart behind him.

I had driven to Phoenix to introduce him to my wife and children. It was an awkward reunion. My wife, ever warm and social, effortlessly struck up a conversation with his new wife, Barbara.

Then, I introduced my children.

My children.

They weren’t my biological kids—Fran had brought them into our marriage; they were two of some of the best things about her!—and I had adopted them as soon as I could. And as I looked at them standing there—strong, growing, full of joy from our trip to Phoenix (we always had great times when we drove during vacations)—something shifted inside me.

I felt pride in who they were. I felt deep, abiding love for them. I felt protective.

I felt like their provider. I felt—without hesitation—like their father. And in that moment, I knew:

I was a father in a way Nils never was to me.

He had married my mother, a woman with children—but he hadn’t loved them, nurtured them, or guided them. He had neglected, punished, controlled, and criticized. He had been a terrible parent—to me, to my sister, to anyone who depended on him.

And now?

There he sat—hunched over, grayish complexion, excessive weight sagging over his lap, breathing heavily from the simple effort of walking from the motorhome to the nearest chair. He looked trapped—by his own body, by his choices, by the life he had built and the damage it had done.

I expected to feel anger. I expected to feel resentment. I felt neither.

I only felt pity.

Long ago, as a Christian, I had stopped looking to him for guidance, for approval, for anything a father should give. God had given me that. My Father in Heaven had become my teacher, my role model, my guide.

Nils didn’t teach me how to be a father. But by the grace of God, I had become one through the mercy and model of God as a Father.

The Final Phone Call That Freed Me

Years later, I heard he was in a hospital, dying. And I knew I had to make a choice. Fran encouraged me to fly to Phoenix to see him at his bedside. I knew there wasn’t time.

I called him. Someone held the phone to his ear. He was as gruff as ever.

I remember my words exactly.

“Nils, I wanted to call and say two things to you. The first is that I know we didn’t get along very well. We didn’t see the same way most of the time. I know that, and for my part in that, I am sorry.”

I paused. Then I continued:

“I also want to thank you for sheltering me as a young child and for teaching me how to work. You taught me the value of work.”

He rebuffed it. He wouldn’t receive it. He resisted grace to the end. But that didn’t matter. What sadness I did feel, I felt for him.

Because I was free.

God the Father is My Father

I wasn’t raised by my birth father. My stepfather didn’t raise me. I was raised by my Father in Heaven.

It was God the Father who taught me right from wrong. It was God the Father who showed me how to love and protect my family. It was God my Father who shaped me into the man I became.

And that, I now realize, is why the idea of God as Father means everything to me.

God took my hardest moments and made them into lessons of grace. He took my pain and turned it into a new kind of fatherhood.

This is what Christianity does. It redeems.

And that is why the greatest privilege in my life was not the one I was born into.

It was being adopted by my Father in Heaven.

If you’ve ever struggled with your past, know this:

Your Father in Heaven can redeem even the hardest things.

So, what part of your past needs redeeming?

Think about it. Then, let God do what He does best.

He will be for you what you lacked from others.

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The Anglican is the Substack newsletter for LeaderWorks, where I share insights, encouragement, and practical tools for clergy and lay Christians. I’m also an author of over a dozen books available on Amazon.

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