Everyone Needs a Father

From the Archives: Winter 2008

Written by Ron Ross

Everyone needs a father. Unfortunately, men don’t become fathers just because they impregnate. Fatherhood is a heart issue consisting of love, commitment and sacrifice. Fortunate are those whose birth parent also becomes their father.

I was raised in an unchurched, dysfunctional home. My father was in the armed services and left for Okinawa when I was only 5 years old. He said he would come back for us, but when he did return it wasn’t to his family. I felt rejected and abandoned.

When I was 6 or 7 years old, my mother married a very angry, hurting, violent alcoholic and for the next six years we were subjected to his abusiveness. This was the beginning of our terror based existence. At about 1 or 2:00 one morning I awoke to fierce fighting and the sound of three gun shots. As the oldest of four, I ran and got the kids and blocked the bedroom door with furniture. I thought my step-dad had killed my mother and we were next. However, when Mom came and found us, I saw him passed out at the top of the stairs. I never saw him again. At the age of 28 he died as a result of his alcoholism.

My mother married a third time. Once again to an alcoholic, but this time to a functional, non-violent alcoholic. As best he could, he tried to establish a relationship with me but by that time I trusted no one. At about 13 I started running away from home and by the time I was 16 I was living on the streets and into drugs.

In the late ‘60s and early ‘70s I began hitch hiking and along the way encountered a few drug related jail visits. Somehow in 1970, I wound up in Jacksonville Florida, very lonely and confused. I hooked up with a man from New York City named Billy. Together we decided to hitch hike to Toronto Canada, where we heard there was a “bad” rock festival.

We were pitiful looking. Billy had a 2 foot afro full of bugs, we were both wearing filthy rags and couldn’t remember the last time we bathed. Just into South Georgia, the sheriff spotted us. He pulled up beside us and said, “Boys get in my car.” He terrorized us without even trying. “I’m going to do for you what nobody else will. I’m going to take you to the county line and kick you over with my boot! And if you come back, I’m going to put you in jail!”

There across the line sat an abandoned shack. I was 17 years old, hungry, tired, filthy, homeless and scared. Billy and I took refuge in that shack and tried to sleep. I began remembering bits and pieces I had heard growing up about the live of God. There in the dark I cried out to Him, “If You’re real, save me.” The next morning we were back on the road. A man picked us up and took us as far as Macon, G.A. He dropped us off in Macon and there we stood, stranded.

While he was hitch hiking down to Florida, Billy had met a man who had given him a card with his name and number on it. Billy called and Bob Brunner picked us up. He was clean cut, driving a nice car and when I opened the car door, I felt the presence of Jesus. He was so loving and kind, so nonjudgmental. He said, “I’m so glad you called and we’re able to help you. You’re coming to my house tonight. You’re too messed up to travel on your own.” Bob was part of a prominent family in Macon. He had heard God’s call to minister to hippies and druggies, sold his mansion, bought a modest home in the downtown area and started a “hippie church.”

That night I feasted on the finest Southern meal I could imagine. I was treated with dignity and shown genuine hospitality. I experienced “home” for the first time. Bob only asked one thing of us. “Please don’t bring any drugs into my home.” The second night in his home I asked, “Why are you being so nice to us?” He shared with me the sweet and simple truth of Jesus. I connected with what I was hearing and cried out, “I’m so tired…” Bob led me to Jesus.

Afterwards, I went out and did what hippies do. I hitch hiked over to Mercer University and scored some LSD. As soon as I took it I felt awful. I felt I had betrayed Bob and Jesus. I felt so terrible I went back, found Bob and confessed what I had done. He looked at me and said, “I love you. Let’s pray for forgiveness.” When we had prayed I felt so clean. That was the end of my hippie days. I even cut my long hair.

Bob had also bought an old 33 room antebellum mansion a few blocks away. With the support of the Methodist church, he planned to turn it into a rehabilitation center for hippies. He named it “His House.”

Billy left, but I stayed to become the first resident of “His House.” About eight months later I ran across Billy in New Orleans. Again, Billy rejected the truth of the gospel. I was there in Macon about two and a half years and I’m part of the fruit that was produced there. 38 years later, there is still ministry going on in that area.

Everyone needs a father. Mine is the Creator of the universe. He loves me, has promised never to leave or forsake me and made the ultimate sacrifice to make me His son.