A letter to my dad – an adoptive father of 13

Dear Dad,

You rescued me. Before I was even born, you chose me through adoption. Before you even saw me, your heart opened to me as your son — a child conceived in the violence of rape.

You didn’t reject me because of how I came to be. You cared about who I was meant to be.

You loved me. Through all of my ups and downs of stubbornness, triumphs, failures, confusion and joys, you remained a constant.

There’s no other man on this planet that has influenced me more. Your character, integrity, passion for Christ, divine patience, humor, compassion, wisdom, and your love for mom are how I want to live my life with my wife and four kiddos (two of whom were adopted as well). You were a man whose life reflected Proverbs 20:7: “The righteous man walks in his integrity; His children are blessed after him.”

You opened your arms to children that other men abandoned. Over and over again, you became a father to the fatherless.

And all of us — near black, off-white and every hue in between — were cherished and cared for because you understood that blood isn’t what binds us. Color (as beautiful as our hues are) isn’t what binds us. Love is. 

Dad, you made the world around us a kinder and more hopeful place.

You always engaged. Despite long workdays, you found time to connect with each of us and entered our individual worlds of interest. From sports to music to fishing to computers, you happily threw yourself into it, never once complaining about the rest you so desperately needed and deserved. You captured us, not only with your cameras, but with who you were — a man who was the same person at home as he was in public.

Your gentle spirit allowed you to make it through my million plus episodes of embarrassment, calamity, hilarity and “what-the-hun?” (I grew up a little Pennsylvania Dutch) moments. Somehow, you managed a store with all thirteen of your children clamoring for your attention, throughout the day, in one way or another. Remember when you connected our home phone with the store’s intercom system? Unexpected. Public. Drama. I can’t apologize enough for that!

I’ll never forget evenings or early mornings at the family business when you’d allow me to sit down with you and the new (but used) MAI Basic Four computers. You taught me a strange new language. I’d sit up on that mezzanine overlooking the store, with those amber screens flashing wonderful and curious possibilities to my eyes and into my mind. My foray into the digital realm began in your office. You encouraged me as you taught yourself how to use those powerful electronic devices. Some of the older leadership in the store opposed it. They thought you were crazy. What good would come of such a trendy contraption?

A revolution. From Basic Four to the ubiquitous Microsoft Windows operating system, you oversaw massive changes in the way that old country store did business. You invested a lot of your time and energy into that wave of change that swept me up too. You encouraged me at every turn to understand it more, to find ways to help the store and find ways to express myself. My own revolution has been rooted in creativity released through a digital canvas. My design, my music, my passion to learn, and my social factivism are possible today because you didn’t shoo me away. Even when you were insanely busy, you still took the time to pause and engage. You sat down next to me, walked me through it all, and stood back and allowed me to fail and flourish.

Bicycling and tennis were your escape from the business and busy-ness. Putting on those records was your escape, too, basking in the sounds of those LPs in the semi-quiet of the living room. You loved that Messianic Jewish worship music! I can still hear your soft clap and see that little charismatic jig you would occasionally break out.

You were also a huge fan of Bill Gaither’s music. There was this one kid’s album (unlike Gaither’s typical Gospel Quartet music) that he produced with a computer-oriented song called “Input Output”. I can still remember the sound of putting that cassette in the old Hitachi stereo system. The buttons clicked — sometimes would stick — and the speakers cracked just a little bit. The chorus rang out: “Input. Output. What goes in must come out. Input. Output. That is what it’s all about. Input. Output. Your mind is a computer whose Input Output daily you must choose.” It was a timeless message.

I would never be who I am today without you helping to shape that Input. Your dedication unleashed undeniable purpose. You refused to accept the world’s low expectations, especially for the ten ethnically diverse and handful of disabled (yet differently-abled) children you had adopted. So many wrote us off as “unwanted.” You and mom shattered that myth as you loved each of us and helped us find and embrace the Divine imprint on our lives.

Thank you for the remarkable output of faith, hope and love that now flows from your children in different and beautiful ways.

Through so many glorious hills and heartbreaking valleys, you were truly a testament to never giving up. You and mom navigated a future you never could have expected. You battled a disease for 12 years that slowly stole you away from us, but Parkinson’s didn’t steal your legacy. Like everything else in life, you faced it with strength and dignity. In your last days, you were back at home surrounded by so many who loved you as we worshipped the Lord, reminisced, cried and celebrated your life. What a gift to be able to sing you into Heaven.

I know your heart was for each of your children and grandchildren to ultimately join you, one day, in Heaven. Make sure you get one of the larger rooms in our Father’s mansion!

You were the most remarkable dad, Henry Bomberger. Today (January 22, 2021) after 76 years on this side of heaven – blessing countless lives and showing God’s love to all around you – you’re finally free. My heart is both full of grief and joy; it’s the most pain I’ve ever felt. But you always said: “This is the day that the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” You spoke this Psalm many many times. Today, as hard as it is, I will rejoice.

You could’ve lived an easier life, but you chose us instead. You chose to serve the Lord. You were such a good, good father. No amount of words can even come close to expressing it all.

I love you so much, Dad. Thank you for choosing me.

Your son,

Ryan