Celebrating Fathers in a worrisome time

Father’s Day snuck up on me this year—not because it isn’t important, but because life has been full: doctor’s appointments, physical therapy, travel delays, and the general chaos of being human in 2025.

Herb and I are in Colorado, making this the first Father’s Day in years we won’t be with family. It feels strange—and a little hollow. But distance doesn’t diminish love. So instead of sharing coffee or barbecue, I’m writing to honor the fathers who have shaped—and are now shaping—our family.

It feels especially important right now to celebrate the quiet, steady, irreplaceable strength of true fatherhood. The kind that doesn’t posture or pout. The kind that leads without fear or ego.

Because let’s be honest: if all we had to go on what’s in the news—or the behavior of certain “leaders”—we might think manhood had collapsed into a pit of petulance and self-interest. We live in a time when too many powerful men act like overgrown boys: addicted to control, allergic to accountability, and bankrupt of grace.

But that’s not the full story. And it’s definitely not the story of the men I know.

“Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad.” – Anne Geddes

I had two fathers—Manuel dela Cruz, the one responsible for my being born, and Ehret Oscar Ramey, the one responsible for me being me.

As an adopted child, I often wondered about my birth father and why he gave me away. But even in the wondering, I knew I’d hit the jackpot. Because I had Ehret Oscar Ramey.

My dad was a gynecologist—he didn’t just care for women; he understood them. He listened deeply. He was compassionate, respectful, and steady, earning the trust of his patients and the unwavering love of his wife and daughter.

He was gentle. Empathetic. A man who believed in the best of people, even when they inevitably let him down.

He was the one person in the world I least wanted to disappoint—not out of fear, but out of reverence. Because he gave so much, so freely—with a quiet gentleness that still shapes the way I try to move through the world.

He’s still the steady light I follow, the example I carry, the compass I trust most in my heart.

“The men who become fathers by love, not lineage, prove that what matters most is not who you are to a child, but how you love them.” ~ Anonymous

Herb didn’t enter my sons’ lives until they were already grown men. He was never meant to be their father—they have their own. He came into their world because he loved their mother.

But over the years, something quiet and remarkable happened.

With quiet consistency, respect, and care, he showed up. He offered support, encouragement, and a steady presence. Not by claiming a role, but by earning it. He’s helped raise the stakes on what love and manhood look like in a family.

My middle son Cary has also shown up in a profound way for a child that’s not his by birth. His partner Chelsea’s daughter Roen has clearly captured his heart.

Because they met later in life, Chelsea and Cary were intentional about when and how to introduce Roen into their relationship. It wasn’t until they were fully committed—about eight months in—that Roen became part of their shared life.

When Chelsea asked her then 6-year-old daughter what she wanted for Christmas, Roen pointed at the framed picture of Cary that sat upon their mantel.

“I want him. I want Cary” she pointed. She’d meet Cary for the first time soon after.

I admired their foresight then, and even more so now, as I watch the care and protection, they both have to offer her.

At six, she was sweet, cautious, and observant. Now, at nine, she’s one of the kindest, most thoughtful young girls I know. She’s also fierce, funny, and delightfully opinionated—a combination born of feeling safe, loved, and seen.

Cary, tenderhearted like Herb, gets misty-eyed at Roen’s Christmas concerts, guitar solos, and birthday parties. He leans in with his full presence—unhurried and undivided—even during their hours-long Lego games.

The impact of his love is unmistakable, etched into Roen’s joy and confidence—and watching it unfold fills me with awe.

“There is nothing quite like the quiet awe of watching your child become the kind of parent you always hoped you were.” ~ Anonymous

My youngest son, Sean, made me a grandmother at 63—just as he became a father himself. George is his son, my grandson, and everyone’s heart. Now two years old, George is eagerly awaiting the arrival of his little brother, Wyatt, who is due next month, in mid-July.

Watching Sean step into fatherhood has been one of the greatest joys of my life. I love the way he used to hold his sleeping infant across his broad chest while simultaneously disciplining the dogs, clearing dinner plates, or folding laundry—his hands full, his heart even fuller.

He loves George with an easy grace. He is present, tender, and grounded—even in the face of two-year-old tantrums, which he meets with humor and (mostly) patience. He leads with his heart, answers questions with curiosity, and shows George—every single day—that he is loved, safe, and important.

I raised a boy. He became a man. Now I watch him become a father—which also helps me heal and grow alongside him.

When I think about fatherhood—the kind that matters—I think of men like Ehret, Sean, Cary, and Herb.

Ehret, my adoptive father, was a steady and principled man. Gentle, generous, and deeply respectful. His quiet example left a lasting imprint on how I understand love and responsibility.

Sean, my youngest son, became a father just as I became a grandmother. I’ve watched him parent with calm, presence, and a deep sense of care. He meets challenges with humor and leads with heart—qualities that will shape his sons in ways they may not fully grasp for years.

Cary stepped into the life of a young girl named Roen with intention and integrity. He didn’t rush in—he earned her trust. His presence has been thoughtful, consistent, and deeply human. That kind of care has lasting power.

And then there’s Herb. He didn’t take on a formal role in my sons’ lives, but through years of quiet consistency, respect, and attention, he became someone they could count on. Not by obligation—but by choice.

And of course, this is only a short-list. I’m lucky to know many other remarkable men who embody fatherhood in quiet, powerful ways—including George’s grandfathers, G-Pa and Poppy; our wonderful son-in-law, Richard; and the late, great Grandpa LeRoy. Each brings his own strength, humor, and heart to the role.

Fatherhood is presence, patience, and purpose. What passes for manhood in public life is posturing, cruelty, and cowardice dressed up as strength.

So today I honor the men who choose to show up with integrity, humility, and heart. The ones who lead not with noise, but with steadiness. Their influence may not always be loud—but it is lasting.

And it is needed now, more than ever.

In Praise of the Grandmothers

As some of you know, I recently became a Grandmother. George is two months and twenty days today, but who’s counting.

Becoming a Gigi has transformed me in ways I never expected. My heart, now three sizes too big for my body, alternately celebrates his birth and aches for the challenges I know he must face in this life.

We can’t protect our children from this world, but we can make sure they know how much they are loved.

My grandmothers were my grounding compass. They were strong, faithful, and humble. Like other women of their generation, they were the grounding center of their families, working like Trojans, yet rarely acknowledged for it.

Both were widowed and spent much of their lives alone. Clara Mae Sturdivant, my maternal grandmother lived in Nashville, so I don’t have as many memories of her.

What I do recall is her kindness, home cooking, and expert needlework. I loved her mustache, ornate pearl spectacles, and playing with her underarm flab.

A devout Southern Baptist, Clara recited scripture like a preacher. She was pious yet I never judged or loved conditionally. 

The love she showered on me felt different than my Mother’s love. I now understand that mothers don’t have the same luxuries that Grandmothers do.

Since she lived nearby, I had more time with my paternal grandmother. Rose Nell Ramey was the oldest of seven siblings. Her mother other died when she was just thirteen years old.

Being the oldest, her father looked to Rose Nell to run the household, care for her younger siblings, and oversee the daily chores on their rural Illinois farm.

It was a huge responsibility for someone so young, but if she felt regret or resentment, she never voiced it.

That was just the way it was; you did what you had to do even if it meant dropping out of school in the sixth grade. She worked as a lunch lady at Boone Elementary School after my Grandfather died.

Grandma Ramey tried to teach me to take a humble approach to life. “Live simply,” she told me, “Be kind, take life as it comes, and remember it’s not personal.”

A compulsive planner, this lesson was lost on me. By carefully weighing the risk/reward of every choice and chance encounter, I’d be able to avoid the mistakes of my elders. I had an agenda, and it certainly didn’t include becoming a cafeteria lady.

On the lucky weekends I got to sleep over, Grandma taught me to make homemade jam from the cherry tree in her backyard, sew, and study the Bible. I liked the way she read the Bible, casually, like it was the evening paper. When I asked questions, Grandma asked questions too, helping me find the answers for myself.

At night before we went to sleep, she’d listened patiently as I outlined my plans for my wonderful life.

“I’ll take voice lessons and play Mary Magdalene in the Christmas pageant. I’ll sing at weddings and funerals too, but only wedding songs because funeral songs are sad….

I’m going to marry Doug, (the preacher’s son.) We’ll have a boy and a girl and live in the basement of his parents house. After a year or two we’ll move to Australia to do mission work because I want to learn to surf, scuba dive, and eat crab.”

“That’s nice,” Grandma said as she rubbed my back.

“When my kids go to school, I’ll have time to write a spy novel. They’ll turn into a movie starring Mary Tyler Moore and the Man from Uncle. We’ll have to move back to the United States, to California, where we’ll live in a house with big redwoods in the backyard. Our kids will play in a huge tree house.”

And when I told Rose I was moving to England soon to study English at Oxford, my Grandmother said simply, “I’ll miss you.”

She was there to witness my all plans go agonizing awry. When Doug the preacher’s son dumped me to date Melodie Bash; Grandma made me a new dress to ease the sting.

When I failed my audition for the Bingham Junior High School talent show with my dazzling rendition of Barbara Streisand’s “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” Grandma said, “Never stop singing Tina. If it pleases you, then it is pleasing.”

And when I my short story was rejected Highlights Magazine, Grandma instructed me to go to the library and check out five new books. When I showed them  to her she said, “Good. Now read them. Immerse yourself in something besides yourself.”

Unlike other adults, Grandma saw my circuitous route and disappointments for the folly it was. She neither judged nor falsely championed me. Instead, she offered support for the person and not the plan.

When I was leaving for college, I was overcome with a sudden, intense bout of separation anxiety.

“I don’t want to go Grandma,” I said, hugging her. “I’m scared and I’m so embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” she said softly in my ear, “Don’t be. Life is crooked and unpredictable and painful. You’re just finding that out.”

I looked into her eyes, surprised.

“But it’s also brilliant and beautiful and utterly surprising. I hope you’ll avoid the awful mistake of punishing or rewarding yourself for either. Worry takes all the fun out of it.”

Later that year, she suffered a stroke. I went to visit her in the nursing home. She was sleeping, jaw slack, lips moving, breath labored. 

I stood at her bed, crying because I couldn’t stand to see her this way.

“Why are you crying dear?” She garbled, eyes closed. That startled me. How did she even know I was there?

“I’m just sad Grandma,’ reaching for her hand. “I’m just sad.”

“Well don’t be sad,” she sighed, “I’m not sad. I’m here and you’re here and we’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Grandma, we are,” tears escaping.

“Well then. That’s enough. That’s enough, now. Let’s not be sad.”

Grandma Rose never recovered fully from her stroke but I never saw her feel sorry for herself. She met life where it led her, even when it led her to difficult places. She wasn’t one to waste time wondering why or why me?

When she died I was devastated. Oh how I wanted to bury my head into her one more time to tell her how much I loved her.

I heard her say. “Tina, why are you crying, dear? After all, I’m the one who died.”

I am grateful for the time I had with these two amazing women. Their legacy is one of kindness, faith, quiet strength, and utter resilience.

It’s my prayer and intention to do the same for George.    I am a Grandmother.