RE: [TruthTalk] Who I am

[ShieldsFamily]

Wonderful story, Bill.  (At least one of “them” in the Triad are really “relational”! J J J ) Izzy   From: [EMAIL PROTECTED] [mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED] On Behalf Of Bill Taylor Sent: Tuesday, January 04, 2005 10:36 AM To: TruthTalk@mail.innglory.org Subject: [TruthTalk] Who I am   I was born in Denver, Colorado and at 16 days old adopted to a family in Eastern Colorado. My adopted dad was a rancher. I grew up working cattle, fixing fence, planting feed, and hauling bales. I have happy memories of my childhood. My parents were Christians and they raised me in the church.   When I was eighteen my dad died of cancer. He was 58 years old. He had been very sick for four years, the years of my high school experience. During that time, and under the weight of his sickness, I rebelled against all authority. I was very sad -- angry I guess. For many years I had tremendous guilt that I was not closer to my dad when he died.   Throughout my entire life I wanted to find my birth-mother. I had dreams of who she was -- beautiful, intelligent, pleasant, and rich. When I was 27 years old I paid a lady $300 dollars to give to a friend of hers, who worked in the Office of Vital Statistics in Denver. Her friend made a copy of my birth certificate. There in my hands was the name of my mother.   It turned out my mother's name was false. But she had used my birth-father's real name. With little difficulty I tracked him down. I cannot explain to you in words the joy, no, jubilation my father experienced when I found him. He and his sister had planned on raising me. He had held me in his arms the day I was born. He had left the hospital to get his sister, that they together could take me home. When he returned, I was gone. For 27 years I had been stolen. In spite I had been adopted out from under him.   I later found my birth-mother. I talked to her on the phone. She wanted nothing to do with me. I went to her house one day and sat in my car until she came outside. I followed her and her husband to a restaurant and sat one booth next to them as she ate and talked about her day. She had no idea I was there. I watched her every move. Then I left.   My birth-father is almost certainly Jewish, but he will not admit it. He grew up in Germany. Shortly after the Second War, his father moved the family to Canada, a few years later to the US. This I know: Opa had been on a ship loaded with Jews at the port of New York that had been turned back to Germany, prior to our engagement in the war. He was either a ship worker or one of those Jews. Several years later, when they (he and his family) reached Canadian soil, they changed their names, registered as Lutherans, and got baptized in a Canadian church. My birth-father was fourteen at the time. Many years later, he did not allow his two sons to be circumcised, and he did not allow his grandsons to be circumcised. He would not say why, but I suspect his own circumcision had been quite an issue while living in hiding in Germany. Perhaps someday he will realize the Nazi threat is over. Maybe then he will tell us who we are.   My adopted dad was very analytical. He was a perfectionist. He was introverted and quiet. He had tremendous self discipline. He was well-read, a Scottish gentleman. He had very definite ideas as to how a man should act. In a lot of ways, living as he did, he was the Marlboro man.   My birth-father is a hot-blooded, loud-mouthed German. He is expressive through and through. He has a bad temper and yells out his frustrations. When he gets mad he reverts to his childhood and spews a blizzard of profanities, German words I've never heard. Everything he does is done on the spur of the moment. He hugs and kisses. He loves and hates. He toasts and sings at the top of his lungs. His arms flail and he jumps at little provocation. Boisterous barely gets it. At family gatherings it is so loud that I have to escape, go for a walk, collect myself; I feel caged in, claustrophobic.   I am caught between nature and nurture. Raised by a dad whose looks spoke volumes, I am quiet and introverted. Yet I too am of Eastern European descent. I have that hot blood running through my veins. On the spur of the moment I become my father -- and I do not know who I am.   I am married and have three sons. I am forty three years old, five feet, eleven inches tall. I have black hair and brown eyes. My wife's name is Tanya (tan ya). She is 38. Our sons are Tyler, 20; Michael, 17; and Andy, 14. I will attach a picture, from left to right: Michael, myself, Tanya, Andy, and Tyler. Our dog is Paul. This picture is a couple years old.   I bought my dad's ranch from my mother, about five years after his death. In the meantime I learned to lay bricks, stone, block, pavers, and tile. I am also a partner with my brother-in-law in a grass-seed company. We plant, harvest, and sell native grasses. We are four years into a major drought. I've had to sell the cow herd. No one is buying grass seed, and so I have partnered with the man who taught me -- laying bricks again.   I have always been a thinker. When I returned to our Lord and really met him for the first time, I knew I wanted to tell others about him. At thirty three I went to college and then to Seminary. Then my kids got old enough that I needed to be home more, and then the drought hit. My education was put on hold, a dissertation and two foreign languages away from a PhD. I do not know what the future holds. For now I am who I am, laying bricks, living life, and telling others about our Lord.     Bill