My father died when I was four. I grew up never knowing much about him. My mother remarried a wonderful man who adopted me and loved me. I didn't have a burning desire to find out who my birth father was until my wife and I decided to visit Minnesota a few years ago to visit the place of my heritage. Maybe to find Dad.

I'll never forget the experience. Karin and I stayed with my father's older brother, Sam. As you can guess, it didn't take long for Uncle Sam to ask me if I wanted to see photos of Dad, as well as some letters he had written. I quickly agreed.

The three of us climbed up into his attic where all the stuff was stored in an old trunk. My uncle pulled the light on with a string, passing around fading photos, reading letters aloud, and listening to Uncle Sam tell story after story.

That's how I "met" my father. In that attic, I got a complete picture of the kind of man Dad was, and what he did for me. I saw myself in a different light, too, because I discovered that we shared many physical features and personality traits. For the first time I knew what it meant to say, "I am my father's son."

I've reflected on that experience many times, and I've come to realize that in some ways our heavenly Father is like the man in the attic, not so far removed from us that we can't find him, yet knowable to us when we take the time look at the things he's left for us to read and ponder and talk about.

As we gather together, even if it's just two or three of us, and tell stories about our Father who has made us who we are and given us all we need, realizing the full meaning of our relationship with him, that's when we can truly say, "We are our Father's sons and daughters."