Letters to Our Fathers

Tell your father what's in your heart. Tell the world about your father.

We're putting together a book we'd like to call "Letters to Our Fathers," and we're inviting you to be a part of it. Write a letter to your father , telling him whatever it is you need to tell him -- tell him what he's meant to you and your life. It doesn't matter whether your father is living or dead. It doesn't matter whether you're a son or a daughter. It doesn't matter whether you're 9 or 90. The only thing that matters is that you have -- or had -- a dad, and that you've got something to say to him. (And, if you're a dad, after you've written to your father, ask your kids to write to you. Submit them all!)

See the guidelines for submissions elsewhere on this page.

What will be done with your letter? Who are we?

If your letter is accepted, it will be included in a book we hope to publish.  (You'll get paid, we just don't know how much or when.) 

We are: Barry Hoerz and Russell King 

Barry Hoerz is a Lutheran pastor in rural Wisconsin, living outside of a town whose name few people can pronounce.  Barry lives with his wife of 25 years (Ingrid) and their two boys (Ken and Bob).  Barry credits much of who he is to his own father, who died in March of 2005.  Though Barry has warm memories of life with his father, Barry has a deep concern for the role of men in our modern society, and the confusion that has developed over the place of fathers in the lives of our families.

Russell King is a writer, poet and editor in Madison, Wisconsin.  Russell lives with his wife and six children -- three boys and three girls.  He writes an online column (blog) called American Dad and works as an advocae for provider of home health care and their patients.  Fatherhood is what Russell is most about: what he does the most, thinks about the most, writes about the most and enjoys the most. That's him in he photo to the right, by the way, getting a kiss from his father (it was...a little while ago).

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Night studies

When on my chest his weary head falls,

and his contented finger-suck slows,

I know.

When his sweet cooing fades away, and

his loving eyes look up just once more,

I know.

When in my arms he has complete faith,

and trusts to sleep he can surrender,

I know.

At night, I learn what I could not learn

before: how much my father loves me.