I went to college with John, 4 years at the same university, friends in each other’s outermost friend circles. When we saw each other at our 20th college reunion, it might have been the first time since the 15th. I was on the fence about attending but it turned out to be a great night right from the start. I think it’s partly because, at 42 years old, you’ve finally accepted that you’ll always be a work in progress.

During cocktail hour, one thing that I heard John say was "I didn't have a dad." What did he mean by that, I wondered. It was a passing detail, quickly lost in the waves of our classmates' conversations around us.

After the official events concluded, the night went into overtime. John and I talked as we walked with a few other friends to a bar near campus. I mentioned a personal project that I had been working on - a podcast that tells the story of what it means to be a dad today, one regular everyday dad at a time - and he was very intrigued right away. A couple days later, he accepted my invitation to be dad #6.

John is married and a father of 3 ages 15, 13, and 11. He works in finance in New York City during the week and lives, barbecues and coaches swimming in the suburbs during the weekend. His wife says that he "looks like someone who used to work out" and John basically concurs, describing his dad bod shape as "oval."

That's John today: your prototypical suburban dad. It's a long way from where he was thirty something years ago as a 6-year old Korean immigrant kid who just arrived in suburban LA with his mom, neither of them speaking English. Long before John became an oval, he was a banana. "Yellow on the outside, white on the inside," he describes.

As an Asian-American, I am familiar with the banana metaphor. Like all metaphors, the "yellow on the outside, white on the inside" banana is imperfect, but what it gets right is the coexistence of the banana's yellow and white essential features, which represent the Asian American's lifelong reconciliation of an Asian cultural identity with an “American” operating identity. "Should I assimilate or keep separate?" is the constant question and the answer, I can tell you, is always "both." The goal is to stand out and blend in at the same time; to pursue the American dream and honor your Asian heritage. In John's case, his “American” life occurred during the week in the suburbs at school and elsewhere in his mostly white, extremely nice, largely Mormon community, and his Korean life occurred on the weekends at his church in LA proper. Like the banana, the white and yellow of John’s life were as close as separate could be.

And by all measures, John excelled. He learned English, played the piano, played the guitar and sang in church, achieved academically, swam competitively, and gave back to his community. All of his efforts paid off: he was awarded one of the inaugural Gates Millennium scholarships, which earned him a full ride through undergraduate and graduate school. Not bad for a banana.

In fact, by this point, the banana had become a triangle, as in the perfectly tanned, often shirtless, triangle-shaped torso that John carried with him to college. “I thought I had a forever Speedo tan,” John said. But the first year of college in NYC can be tough on a triangle body from SoCal. First, the freshman 15 softens those sharp angles. Then, the long, cold, dark winter drains the tan. As John puts it, “I was no longer special. I was just like everyone else.”

That sounds like the beginnings of a sad decline but I assure you it is not. If the pursuit of swimming trophies and scholarships changed John from a banana to a triangle, what would the pursuit of career, marriage, and family turn him into? Something less impressive looking but more ready for the conditions, demands, and ambitions of real life. Something more balanced, more self aware, more aerodynamic, more forgiving, more approachable, more resilient. That’s right: an oval.

And that’s a good Dad Bod story right there: Banana. Triangle. Oval. John, Transformation of Dad. But no. As you know, that’s not the story.

I glossed over the part about John being an immigrant. By definition, that means that John left his country of birth to be here. No matter how you cut it, it's an inherently serious decision for a family to make. In John's case, the plan was for John and his mom to go first and then his dad would join them a little while later after having a chance to tie up affairs in Korea. A little while grew to months, then years, and eventually, John realizes that his dad's not coming. This is what John meant when he said, "I didn't have a dad." That's a succinct way of putting it but the truth is more complex and painful.

Back in Korea, when John was living with both mom and dad, John would cry to his mom whenever it was nighttime and dad wasn't home yet, because he knew that meant that dad was getting drunk and when he returned home, John would get beaten.

After John and his mom moved to America, his dad did in fact make it over but just to visit and only a few times over the course of a dozen years. John's contact with his dad was primarily through phone calls - to this day, he still remembers the phone number. He also still has the scar above his lip from his first time shaving - an indelible mark of his dad's absence.

And through his dad's absence and many shortcomings, John learned a lot about what a dad should not be. A dad should not view his wife as a convenience tool. A dad should not put his job over his kids. A dad should not beat his kids. A dad should not stop providing. In a strange way, John was being taught how to be a good dad: just do the opposite of what was done to you. If it's a negative, negate it. If it's a fraction, invert it. If it's "solve for X," reverse it. It's as simple as a math equation.

But as all of us dads know, kids aren’t equations and fatherhood isn’t math. It’s much more like music: a mysterious, primal force that can touch the deepest parts of your soul without laying a finger on you. And so it’s fitting that through music, John was confronted by a much greater definition of fatherhood: the Father I Am, where I Am is the name of God the Father in John's Christian faith which really took root for him in junior high, an experience that he describes as "the moment that I started experiencing something that was not just parental love, but something amazing, celestial love, like some other being out there showing me tremendous favor." John started playing the guitar and singing songs about God. The trouble was that oftentimes, these songs referred to God the Father. How could something so good be a father, when his father gave him only pain and disappointment as a son? Not by negating, inverting, or replacing John's dad's bad example, but by a wholesale reauthoring of John's understanding of fatherhood.

God the Father taught John how to tie a tie through the help of a stranger.

God the Father provided John with the means for a higher education through the Gates Millenium scholarship.

God the Father corrected John's career path through an unexpected reunion with a mentor.

God the Father made good out of bad by using John's "wasted" time in college to create a friendship that would become a marriage and a family.

God the Father protected John by giving him a mother whose love was unfailing.

And finally God the Father redeemed John through fatherhood itself, which John explains saying, "There are moments that I have to stop and say, why did my dad not want this with me? This is so fulfilling. This is rich. Well, this guy decided not to have that with me. And then I come to grips with realizing that I'm going to be the guy that breaks certain cycles. I'm going to break the cycle of brokenness. My kids are not going to see a broken family. My kids are going to see a father who is present. They're going to see a father who's a provider. They're going to see a father who is faithful." That's why John is the Redemption of Dad.

And if the shape of dad transformation is the oval, then the shape of dad redemption has to be the diamond: a brilliant, strong, miraculous geometry formed by the power of divine love and grace, thereby embodying the complex, hidden drama of modern fatherhood.

Thank you, John, for sharing your story.