my dad did teach me to ride a bicycle.

This was my present to my dad for Father's Day.

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If you’ve read even just a verse of my, “I Am Not A Man” poem, you’ll catch on quick that I don’t exactly fit the ‘manly man’ ideal. Ever since my toddler years, I’ve had a flair for the dramatics, preferring acting, singing, writing, and piano playing over any kind of sport. I tried. Oh, I tried my hand at quite a few sports (volleyball, soccer, and basketball, to name a few). But I just didn’t enjoy them. So I stopped. I opted for high school choir over the football team, and I graduated without ever having been on a sports team beyond the fifth grade.

My dad, on the other hand, played sports all the way through college. So, as you can predict, upon hearing the news that it was a boy, he jumped to quite a few assumptions about me. I can just see him, looking into my eyes as he held me for the first time, imagining playing football with me in the park, teaching me how to swing a baseball bat, competing against me in one-on-one basketball games. Oh, the list goes on. Now, knowing what you already know about me, this story seems to be heading straight downhill. Sports-loving father has a boy who grows up to suck at all sports and excel at the arts.

Don’t be so sure.

It’s funny, because I actually am very similar to my father, in terms of personality and quirks and what not. I think it took a while for him to realize that the typical, pre-paved path he was planning on just wasn’t going to work out (for that, God gave him my sister). But once he grasped that, he did exactly that: he grasped it and moved on. There were no special strings to be pulled or shady tricks up his sleeve – he loved me just the same as when he first saw me.

And I think that speaks a lot to my dad’s character. Because he never did have a son he could sit back and watch football with. He never had a son to play Horse with or a son that would get excited with him when he landed free tickets to the Packers game. But never have I felt like that’s changed his constant love for me. He still read every short story I wrote, even critiquing them for me and inspiring me to better my writing. He still sat through every eternal piano recital, pinching himself as he sat quietly through song after song. He even acted in the homemade movies I’ve made, giving it his all, like he always does. I’ve never felt judged or like ‘less of a man’ for who I am (and he’s never used the wretchedly horrible ‘man up’ phrase on me).

My dad loves people, no matter how different they are from him.

This is true not only with me, but with everyone who comes into contact with him. This is true of the way he leads the Disability Ministry at church: with open eyes that see people beyond the outer layer, digging down underneath to find the heart, where it beats and bleeds and yearns for authenticity. It doesn’t matter if you can’t speak, have a cognitive disability or don’t fit into a typical cardboard-box-role. Dad has this ability to treat everyone like a human being, one that deserves to be loved and be heard and be seen.

I’ve had some people tell me that they find my dad intimidating, to which I always respond with laughter. Because that’s probably one of the most absurd statements one could make. Sure, I definitely see why people feel that way. Before you get to know him, he can seem pretty uptight, serious and monotone. But for anyone that takes the time to crack a joke with him or get on a subject he enjoys talking about (football, anyone?), he comes crackling to life with bright colors and hooting laughter. He’s probably one of the most laid back, relaxed people I know. He’s one whom I can both joke around with and have a deep, intellectual conversation about the church with. He doesn’t pretend like he knows all the answers and he’s not shy to admit when he doesn’t. He speaks the truth, whether or not that makes him look like some big, tough macho-pastor man or not.

I’m expected to give him a Father’s Day card today with a little boy in a blue baseball cap, sitting next to his father, fishing on the lake or running to catch a football. It’d say some kind words about how well he raised me, and how he taught me to ride a bicycle (all in bold, black, masculine font), and then I’d sign my name and maybe say ‘I love you’ (depending on how feminine I’m feeling).

But that’s not my dad and that’s not me and that’s not how I feel.

Dad, I love you. I love you for your incredibly humble strength, the way you lift others up to go before you, unafraid of how that will affect your reputation or image, but dedicated to serving people and letting them know that they in fact are people and that they are beautiful. I love you for encouraging me in my dreams and pushing me to go the distance, even when it was in the exact opposite direction you initially wanted. I love you for how comfortable you are to be around, for the jokes you tell and the laugh you laugh and the wisdom you speak and the love of Christ that you reflect.

You have raised me well and you did teach me to ride a bicycle. But that’s really just the beginning.

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Click here to check out the first chapter of my work-in-progress novel, Yellowtree!