Last week I realized something. I realized that my dad is one of my heroes, but that wasn't always the case. Thinking back to when I was a teenager, he certainly wasn't my hero. I was my hero back then. Ahh, the ignorance and arrogance of youth.
Not everybody has a good dad. Nobody has a perfect dad. I have a good dad who isn't perfect. When I pause long enough to take a steady look at my dad's life and the years that I've been a part of it, I see plenty of failure. No, let's call it: humanness. My dad has truly always done the best he could by me, and now that I realize what kind of stresses a grown man deals with, I'm starting to get it.
Dad is as hard working a man as there ever was. He's got more energy than me or my older brother.
Dad's faith has grown deep over the years, and it's so obvious that even a self-interested baby-of-the-family like me can notice it.
Dad cries when he talks about the Lord.
Dad sends out text messages like this the day after heart surgery (the part in yellow):