Father’s Day just passed and social media has been doing what it does best: turning every holiday into a slow-motion slideshow of annual father’s day posts, hot takes, and at least one picture of someone holding a fish.
This year I saw a lot of father’s day posts that blamed dads for anxiety, inconsistency, bad vibes, and probably the stock market too. And sure, everyone’s got baggage. But I’m going to zag while they zig. I’m here to uplift dads. but specifically, mine. So sorry to all the other dads.
Happy late, (or really early) Father’s Day to all the dads out there. You’re all wonderful, hardworking, oneof- a-kind men. But let’s be real for a moment: you’re not my dad. And according to a mug in our kitchen, and 19 years of lived experience, my dad is the best.
His name is Nathan. He’s a pastor. Which means I’ve been a PK (Pastor’s Kid) since day one, which comes with a set of rules and expectations only slightly stricter than the Geneva Convention. But unlike some PKs who run off to Vegas to become magicians or druggies, I came to love it. Why? Because my dad never just talked about serving, he dragged me (willingly) into it.
We were at church all the time. I’m pretty sure my earliest memory is folding chairs.
For nearly a month in 9th grade I racked up 30+ hours volunteering a week at four different events, and it wasn’t even Easter. Why? Because Dad was always there, showing me what dedication looked like: flyers at dawn, tables set up by noon, heartfelt prayers by dinner. And potlucks. Always potlucks. Baptists love their potlucks.
That’s not even getting into the medical stuff. My dad was born without a functioning inferior vena cava, which I know sounds made up but is very real, and very inconvenient.
Imagine your body’s main highway for blood flow collapsing, and your body going, “Well, I guess we’ll take side streets now.” That’s been his reality since birth.
So yeah, while most of us whine about stubbed toes or caffeine headaches, my dad’s body has been making daily vascular detours just to keep him alive. He’s spent more time in hospitals than I’ve spent on my phone (and that’s saying something). Yet through it all through surgeries, scary diagnoses, and months-long hospital stays he’s fought. Hard.
All while preaching sermons, mentoring young leaders, and being a dad who shows up. He’s basically the Apostle Paul meets Superman. And he did it all with the same steady commitment to his faith, his family, and an unreasonable number of dad jokes.
He’s taught me more than I can count: how to lead by listening, how to serve with purpose, how to build people up even when you’re barely holding it together yourself. He’s moved our family across three states and countless churches, always with humility, humor, and a talent for blackstone grilling Smash Burgers.
He taught me to pray first, delegate well, and always keep the “why” in mind. He taught me to love people, even the difficult ones (especially the difficult ones). He taught me that real leadership is sweaty, selfless, and never about the spotlight.
He also taught me that chores build character, despite my harsh resistance.
More than anything, Dad taught me love. Through every bad grade, awkward phase, and overconfident high school campaign, he’s been in my corner. He’s my biggest fan and my most faithful critic. We even walk and talk the same, right down to our shared weakness for bad puns.
So while your dad may be great (and I’m sure he is!), I’ve got the OG. The heavyweight champion of fatherhood. The guy with busted veins and an unbreakable spirit.
Thank you Dad for fighting to be here, for being present when you easily could’ve checked out, and for giving me a blueprint of what it looks like to love well. You’ve shaped who I am. And despite my enormous, galaxy-sized ego (thanks for keeping that in check), you’ve shown me how to stay grounded.
I love you. Happy Father’s Day. P.S.Try not to cry while reading this you’ve got a reputation to uphold.