Searching for a song fitting for the father-daughter dance at my wedding has made me ponder my relationship with my father quite a bit over the last several weeks. I’ve come to realize how much of our bond is unspoken and difficult to describe. In many ways, it is stunted and as it was when I was twelve and our family was going through some rough times. The lines of communication are more difficult than they are with my mother, who is, in many ways, a real friend.

But I have always been grateful for my father, even when he wasn’t with us. I have always known how incredibly blessed I am to count a man with such a tender heart and so much love and compassion as my dad. Even when I was a Christian, I was surprised by how much better dad treated us than many Christian dads I knew. He has always wanted the best for me, even when I was too blind to see it.

My dad has given me so many memories and is, in many ways, the person I think of most when I look back on my childhood. When I find myself reminiscing, it is often of road trips when we would listen to Ruby, or various southern rock/blues music, when we would look without falter for the boiled peanut stands on the side of the road. I remember my dad and I going out on Saturdays in search of blue raspberry slushies. I remember me driving with him in his blue car, and begging to shift for him. I remember walking into our duplex one morning when I was little, sitting in his lap, draping my arms around him and declaring that I was going to marry him some day.

I know without a doubt that I owe my thirst for knowledge and reason to my dad. I often think of lazy weekends spent watching various discovery or history channel specials, particularly on the Civil War. I remember one special in particular about Robert E. Lee. At the end it was recounting when, after the end of the Civil War, in a Virginian church, a black man stepped forward to receive communion. The rest of the white church (minister included) stood there in awkward silence. After a few minutes, Robert E. Lee stepped forward and took communion at the black man’s side. I looked over to my dad to see a single tear fall from his eyes.

I remember the first time I saw my dad cry, when my mom’s dad passed away. It was the most heartbreaking thing I had ever seen, and affected me almost more than my grandfather’s death.

I owe my cool-head to my dad. I learned from him to step back and think before making bold accusations against another. I learned how to give people the benefit of the doubt from my dad. From my dad, I learned that in nearly every mistake, there is at least a shred of humanity and good intentions — and that focusing on that part is what matters most.

More than anything, I learned what it means to really forgive someone because of my father. While the circumstances were terrible, without it there is so much I would not understand. From the power of forgiveness to the strength of family and commitment.

I don’t know where I would be without him. He is the first man I ever loved and I could not have asked for anyone better.