Today is my dad’s 51st birthday.

He lives in Malaysia and I live in the United States, so technically, due to the time zones, his birthday was yesterday. I had been so excited to Skype with him this morning, but alas my body had different ideas and turned off my alarm without my knowledge, leading me to sleep long past the time I set to talk to him. Now I’m grumpy because I miss my dad, I’m disappointed I lost the chance to talk to him on his birthday, and mostly I’m bummed I didn’t get any of that vegan carrot cake he celebrated with.

But there is still much to celebrate.

As a young girl, I wanted to be the princess who married Prince Charming. What was Prince Charming going to be like? My dad. 

I told my best friend in high school that I wouldn’t marry a man unless he could bake like my dad. Did that happen? Well, not exactly, but my husband does make amazing desserts–just not the baked kind. Dad and I baked my wedding cakes together because I grew up on his chocolate cakes with caramel frosting and they are heaven on earth. I would cheat on my Beachbody workout program any (or every) day for those cakes. Really, he’s a foodie. Every Sunday morning for as long as I can remember I would come downstairs to pancakes, eggs, fruit salad, and bacon. Sunday afternoons were spent baking a coma inducing, sugar laden pan of goodies. Sunday nights were homemade green chili pizza and salad.

Many of my memories of him are in the kitchen. Or the laundry room, or the grocery store, or picking me up from the mall. There are a million other memories for sure, like one birthday twelve years ago where he took me to the Air and Space museum and then to get mint ice cream sandwiches from the ice cream truck for my birthday. Or the time he spent an hour walking the aisles of the airplane holding my son to help him to calm down. Or like how after I was kicked out of high school and had no friends he spent every Friday night taking me out to dinner, walking along board walks with me, and getting frozen yogurt.

But those memories too are of him showing his servant heart, leading by example and with humility and love. The point here is that in every memory I have with him, he is serving. He is loving. He is laughing or sharing or being silly. Sarcasm is my dad’s second language, and I am sure I get my witty eloquence from him and my mother. Really, our family is all pretty brilliant, and it must come from the genetics.

I tell my husband all the time that I want to be like my dad. I want to raise my son the way my dad raised me. My dad is imperfect but when I look at him and the way he has loved our family, I see Jesus. That is the way that God calls us to live our lives–so people look at us and see not our selfish, flawed selves, but Him.

In the end, I married a guy about as different from my dad as possible. At least personality-wise. They have different interests, different preferences, very different ideas of fun. But they have the same character, and that is what’s important. I couldn’t be more proud that I married a man like my father, and I couldn’t be more proud to call today’s birthday boy Dad.

Happy 51 years young, Daddios!