This week, my dad turns 53. 23 years ago, on February 16, my dad turned 30, my mom's college best friend gave birth to my oldest friend, and my parents found out they were pregnant with me, their first kid. February 16, 1993, was a pretty damn good day, I'd say.

My mom and I have an extremely close relationship. One of those where I call her at least once a day, and we talk about pretty much everything. However, the older I get, the more I realize that while I'm close with my mom, it's my dad I most resemble.

My dad is the quiet type. He spends time thinking of what he wants to say when something important comes up. He listens closely in a house full of headstrong women who like to talk. He empathizes and feels emotions deeply, just like I do.

My dad is one of the best listeners I know. I remember after my boyfriend broke up with me sophomore year of college, and I thought my world was falling apart, I followed my dad around our pastures in the backyard. It was dark and muddy, the chicken poop smelled particularly gross after an early-summer rain, and the donkeys were very loudly protesting the distraction I was posing from my dad's ability to feed them quickly. I was losing my mind, crying hysterically, yelling, screaming, following him around like maybe if I talked enough he could fix it. He couldn't. I knew it, he knew it, even the chickens knew it, but still he let me follow him around, listening, and when he was done, he settled onto our porch swing across from me and let me rant some more until I was so tired I crumpled into my own knees until I couldn't cry anymore. So then he cried for me. And I don't know if I ever thanked him for that, but I should've.

My dad is one of the most confident, goofiest, funniest people I know. He has this made up language that he loves to freely and loudly spew out in the middle of Wal-Mart or the mall or wherever we are. Instead of shying away from the weird looks he inevitably gets, he notices them, grins, then laughs at himself proudly. He does this quirky little dance and trots down whatever aisle we're on, quite pleased with himself without looking back, beckoning for us to follow him with an over-the-shoulder wave and another string of sentences in "Frankanese."

In our teenage years, my sister and I would roll our eyes and cringe with mixed embarrassment and amusement, and I think this fueled his enjoyment more. Now that we're over our awkward years, we enjoy the looks on people's faces just as much as he does, and laugh at my mom as she shakes her head but smiles all the same. Basically about 80% of the time, he's an overgrown child, and it makes life much more fun. I don't know if he meant to, but from an early age, my dad instilled in me a sense of self and confidence to never care what people think of you, and to this day it's made a huge difference.

My dad is kind and caring and considerate. Throughout my childhood I remember him volunteering for things at church that he didn't have time for or didn't necessarily want to do. I remember him giving up precious Saturdays to build houses with Habitat for Humanity, and I remember watching in awe as he took us shopping every single Christmas for a family in need. He'd fill our cart to capacity and then some, disregarding the price tags because he knew at that moment they weren't what was important: the giving was. It's still my favorite thing to do every single holiday season, and one day I'll take my kids to do the same, and share with them the magic of giving that my dad taught me.

My dad is one of the most faithful people I know. Of my parents, my mom is the person I talk to most about my Christian faith. We've had discussions about God's paths for us, about those moments when God was elbowing us in the ribs, nudging us along to the right place at the right time. But my dad is much more of a lead-by-example kind of person, and I've learned so much from just watching him.

I remember going to church on Sundays growing up. When we were little and got anxious during the middle of the sermon, my dad would pass my sister and I a piece of gum--a whole piece if we were good--and a pen so we could doodle on the bulletin for the rest of the hour. It did the trick, we quieted down. I remember watching him in church. He was attentive, interested, listening to even the dullest of dull lessons. I rarely remember much conversation after church about the sermons that were taught, except for his occasional comment about something he found particularly profound or enjoyable, but I always remember him living a life driven by his faith: one of giving and care and understanding. He is the epitome of who I aspire to be in my faith, and I hope he knows that.

My dad thinks he's not that great at advice, but actually, he is. There was one-night last semester when I was having one of those holy-crap-it's-senior-year-what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life-everything-is-falling-apart meltdowns that I was too embarrassed to call one of my friends for because, in that moment, I felt insane enough to be certifiable. It was way after 11 PM, meaning my mom had been passed out for hours, so I called my dad. With mascara streaming down my face, I cried about how scared I was to graduate, about my silly friend drama, about how boys were really stupid and confusing, about how I had no idea what I was doing with my life, and about how much all of that combined sucked. When I was finally done, all he said was, "Baby, I wish I could tell you some really great advice, but I don't have any. What I can tell you, though, is it will all be better tomorrow, and I love you." And it was better tomorrow.

My dad is a hard worker. I grew up in a house where my dad worked and my mom stayed at home, taking care of us and running her own business from the house. By example, my dad taught us to work hard, by words he made it clear how capable we were of being great, of getting good grades, of reaching our goals, but only if we worked for them and respected those who gave us chances. He taught us to work hard and respect authority and to have fun while doing it. He made work enjoyable, never a burden. I can count on my hands the number of times I remember hearing my dad complain about having to go to work when I was little, and this little thing he did made me promise myself I'd find a job one day like he had: one that I was excited to get out of bed for and rarely had complaint about.

My first job was working for one of my parents' friends. She ran a catering company and took particular interest in my aspirations to be a chef. One of my first shifts with her was a twelve-hour shift working a wedding. I was sixteen, and I loved it, the hours, the work, everything. She came up to me right before I was about to leave for the day and commended my effort and attitude and said she wished more teenagers had the work ethic I did. At first I was confused...didn't everyone know to work hard? It took me a while, but years later I realized this was not a compliment for me but rather, one for my dad and his parenting style. Thanks, Daddy, I'm glad I learned that lesson early.

My dad is a great dad. He stayed up at night to help with homework even when it was algebra and he was as clueless as I was. He took me fishing-- it's how I got my name actually. When they couldn't think of what to name me, my dad finally looked at me and said, "I could take an Annie Elizabeth fishing." Bam. I had a name.

He showed me how to bait a hook and let a fish go. He taught me how to care for animals and people with love and care and empathy. He played with us and taught us how to ride a bike. When I fell off the swing, landing face down in the dirt, he didn't coddle me, he made sure I was ok then told me to get up and try again. He drew with us even though he can't draw. He became Francois and did our hair (badly) in his "beauty parlor" when my mom needed a break or was out of town. He became Lewis the monster who lived on top of our can when we got antsy on road trips.

He listened to every girly lament we had with patience and interest. He welcomed our boyfriends and made them feel like part of the family, and he guarded us fiercely and quietly when he sensed trouble. He read me Harry Potter and taught me how to throw a football. He bought me that drink that one time on vacation before I was 21 and told me not to tell my mom and asked what I liked to drink with my friends at school. He showed us how a man should treat a woman and his children and those around him. He's on the other end of every single phone call whenever a funny light comes on in my car, and he's the one helped me learn how to sense a person's genuine care without mistaking it for cunning manipulation.

My dad taught me how to love, how to live, how to appreciate life fully and deeply. He taught me respect and laughter and fun. He taught me the value in hard work and humility and a listening ear. He taught me how far a genuine smile can take me in life and in my industry, and he taught me how to mean it even when I'm frustrated. He taught me patience and consideration and intuitiveness. He taught me how to embrace my emotional, sensitive side that sometimes I get so annoyed with. He showed me how to stand up for myself and never let anyone push me around. He taught us how to bounce back when life gets us down and to press on even when doing so seems impossible. He is my hero and my role model, and I'm a very lucky daughter.

Happy Birthday Daddy! I hope I made you cry.