Happy Father's Day, Dad. Thank you.

This morning, I woke up in my own bed, in a house that smells the same as the night before my first day of sixth grade when I slept in a sleeping bag on the floor of the living room because we hadn't even put my mattress on the bed frame yet.

My mother, my father and my dog meandered into my room minutes after I roused, as if tipped off by some signal. All with sleepy eyes, all with cowlicks, all looking for a spot on my bed, which of course they all found.

One father's day back rub, one father's day sermon, and one father's day nap later, I awoke again, this time in my parents' bed, to the sound of something rustling outside.

Out the window, I saw my father's hands peeking through the tree branches that line the railing of our back porch. On a day dedicated to whatever he wanted to do, my dad chose to make time for putting out food for the birds-- excuse me, "his friends," as he will always refer to them.

I am now back in the fraternity house that smells like a mixture of feet and my apples-and-cinnamon Glade air freshener. One father's day lunch, one father's day dessert, and countless father's day gifts later, I can't help but think that my father is the greatest gift of all.

Thanks, Dad.