Dad, the Winter Slayer. He and Mom raised their family in an old house. Lots of kids and a little bit of money meant we made do with what we had. That house yields mostly wonderful memories. But one non-wonderful memory was the linoleum floor in the girl’s bedroom. Winter mornings froze our feet if we forgot to set out our slippers the night before. I once earned a nickel from my sister for bringing her slippers to her on a fiercely cold winter morning.

Dad and Mom didn’t have the money to lay carpet in that room. That was still years away. So we four girls were mystified the day Dad appeared in the doorway of our bedroom with a huge armload of carpet samples from the carpet store next door. He’d noticed the store owner throwing them out and asked for them. The owner was glad to give them away. Dad dropped the mound on the linoleum, headed down the stairs and returned with more. A huge mound of samples soon piled up in the middle of the room.

Pulling out his staple gun, Dad started in one corner of the room and stapled down the first sample. Wide-eyed and astonished, we watched as he worked like a machine, laying down row after row of rectangular samples, shoving beds and dressers around as he went. Finally, he filled in the last rectangle, then stood up to survey his work. He grinned, turned to us, and said as only a relieved, loving father could, “There you go, girls. Warm toes.”

We stared in awe. The floor was covered in colorful textures. And warmth. Wonderful warmth! We pulled off our shoes and carefully walked across our “carpeted” bedroom floor. It was heavenly! We soon darted back and forth, choosing favorite colors and textures. Dad left us laughing and squealing in delight. Dad did a lot of things for us. But that carpeted bedroom floor was possibly his brightest moment, at least in our young eyes.

Husband, the Patient Anchor: He’s a matchless father to our children and a son to my parents. He’s a brother to my siblings and a friend to my friends. He’s the fixer of broken things, the filler-upper of empty things, and the emptier of filled things. He’s the problem solver when I don’t see a solution. He’s the mender of broken hearts, promises, and dreams. He’s the cheering section for the faint-hearted. He’s the quiet, steady, almost unnoticed presence that calms. He’s the epitome of patience, the one who takes a deep breath, lets out a sigh, and says, Everything’s going to be okay (even when he has no idea how). He’s the perfect link between the generation before us and the generation we created. He is my everything.

Son, the Daughter Defender: He’s the father of two daughters. Any man who is the father of daughters becomes a fearsome protector. Not fearsome to them, of course. To them, he’s a squishy teddy bear who speaks to them patiently (far more patiently than I ever did to him), laughs with them often, and melts if they ever drop a tear. He reads to them and listens to them read to him. He worries over them more than I thought possible and does everything in his power to make their worlds wonderful. He proudly celebrates their successes and loves them unconditionally. They are his focus and he never wavers. His daughters will always know they are loved. They couldn’t imagine it any other way.

I never saw this in him when he was growing up. He was a strong young man who played sports, camped and hiked, and acted like most his age. But something in him changed when that first tiny girl was handed to him. He did not lose any of what he had before. He simply became more of what he was meant to be. His daughters will likely not recognize what they have in him until decades to come when they marry and start their own families. Only then will they realize the kind of dad they are blessed to have.

It’s time to celebrate the good in men, and the good men in our lives.

Happy Father’s Day.