As a child, I had always looked to my father as a hero. To me, he was strong enough to take on an army one handed, tall enough to reach for the moon and give it to me, and wise enough to know everything about everything. There was nothing my father could not do. He took time to teach me to read, write, walk, and talk. When learning how to walk, like any child I would occasionally fall. My father would pick me up and put me back on my feet. He always encouraged me to “get up and try it again.” I felt no doubt in his eyes; he made me believe that I can accomplish anything that I set my mind to. In my rebellious early teenage years I saw that my father did not know everything like I previously thought. Since my mother had left my family when I was seven, I felt like I had no one to talk to. I would often complain to him, “You just don’t understand!” I forgot often that he, too, was once an adolescent and I did not necessarily need a mother to talk to. Always my father was there to comfort me through heartbreak after heartbreak. During the hardest years of my life, he never lost faith in me, even after I continuously went against his will time and time again. As far as I can remember, I was never forced by my father to do anything I did not want to do. I would often ask him why we did not go to church. His answer was always, “I do not want you to feel like you have to believe in what I do. I want you to be able to make decisions like which church to go to or which denomination to be.” One day I asked him to take me to a local Baptist church that was located in front of my elementary school. I met some friends from school and soon I was going every Sunday. I asked him one day which denomination he was and he told me he was Methodist. I have learned from him to respect what the person next to me believes in; he or she may be offended by extra strong proclamations. I respect and thank him for that lesson