My dad, part 1.

Because my dad turns 50 this month, I have found myself thinking of him more often. Just little things here and there—like when a Frank Sinatra song comes on my iPod, or when I wake up before the sun like he does every day.

Among all of the little stories I could tell you about my father, I have this one memory that I keep very close to my heart.

It is simple, but it is sweet…

Growing up in California, we had a lot of “fresh starts.” We always stayed in San Diego, but every time my dad found a better job, we would move to another town. All of this picking up and starting over was very exciting to me, but looking back as an adult, I’m sure it was a ton of work for my parents.

Our last house was a little ranch in a desert town called Poway. There was a dusty dirt road to our house, with a circle drive, and a yard of tall grasses. I had weeping willow trees to swing from, and two bedrooms to play in.

I loved that house.

My parents had decided to freshen up the place with new paint, so we were all camping out in the living room for the first few days. On one of those first mornings, I remember waking up slowly to the sound of my parents laughing.

As I opened my eyes, the sun was shining so brightly that I could barely even see them. They were painting the walls cream with their paint rollers, and there was a halo around them. In the early morning sun, they were making this new home theirs.

I remember thinking how happy they looked, as I lay there listening to them laugh. That was the last year it was just me and my parents, and I got this secret look into who my parents really are:

Two people who love each other very deeply, who have changed every one of our challenging moments into an opportunity to laugh.

The moment my eyes were fully open, our song came on the radio. It was Louis Armstrong, “What a Wonderful World.”

I see skies of blue, clouds of white.
Bright blessed days, dark sacred nights.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

My dad started singing and within seconds he had me up in his arms, and we were dancing around our empty house together.

Within that bright memory of my father is everything that I love about him. In a chaotic house of unpacked boxes, sleeping bags, and sticky paintbrushes, there was always time to laugh.

Dancing to Louis Armstrong again, on my wedding day.