My dad taught me a lot of things, some intentionally, but most inadvertently. In the intentional column were things like how to tie an improved cinch knot, how to change a tire, and how to bowl. He taught me how to fight, how to ride a bike, and how to use a circular saw.

In the inadvertent column there are some good things, like standing up for people who are being bullied, but also things that were unhelpful and even untrue. He did not do this intentionally – he would have cut his hand off rather than harm me – but he did it nonetheless.

For example, he taught me early on that the world is unsafe. One way he did this was by offering vague, unexplained warnings: “Watch yourself when you are at the YMCA. There are bad men who live there.” Who these bad men were and what they might do was left a mystery. Or “If a stranger wants you to get in his car, run away from him.” Not bad advice, but it added to my sense that the world was out to get me.

When I was in elementary school, my dad made a body-sized punching bag from a sailor’s duffle filled with sawdust and taught my older brother and me how to fight. Of some future opponent, I remember him saying something like, “Don’t turn your back on him until you’ve made sure he can’t get up and hurt you.”

My dad was not wrong to teach me to defend myself or to teach me to be alert to potential dangers, but he taught me a view of the world that left God entirely out of the picture. My dad knew little about God in those days. He believed he was sending me into the world to make it on my own and was convinced I needed a distrustful spirit to succeed.

It wasn’t just the world “out there” that was unsafe; home was too. My dad could grow angry in a moment and for reasons that were not always clear. So, I learned to be guarded and to keep my own counsel. Without intending to, my dad taught me to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself, which has proved a relational handicap throughout life.

In families that believe in God – as most did in those days – parents, especially dads, are the model on which a child constructs his idea of God. The God I believed in was distant, like my dad. Though he occasionally played catch with us, threw the football around, or took us fishing, dad rarely showed much interest in what we were doing—except when report cards came home. He was determined that his sons would measure up.

Another thing my dad taught, both intentionally and not, was that in this life you cannot depend on anyone for anything. You’re on your own in this world. Everyone is out for themselves. Learning this has made trusting others, even God, more difficult.

Dad began to change when my brother was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. He could not fix it – at that time, the mortality rate for this kind of leukemia was about 95 percent – and so was forced to depend on someone else. He turned to God.

My brother died, and it looked like God was no more dependable than anyone else. Yet out of the ashes of that catastrophe a spark of faith flared up in my dad and grew stronger throughout his life. Very slowly, he began to unlearn some of the things he had believed and taught me.

Our relationship, which had been tense since my teen years, improved. I began again to listen to my dad and to learn from him. He showed me that a tough man can develop gentleness. He modeled generosity with his time and money. He demonstrated kindness to his wife, my mother. He developed a love for the Bible. He taught me how a brave man dies with confidence in God.

On this Father’s Day, I remember my dad with gratitude. I am who I am in large part because of him, and because of him I know that I can become more than I’ve been.