There is a reason Disney movies are wildly successful, a reason beyond crazy realistic animation and multimillion dollar marketing. Before all that, there were what you might call the simple classics–Snow White, Cinderella, The Sword in the Stone…

There’s something all these movies, stories, share. There’s a hero and someone who needs a hero.

I believe we were all created with a longing for a hero.

Growing up, we moved a lot with my dad on Young Life staff. New houses. New schools. New friends. Even new pets from year to year. But, no matter where we lived, the three girls in our family played ball. It was sort of the one stable thing I can remember. I think the first thing my parents did in a new town wasn’t to find a good mechanic but to sign us up for softball. My mom carted us around to and fro every practice. And, I think both my parents made every game pretty much. At one particular game in maybe 5th grade, this short stop took a line drive right off the mitt and into the mouth. I remember crying and bleeding. And, then I remember my dad running onto the field, scooping me up like a baby, and carrying me to the car. I think he joked about me messing up his shirt or something like that. But, what I remember most clearly was him being my hero.

We spent summers at Young Life camp where, at about that same age, I know I acted like I owned the place. There was one particular college aged summer staff guy who overstepped boundaries just a wee bit when I was being sassy to my older sister one night. I don’t remember much about if I told my parents or my shocked older sister did in my defense. But, what I do remember was looking out the window of the staff housing and seeing my dad give that boy a talking to I’d never seen before. And, I knew that he was my hero.

We debate over whether my dad ever changed a diaper. I can’t remember him ever helping us with homework. And, if Mom was away and he had the task of getting us up and to school, he was known to wake us up with Banjo playing or the Beach Boys on the record player. But, I longed for a hero. And, along the way, I knew he was one as we walked the halls of different high schools with my grape soda in hand.

Now, I have the joy of parenting alongside my best friend. He’s a different dad than our dads were in a lot of ways. He’s changed way more diapers than he cares to remember. He bathed all the babies and sat by the bath tub just to talk to them and make them laugh. They think he can fix anything–and I’m pretty content with them thinking I can fix nothing. They love wrestling and being enveloped by him as they cackle and he growls ferociously. When he plays hockey early enough that all are still awake, we bundle up and sit in the stands. They can’t follow the game; but they sure follow their daddy, cheering his name and clearly giddy with excitement when he looks their general direction. They get that he works to provide for us and that he’s “in charge” of the family.

We trust him. We know he loves us.

He’s so their hero. And, for the past nearly 14 years, he’s been my hero too.

Happy father’s day, Dad – the hero of my youth who may not have changed my diaper but now reads my blog faithfully.

And, happy father’s day, Mark – my hero for life and the one leading our family and pointing us all to the Hero everyday.