So much of the talk around people who are fighting or who have survived cancer is of heroes. Walk for your heroes. So-and-so is a survivor and a hero.

Having cancer did not make my dad a hero.

Being ill did not make him valiant.

What it made him was ill.

He was a hero because he was a good father. He was valiant because he lived an exemplary life.

You know what would’ve been more heroic than his death? If he could have lived to spend his retirement building houses with Habitat for Humanity. That is what he WANTED to do.

Building houses for the poor is valiant.

Every day of my parents’ marriage, he let my mother know how loved she was. That is valiant.

He never let a chance to by to tell his children that he loved us. That is valiant.

He taught us to value our fellow humans, especially people who are often invisible in our daily lives: security guards, janitors, cafeteria ladies. He showed by example to meet other people with respect and curiosity.

When he was ill, one of the Habitat houses he worked on had its completion party, and I got to take him to it. He hadn’t been on the work site in a month, but when we walked into the yard, a cheer went up. Every single person came over to hug him, shake his hand, tell him how much they had missed them. The homeowner’s children dragged him into the house to show him which rooms they had picked for their bedrooms.

That’s a hero for you.

He was far from perfect. His temper, like mine, could be very short, but like mine, it blew out as quickly as it blew in. He was a real bear when his blood sugar got low. Oh, and he had a genius for teasing below the belt.

He teased me for years about my manly taste in shoes. In my mid-20s especially, it used to drive me absolutely bonkers, and I would rant over my suitcase every time I packed to go home.

Then one day in the airport, when he was picking me up, he made a comment about my shoes, and I said, “Aw, too bad I buy my own damn shoes.” He stopped, looked at me in pleased surprise, then chuckled and patted me on the head. He never mentioned my shoes again.

(Then I was put out with myself for taking so long to realize how easy it was going to be.)

But he was always game for an adventure. He worked hard to love his neighbors, and even when he didn’t love them, he treated them with respect. He kept his snark at home. He was unafraid to talk about his own weakness.

He was unafraid to tell us he loved us.

THAT is what makes my hero.

I miss you every minute, my dadda.