As soon as I was born (roughly 26 years ago) the doctor made this announcement: “It’s a girl and she looks like Daddy.”

Naturally I don’t quite remember that moment, but I do know that my father has always played a very central role in my life, teaching me, supporting me and generously giving me far more than his DNA.

I hope you’ll excuse the personal nature of this column, but since Sunday was Father’s Day I thought it only fitting to pay tribute to the man who has helped shape my life more than any other.

For one thing, there are the physical traits I inherited, which include my nose and my toes among others. As far as personality goes, I’d say mine has a pinch of my dad’s sense of humour and a dash of his taste in music. Because of him, I often find myself listening to Bob Dylan, or Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’, which my dad has requested as his funeral song (though whenever I play it on the piano, he tells me to stop practising).

My dad has always worked full time to support our family and though he often had additional church responsibilities that took up time in the evenings and on weekends, he always made an effort to be there for family meals, spend time with us and be involved in our lives as much as possible.

It wasn’t (and isn’t) always easy I’m sure, with five of us kids ranging from eight to 26. We’re a stubborn bunch, known to raise our voices when challenged, and we each have our own interests and personalities. Nevertheless, I made it through my childhood with the distinct impression that my dad was glad to be my dad.

This Facebook status posted by my father on Sunday says it all: “What a privilege it is to be a father! Thank you to my children who love me despite me being me.”

If I had commented on this status Sunday, I might have said this: “Thank you for being my father, for loving me despite me being me, and for always being there for me.” (I didn’t comment, but I think I’ll post the link to this article.)

When I was about three, I remember riding round and round the circular corridor in our apartment building on my tricycle. My dad stood in the doorway to our apartment and watched as I went by, though once I rounded the bend I was out of his sight. I’m not sure how it happened – perhaps I began peddling too fast – but my tricycle tipped over trapping me and I began to cry. Rather than try to wiggle out, I remember lying there in tears knowing that my dad would realize something had happened when I did not ride by and come to my rescue. Sure enough, within a few minutes my dad appeared, helped me out and comforted me.

Years later, I’m not quite as helpless but I still know that I can count on my father to come to my rescue if I need him.

Thanks again to my dad, and happy belated Father’s Day to all the other fathers out there.