I can’t imagine a more terrifying road for my father than realizing he had a gay son. A boy who plays dress-up in his mother’s clothes, a son who has no interest whatsoever in his passion for sports, a young man who takes the meaning of the word girl “friend” literally, a soul that he loved destined for eternal damnation.

I know that anger is part of the grief process. But, oddly enough, I’m not angry with the cancer that caused his death. I’m angry about roadblocks that gender and religious dogma created in our relationship over the years. I’m angry about the protestant work ethic that drove so much of our time together. I’m angry about the communication risks we couldn’t take with each other. I’m angry about the hesitancy of men to express physical intimacy and acceptance of physical abuse.

And yet, in spite of these barriers, dad embarked on a journey with his gay son – a journey filled with danger into territories unknown. He traveled from a family history of conservative Republican philosophy to a rabid Rachel Maddow Democrat; he began to critically evaluate his theological map; he moved from a very traditional view of marriage and sexuality to singing at my wedding; and he trapped the beaver that he made into a scarf for both myself and my husband.

I also know that it is a son's job to identify his own destination. And while Dad had his own journey, he and Mom also somehow instilled in me a core strength that helped me chart my own path out of the loneliness of a gay boy isolated by geography and imprisoned by religious community.

The distance we've both traveled has been nothing short of amazing, and I’m so glad that so many got to experience the charm and talents of my dad along the way. Yet, we still had skills to learn, curves to navigate, and summits to achieve for both of us. So, I am both grieving the father I didn’t really have, and I’m sad we won’t have more time to continue our journeys together.