If you're gonna be a bear — be a grizzly.

My friends saw something in my dad that I didn't. They valued something in him that I didn't. Sometimes they'd come by the house not to see me, but to see him. They'd sit on the couch with my old man talking until the early hours of the morning, long after I had gone to bed. I was so blind.

My dad's entire wardrobe at any given time was probably under a hundred bucks. He never treated himself to anything. One year he asked for a "scum buster" scrub brush for his birthday. He drove the same pickup truck for twenty-two years. Because he was never blowing money on himself, he always had money to spend on us. Are you that selfless? I know I'm not.

My dad was a master mechanic. He could fix anything. He had lessons to teach me about life — about fights and jobs and relationships — just waiting to come out. Who knows what untapped wisdom will never be unearthed simply because I didn't think I had anything more to learn from him. I was dumb. Don't be like that.

He wants to be involved. He wants the chance to speak into your life, maybe to save you from some of the mistakes he made. Right now you're reading this book. You're letting me, a complete stranger, speak into your life. Why take the time to let me do it, and not let the guy who wants to see you succeed more than anyone else?

My dad told me once that you can call a true friend at four in the morning, just say "I need you here now," and hang up — and he'll be there. If you have just a few of those people in your life, you will have done well. Be that person for your dad. Let him know it by your actions and your words.

There's a difference between being present and being present. I was driving my dad all over town, but that was all I was doing. I was basically a glorified Uber driver. That's not care. You can't just go through the motions. You have to really care. You have to get out of your own skin and stop being so selfish.

Most men live lives of quiet desperation. Like a swan gliding across the water — graceful on top, feet kicking a million miles per hour underneath. This is what dads go through. It's hard to empathize with a weight you haven't felt. But try. Walk slower. Walk with him instead of in front of him.

The autopilot shuts off the moment you start driving. You're not dependent on him the same way anymore, so things don't flourish on their own. If you aren't deliberate about seeing him, you simply won't. We move mountains and rearrange schedules all the time when it suits us. When was the last time you did that for your dad?

For a time, I legitimately didn't like my dad. I thought we had nothing in common. "You're just like your father" used to make me angry. Now I take it as a compliment. Some of my best qualities are where I'm most like him. Some of my biggest shortcomings are where I'm not like him at all.

Shouldn't we talk about the most important things in the world with those who are most important to us in the world? I often shied away from these conversations with my dad. I shouldn't have. If you feel the pull to wimp out or put it on the back burner — write him a letter. Write it yesterday. He'll read it.