I've always known my father was, well, magical. It seems strange to use that word, but if you grew up with a man who read incessantly to you late at night, found a way to whip up a delicious dinner from a consistently empty refrigerator, and regularly joined tea parties amongst stuffed animals, you'd say the same thing. Magical.

As I've grown up, I've always admired my father for a myriad of reasons, but recently the foundation of my love was changed, altered. Just over 20 years ago, my father converted a trucking building in East Los Angeles into the church he pastors. This cinderblock building is home and a beacon of light in a grim and gritty corner of LA. Say what you will, but my dad loves this place.

Over the years, the church has outgrown the building. People literally pour out of the doors and hundreds chairs are set up in an adjacent rooms because it cannot accommodate everyone. For the past decade, my father said one day the church will be remodeled so everyone can sit in the same place and pray. Together. That's his dream.

What my father failed to mention until recently was that by normal standards, this dream renovation is impossible. The funds required to make it a reality are so far-reaching and invisible that a normal person would look at the situation and see no hope. But my dad? He wakes up every day and walks into the cinderblock building praying for change, fully believing it could happen. Where others see impossibilities, my fathers sees the opportunity for a miracle.

When the gravity of his faith was revealed last week, I cried. I've never known a man who possesses such audacious hope for impossibilities. No matter how bleak the chances, my father keeps his head held high. Magical.

Dad, happy birthday. Today I wish you the best and I hope one day your cinderblock dreams become a glass castle.