It was going to be the road trip of a lifetime: three weeks, 4,000 miles, and 16 states. And just me, all alone, in my bright blue PT Cruiser.

Well, not quite alone. In some ways, my dad would be taking this trip down memory lane with me. Dad's own earthly journey had ended just a month before at Medical City Hospital, 92 years—and countless memories—after it had begun.

My trip began with a prayer and three daily goals:

Dad had only viewed the PT Cruiser in a brochure from his hospital bed, saying, "I'll see it when I get home." But he went home to heaven, not Parkchester Drive in Dallas. Still, as I hit the road it almost felt as if Dad were riding shotgun, my memories of him traveling with me mile after mile.

By the time I was in first grade, Dad recognized my eagerness to accompany him on his business speaking engagements—and Mom urged me to share these experiences. A little gray suit with black patent leather Mary Janes—hey, this was the '50s—became my "working clothes." Seatbelt laws were decades away, so, snuggled next to Dad in the front seat, I began a lifetime of exploration.?

President Eisenhower's dream of an Interstate highway system still hadn't materialized, so Dad and I traveled the great national roads, marked by service station towers visible for miles and motor inns shaped like teepees. He taught me to wonder as we wandered. "See that airplane? We'll drive two days to get where it will be in five hours." How could that be? "Never lose your imagination," he counseled. "Never lose your awe of life."

Fast forward to 2007. Somewhere in Wisconsin, I popped in a Pavarotti cd, thinking of Dad. "You never even consider he'd miss a note, do you? He hits the note directly in the center. The sign of genius is how easy it looks to others. Remember, your unique abilities can be discovered by seeing what you enjoy working on, like Pavarotti enjoys vocalizing."

Many dads took their children camping; mine took me to the encampments of culture. He introduced me to gypsy music in Washington, D.C., opera in Cincinnati, symphonies at Carnegie Hall in New York, and Dixieland in New Orleans. Each time, he taught me to hear what the musician was "saying," to discern the nuances of the performance. Dad thoroughly enjoyed musicians who "played the cracks." He wanted me to see beyond the obvious.

"Take the gift that God has given you, and use it, and you will stand before great men." Dad's paraphrase of Proverbs 18:16 became his life verse, and his resolve to "stretch others" determined the direction of his life. He looked at each experience as opportunity for growth and productivity. He embraced hard times with even greater relish than the easy ones.

As I drove, I laughed as I thought of Dad's intense desire for me to discipline my spirit. The Bible calls it self-control; Dad called it "getting hold of yourself." His desire for me to grow tougher skin often resulted in little girl tears and a quick change of conversational topic.