Last year I wrote a post about the never-ending splits within Protestant churches and my own distaste for this as a "catholic-minded" Episcopalian. At the time, I said I was considering joining the Roman Catholic Church. Thirteen months later, I am not only one step closer, but I may have passed the point where I can no longer go back.

I've reached my breaking point, and it has nothing to do with the headline issues—where I actually come down on the "liberal" side— or with the deeper theological fractures like communion without baptism—where I am an unbending traditionalist. Instead, it has come down to an intolerable situation right here in Eugene, Oregon.

We left our old parish—the church where we were married and where our daughter was baptized—over a major dispute with the Rector. This dispute, involving my daughter's so-called disruptions during Mass, left us feeling unwelcome to the point where we could no longer be in that church or even in the same room with that priest.

He has recently retired, and I expected him and his wife to relocate to the Midwest where their grandchildren live. That's what I would do, and though we had no intent of returning to our old parish we were relieved that we would no longer risk running into him out in public.

Then just a few days ago I found out that he has not only decided to remain in Eugene, but he is now the "Rector Emeritus" of the parish. Instead of hiring a new rector, at least for the time being, the vestry have given their assistant priest the title "Priest-in-Charge" along with rector's workload while allowing their former rector to retain his power behind the scenes.

Ultimately, this is the vestry's call, and we really don't care how they run their parish. That same day, though, I found out that our former rector was filling in for the summer at another parish in town. A parish we might have visited not knowing he'd be there celebrating the Eucharist.

So now we're faced with the situation that we might run into him at any of the local Episcopal churches. Worse, our daughter would be with us and he, through his actions, gave up the right to ever see her again. This leaves me, as the Episcopalian in the family, with two choices: leave Eugene or leave the Episcopal Church. My wife's job prohibits the former so I'm left with the latter.

My wife will be ok. She has the same disagreements with the Vatican that I do, but she was raised Catholic and is more comfortable overall in Catholic churches. My daughter is too young to know she was baptized in an Episcopal Church, and will settle right in. RCIA will be a breeze for me, I could probably teach it myself given my grounding in Catholic theology and practice.

The hard part will be giving up all the things I love about the Episcopal Church: the liturgy, the music, the vested servers—I doubt I'll ever be able to distribute communion in street clothes—the abundant use of incense, bells, and holy water in Anglo-Catholic parishes, the chanted Eucharistic prayers, and litanies. All of these things could, and honestly should, be part of Catholic Masses, but in my experience they rarely are. Guitars and tambourines? Yes! "Smells and bells?" Not so much.

Maybe once I join I could find other former Anglicans, or other musicians interested in chant. Maybe I can find a sympathetic priest just waiting for the right parishioner to get something going. After all, I am a follower of Christ and in Christ there is always hope. All I know is that we need a church to raise Anna in and I'm left with one option.

It's time to cross the Tiber.

I clearly remember my dad teaching me to ride a bike. We lived in Alexandria, VA, at the time and had a very large, and—on Saturday—very empty parking lot just a few miles away from our house.

I learned to ride a bike in the Pentagon parking lot.

Pretty memorable, huh? What I don't remember, though, was learning to pedal. I was much younger—three or four at the most—and I learned on the far less memorable  sidewalk in front of our house in Virginia Beach.

Anna is learning to pedal. We bought her a bike two years ago because her legs were already too long for a tricycle. The first summer, I pushed her, the second summer, I pushed her some more. I tried to encourage her to pedal. Other kids her age were pedaling, but she just wasn't getting it. OK, I thought, next summer she's going to learn to pedal.

That was my goal, and I took her to our neighboorhood park yesterday to teach her. Now, as I said before, I don't remember how I learned to pedal so I had no idea where to start. First, I set her on the bike. She rocked back and forth, but didn't go anywhere. Then I tried pushing her. I figured if I got her feet moving she might take over and pedal on her own.

I pushed her all the way around the park, letting go every few steps to see if she'd pick up the pedaling. Each time, she slowed to a stop.

I tried verbal encouragement. "Push this leg." I pointed to her left leg.

"I can't!"

I repeated what my mom always told me. "Don't say you can't, just try."

She rocked a bit more. "I can't."

This was getting nowhere, so I decided on a new approach: bribery.

I pointed to a line on the path. "If you can pedal this far, we'll get you a prize when we get home." We had a box of little prizes set aside for rewards.

She pushed, she rocked, and she pedaled, all the way to the line and she kept going. She finally had it.

"That's great, Anna." Now she had started, and I wanted her to keep going. "OK, if you can pedal all the way to the playground, Mommy and I will take you to Toys 'R' Us."

She kept going, ten feet, twenty feet, almost there.

Then she stopped. Her wheels got stuck.

By this point one of her friends from the neighborhood saw Anna on her bike.

"I have a bike," Marta said as she ran over to us.

"Anna's just learning to pedal," I said.

Marta put her hand on Anna's shoulder. "You can do it, Anna."

"I can't," Anna cried. "I'm stuck."

She was so close. I didn't want her to get discouraged now or she might give up.

"Let's move the bike over to the basketball court." I helped Anna off the bike and picked it up. We walked over to the edge of the court, I set the bike down, and she got back on

"Just pedal to that line." I pointed to a line on the court. "And we'll go to Toys 'R' Us."

She pedaled to the line and past it, all the way across the court.

"Yay Anna!" Marta shouted.

I smiled. I'd just taught my daughter to pedal her bike.

I took Anna to a new park yesterday. It was a big park with lots of room to run and play, but the playground was a bit disappointing: small, with only a couple of slides and next to no shade. Instead of the usual wood chips, the area around the play structure was filled with sand. Granted, sand is soft, but it also gets hot in direct sunlight.

As we walked up to the play area, Anna sat down to take off her sandals.

"The sand might get hot," I said. "You'd better leave those on."

"I don't want sand in my shoes."

"Ok, but your feet might get hot."

She pulled off her sandals and stepped into the sand.

"They're not hot."

"OK." I picked up her sandals. "I'll hold these in case you need them."

She played for about two minutes, then suddenly she started crying and ran over to me.

"You were right daddy. My feet are hot."

I picked her up and brushed off her feet. They were just a little bit red—not too bad. I helped her put her sandals back on.

"Do you want to go play some more?"

"No, I want to go home."

I felt awful. Her playtime was ruined. Later that day, though, it dawned on me: That was the first time I ever heard Anna say "You were right, Daddy."

Anna's at that age where she disagrees with everything I say. For example, many times when we come home from playing, Anna will dawdle a bit at the bottom of the stairs. "Anna," I'll say. "We need to go upstairs."

"No, we need to go downstairs."

"Anna our apartment is upstairs. We need to go up." You'd think by now I'd know not to try logic with a four year old.

"Our apartment is downstairs."

"No, Grandma's apartment is downstairs. We need to go upstairs." At this point, I think I've bested her, but no . . .

"I want to go to Grandma's." Game, set, and match to Anna.

It's only going to get worse. Soon enough she'll be a teenager, and she'll never agree with me. So I need to savor these words while I can:

"You were right, Daddy."

I read a beautiful article today by The Reverend Mpho A. Tutu, the daughter of Archbishop Desmond Tutu. It is a wonderful tribute to both her famous and extraordinary father and her considerably less famous but equally extraordinary husband. Their common bond—they are both fathers.

One line in particular stayed with me:

"I have seen that, in some ways, it is the child who makes the father, even as I know that the father shapes the child."

It is the child who makes the father, and I know that now from my own experience. Helping to raise Anna has shaped the person that I am in ways I didn't know were possible. My transformation began the first time I held her (as I describe in my book):

I looked down at Anna. She was gazing up at me with her big brown eyes. I had read in many books that I would love this baby more than I’d ever thought was possible. I also read that those feelings don’t come right away for every dad, and not to be concerned if they didn’t.

“I love you so very, very much,” I said, just getting the words out. The emotions were immediate and intense. I knew at that moment I would do anything; give anything, my own life included, for this little girl in my arms.

I pulled myself together, and continued: “Anna, I want you to know that there is nothing you can’t do; nothing you can’t be if you want to, and don’t listen to anyone who tells you different.”

My first fatherly advice: not that she understood what I was saying. She just kept gazing up at me.

The transformation began that day and it has been going on ever since. I've taught her, guided her, from time to time I've had to reprimand her, and all the while as I've watched her grow I have grown too.

We've both got a long way to go and it's going to be an incredible journey.

Anna is a very smart girl and says some very clever, funny, and sometimes touching things. I've been writing these "Anna Quotes" down for a while, and since I've started using Twitter I've been tweeting a few as well. Here are some of my favorites from the last few months:

• Answering her play phone - in one breath: "Hello, hi, what's up? OK, bye."
• To me, suggesting we get her mom: "Let's go look for your wife."
• After breaking a wooden doll at my mother-in-law's house: "I think she's broken, Grandma. She dropped her head off."
• In clothes she didn't like - with hands on hips: "I can't go out like this!"
• When the priest enters the church at the beginning of Mass: "Here comes Church Man."
• Describing her favorite parts of the mall play area: "The lighthouse and the train are the most funnest of all."
• And in reference to my mom - who passed away last fall: "Grandma Dolly is looking down on me and watching me play."

That last one got to me.