Signs for boiled peanuts, chutnies and sauces. The wildflowers that blanket the median.

Native American words now the names of redneck towns.

These things make smile during the quiet drive to my dad’s house in north Georgia.

The Dairy Queen he paid to put “Happy Birthday CCC” on the marquee when I turned 14.

The “Babyland” museum, where cabbage patch dolls are born head first out of a giant Astroturf hill.

And then there are the things I fear. Well, maybe just one thing, really – the Jesus.

The hand-painted outbursts of pro-life crusaders. Bible verses on billboards aimed at sinners. And my dad, squeezing my hand during daily devotionals and burning copies of the latest Christian-rock chart toppers.

When I was 9 years old, my dad was born-again.

At that time, my only concept of religion was somewhere in-between Sunday school sing-a-longs at my grandma’s church and my mother burning sage in our house to ward off negative energy. So I didn’t really grasp the gravity of my father’s newfound path.

I remember going to church with him and crying in the pews about things I saw and didn’t understand. The crazed look of an older man speaking in tongues, the preacher’s daughter – no older than 4 – delicately prancing around people who fainted during services and covering them with purple cloths.

I think I was more embarrassed, than anything.

Dad once asked if he could baptize me – then age 12 – in a swimming pool at a Marriott hotel. It was an indoor pool. I said no.

When he met one of my first boyfriends, Dad asked if he was saved. The guy’s last name was Cohen.

And when I tried to understand all this, we would fight.

I was infuriated about religion infiltrating our government. He was infuriated about legalization of same-sex marriage in six states.

I would scream. He’d quietly murmur, “God’s plan.” He knew there was no middle ground.

So I stopped trying.

Is it possible to love my dad for who he is, but hate what he believes? Is it OK for him to hate what I believe? Is that in the fine print of what it means to be family?

We students are of the age when many of us solidify our beliefs, and all too often they differ from those of our parents.

When I visit Dad now, I still tear up in the pews about the things I don’t understand. But it’s not because I’m scared. I may not know his God, but I let him pray to it.

Although I don’t understand who he’s talking to, his faith has brought him so much encouragement. That comforts me in a strange, but pervasive way.

To this day, if I’m stressed, upset or anxious, I’ll call him up and ask,

“Will you pray for me?”

- Chelsea Cook is the senior reporter for the Red & Black