Dash Stories

Father’s Day 2025 was bittersweet—unforgettable.

It was my Dad’s last Father’s Day.

He was in hospice, surrounded by his children, grandchildren and extended family. Somehow, he managed to hold on through that final Father’s Day before quietly slipping into eternity just after midnight.

By 3:00 a.m., the funeral home had arrived. By 4:00 a.m., he was gone.

The hospital bed in the corner bedroom was empty and emptiness had settled into our hearts.

Exhausted, I collapsed into a bed in the next room. Four hours later, I awoke in that strange fog between dreams and reality, struggling to sort out the events of the night before.

My mind finally cleared and it all came back. It had not been a dream. Dad was really gone.

I reached for my phone on the bedside table and checked the usual things—texts, emails, Facebook messages. Condolences were already beginning to roll in.

Then I noticed a single voicemail notification.

It was from Dad. He had called a week earlier. I had somehow missed it.

So I listened …

“Hi Sonny, it’s your Pa. Nothing important. Just wanted to talk. Bye.”

I listened again. And again.

As I searched through my saved messages, I found twenty-eight more voicemails from Dad. Most sounded much the same:

“Hey Lowell, your Dad here. Just wanted to visit. Nothing urgent. Hope to talk to you soon.”

I saved every one of them.

Funny how the things we consider “unimportant” or routine often turn out to be the things that matter most. The “unimportant” things are often very important.

This Father’s Day, I’m missing my Dad.

I miss his voice; our conversations.

I miss his counsel.

I miss those “unimportant things.”

West along the Mountain Highway toward Polcenigo, there was a little bakery—Panificio Benedet—at the Coltura turnoff, tucked up into the mountain slope. It was one of our favorite places to visit when we were stationed at Aviano Air Base in northern Italy.

Every Tuesday was cereali day—the day the fornaia (baker and proprietor) baked her outstanding pane integrale ai cereali (whole-wheat multigrain bread), or, as we called it in shorthand, pane cereali (PAH-nay cheh-reh-AH-lee). It was absolutely delicious. I’m not sure what set it apart: the wild yeast native to the mountain slopes? Alpine air? Snowmelt water? Stone-ground local grains? Or maybe just a nonna’s special touch. I don’t know. But it was special—one of those delights you don’t fully appreciate until you can’t have it anymore.

A few years after we moved back to the States, I had some loose ends to tie up in Italy and made a quick trip back. By sheer good fortune, my flight home from Venice to the U.S. was on a Tuesday afternoon. So I stopped by the little bakery as soon as she opened her doors that morning…

“Buongiorno, signora. Pane ai cereali, per favore.”

(Good morning, ma’am. Multigrain bread, please.)

“Quanti pani vuoi?”

(How many loaves would you like?)

“Quanti pani sono?”

(How many loaves do you have?)

“Undici.”

(Eleven.)

“Tutti.”

(All of them.)

“Tutti???”

“Sì.”

Eyes rolling, she exclaimed, “Mamma mia!” She looked at me as if I had just proposed committing some grievous sin or maybe just using Greek olive oil on my pasta— the horror!

“Americani!” 

(Americans!)

Pausing briefly, sizing me up some more, she finally relented and in no time, I was motoring down the autostrada toward Venice Marco Polo Airport in my tiny rented Fiat, two large paper bags stuffed with the finest bread on the planet riding shotgun. 

Boarding the plane, I stashed the loaves in the overhead bin, and the wonderful aroma of yeasted bread and a touch of an alpine Italian Tuesday morning wafted through the cabin. My fellow passengers turned their heads and noses toward the amazing scent in almost cartoon caricature form, in vain hope that the smells portended an upcoming in-flight meal.  I’m not sure whether it was heaven or hell for them. Actually, looking back, it was pretty cruel.

Recently, I’ve picked up a new hobby: sourdough artisan bread baking. And I think I’ve finally captured—if not the exact loaf, then at least the essence—of my favorite Italian fornaia. I may not have mountain air, snowmelt water, or a nonna’s special touch, but somehow the memories come flooding back as I sample my latest creation. The first bite was like a postcard I could taste.

“Mamma mia—and pass the olive oil.”

Mom and Dad were visiting.  It was late on a Friday night.  I heard the loud thud and Dad crying out, “Diane!  Are you OK?”  Hopping out of bed, I rushed down the hallway to the bathroom and found my mom passed out on the bathroom floor.  A quick assessment . . . things seemed OK for now. Vital signs normal. She was coming around. But this episode deserved a little investigation so I made a quick call to the hospital, spoke to an ER colleague, and within a few hours she was admitted for observation.  

That very next evening, it was my turn. The sudden pain in my right flank was all too familiar.  Another kidney stone! Excruciating pain! Puking! I was miserable!  Again, another call to the same ER colleague as the night prior. A quick trip to the ER and within a few hours I was admitted to the hospital, one floor above Mom. In fact, she was directly below me. The next morning, just prior to a delightful procedure to remove my kidney stone, I was wheeled down to see my mom.  

“Hi, Mom! I thought I would come down to visit.”

“What are you doing in that wheelchair?!! Are you OK?” Mom was surprised and worried like only a mother could be.

I explained to her my predicament and that I had a surgical procedure scheduled that morning to remove the stone.

“Sort of funny, don’t you think Mom?”

“What’s so funny about that?”  She wasn’t amused. 

“Well, this is the second time we’ve been hospitalized together.”

Mom . . . puzzled look.

“The first time, you were the one in labor. Now I’m the one in labor!”

Mom smiled.  “Yes, honey. I guess you’re right. But my baby was way cuter than yours.”

So there you have it. I”m cuter than a kidney stone. 

There’s a “treasure shelf,” high up and out of reach of little hands. However, it was my moment to shine as Granddad. Maddie (age six) and Levi (age four) were more than happy to help me explore it.

Eager hands and wide eyes examined the treasures: trilobite fossils, a mastodon tooth, the jawbone of a prehistoric bison, Civil War Minié balls, arrowheads, bits of coral, and semiprecious stones—all tantalizing and, importantly, nearly unbreakable.

Then out came a nondescript rock.

Brown. Jagged. Plain. Entirely unimpressive.

“What’s that?” Maddie asked, holding the stone at arm’s length, her nose slightly upturned with a skeptical—almost disgusted—expression. Compared to a mastodon tooth, it was clearly a disappointment.

“Well,” I said, “that’s a very special rock.”

“It isn’t very pretty,” she replied.

She was right.

“I found this rock on an ancient trail near the Sea of Galilee in Israel,” I explained. “It’s a path Jesus walked more than 2,000 years ago. He may have stepped on this very rock—or even kicked it!”

Maddie’s eyes widened.

“Wow!” she exclaimed, now cradling the ugly rock like a priceless treasure.

“Cool!” Levi chimed in. “Let me hold it!”

Maddie gazed down at the rock, lifted it to her nose, and took a long, deliberate sniff.

“Oh, Granddad!” she announced with confidence. “This rock smells just like Jesus. He had to have stepped on it!”

Levi sniffed the rock too and nodded solemnly.

“It does smell like Jesus, Granddad.”

Intrigued, I did what any reasonable adult would do.

I sniffed the rock.

I can now say with complete certainty: Jesus smells just like a rock.

“Taste [smell] and see that the Lord is good.” —Psalm 34:8 (NIV, with forgivable license)

January 28, 2023

My mother-in-law Judith, Diana,  her sister Donna, and I left the hospital this evening, having said tearful last good-byes to my father-in-law, David Lyon. We were exhausted and emotionally spent.  It didn’t seem right to part ways just yet. Things were too recent–too raw.  I asked Judith if she wanted to go out for dinner and she requested Olive Garden. The restaurant was packed and bustling with patrons–a 45-minute wait for a table.  Not exactly what we needed at the time, but wait, we did. Judith and Donna were standing in the lobby and a middle-aged woman and her 10-year-old daughter offered them their seats in the waiting area. Donna graciously accepted the offer explaining to the woman that her father had passed away a few hours prior.

About 45 minutes later, we’re finally seated at our table and the woman and her daughter who offered their seats approached our table. The woman stood back a bit and the little girl presented Donna with a $50 Olive Garden gift card accompanied by a big hug and condolences.

A random act of kindness? 

Some may say so, but in my opinion, that just doesn’t adequately or accurately describe it. The whole interaction seemed spontaneous, yet so deliberate. God-directed. Purposeful. “In the moment.” Random? No, not really–not at all. Real intentional ministry happened–ministry from strangers to a grieving family–that was obvious. But the other ministry at work was the ministry of a mother to her daughter and that is what impressed me the most. I witnessed a mother instilling in her daughter practical, selfless kindness in a way that will impact that young lady and those she touches in ways we cannot even imagine.

I was inspired.

 Ephesians 4:32 – “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

I visited my mom over the New Year’s weekend. She has advanced dementia and requires round-the-clock care. My dad and I walked into the memory care facility where she lives, and Michelle, her caregiver, greeted me with, “Do you want a job this afternoon?”

“Uh, sure. What do you need me to do?” I tentatively asked.

“Why don’t you feed your mom lunch?” was her reply. It wasn’t a request.

Mom sat there in her wheelchair, donning a bib. Blank stare. Straight ahead. I gently turned her head toward me. She stared right through me—no look of recognition, no apparent emotion. Just a blank, distant gaze. I then began the slow process of feeding her lunch: a sip of a protein drink, followed by a spoonful of puréed soup, then a bit of canned fruit, a drink of water, and back to the protein drink.

It was a slow, plodding process. The minutes dragged on. I’m ashamed to admit my mind wandered, and I secretly wished my mother would pick up the pace a bit. I thought of everything except the beautiful lady sitting right in front of me.

By some small miracle, I managed to refocus—to reorient myself to the task and the person at hand. I studied her intently: the dry, crusted food at the corner of her mouth; hazel eyes; soft wisps of gray hair across her forehead; wrinkles and crevices born of 84 years of living and loving. She was beautiful, and I had nearly missed it.

I lifted a spoonful of puréed soup to her lips, and a bit dribbled down her chin. In a reflexive move, reminiscent of feeding my own children years earlier, I scooped up the dribble with the edge of the spoon and brought it back to her mouth.

“Mom,” I said softly. I gently turned her face toward mine.

“Do you remember when you fed me like this?”

Her gaze slowly shifted—from distant to something approaching recognition. She looked into my eyes and there was the faintest upturn at the corner of her mouth. Then her eyes brightened, the unmistakable sign of a genuine, heartfelt smile. We connected—mother to son—but only for a moment.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too,” she replied.

I treasure that brief moment—a moment I nearly missed.

On the three-and-a-half-hour drive home on New Year’s Day, I had ample time to reflect on my visit. It occurred to me that the most precious moments with my mom are likely to be fleeting, buried among the mundane, and that those moments must be recognized, treasured, and celebrated. It also struck me that most of life—and most relationships—are like that: sacred moments hidden within the repetitive toil of the everyday. How many of these moments do I miss by not fully engaging?

There is a Japanese idiom, ichi-go ichi-e, which literally translates as “one time, one encounter.” It can also mean “once in a lifetime” or “never again.” The heart of this idea is that every interaction in life—no matter how fleeting, routine, or mundane—is unique, never to be repeated, and therefore worthy of attention and reverence.

So my sole New Year’s resolution is a big one:

Ichi-go ichi-e as a life discipline—treasuring each moment with friends, family, colleagues, patients, and especially God; fully focused on, and present with, who is directly in front of me.

Thanks, Mom, for the life lesson.

In the predawn hours of February 18, 1992, I was jolted awake by a sharp jab to my ribs. Diana, already fully alert and entirely composed, announced that she was having contractions — light, but clockwork-steady, three minutes apart. As a third-year medical student fresh off my OB rotation, I possessed that dangerous combination of confidence and ignorance: just enough knowledge to recognize that for a veteran, soon-to-be mother of five, “light” contractions could be anything but trivial. It could mean a looming precipitous delivery.

So off we rushed to University Hospital.

Naturally, I aimed for the emergency entrance parking directly outside the door — the logical choice. Diana, however, had other ideas. She wanted to “walk out the contractions.” And so, instead of a curbside drop-off, we parked in the garage and began the long trek toward Labor & Delivery.

About two-thirds of the way down the long corridor, reality caught up with us.

Diana seized the hallway rail, doubled over, and released a groan that instantly revised my clinical assessment. These contractions were no longer “light.” In a blur of rising adrenaline, I commandeered a wheelchair from the ER and sprinted her the rest of the way to L&D, where she was whisked into a delivery room.

Moments later, her obstetrician — who also happened to be one of my own attendings — stepped in, performed a brief exam, then turned to me with a curious smile.

“Well, Lowell… are you ready?”

“Uh… yes?” I replied, with the unmistakable uncertainty of someone stumbling into an ambush. “Ready for what?”

“You’ve seen how this works,” she said. “Are you ready to deliver your daughter?”

Stunned silence.

“Oh… Oh! … Okay. Yes! Of course. Wait — really?”

“Yes,” she grinned. “This is your delivery, Daddy Doctor!”

And so, with trembling hands, a cold sweat, and a heart thundering loud enough to drown out all academic training, I stepped forward. Clumsy, awestruck, and utterly overwhelmed, I delivered my daughter, Zoe Beth — the first of hundreds of deliveries that would follow over the next two decades.

But none were ever as special to me as that first one.

Today that tiny newborn is 34 years old, married, and the mother of two beautiful children of her own. My oh my! Where have the years gone?

Happy Birthday, Zoe! I love being your Dad!