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.”
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