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 stepping into eternity just after midnight.
By 3:00 a.m., the funeral home had arrived. By 4:00 a.m., Dad was gone.
An empty hospital bed sat in the corner bedroom. An emptiness settled into our hearts.
Exhausted, I collapsed into a bed in the next room and fell asleep almost immediately. Four hours later, I awoke in that strange fog between dreams and reality. For a few moments, I tried to sort out the events of the night before.
Then it hit me.
It hadn’t 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 arrive.
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 then again.
As I searched through my saved messages, I found eighteen 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 label as “unimportant” often turn out to be the things that matter most.
This Father’s Day, I’m missing my Dad.
I miss his voice.
I miss his counsel.
I miss those “unimportant things.”
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