Messages: Don't wait for a special day to tell Dad you love him

The year was 1974. I was 16 and enjoying life. It was one of the first days of summer after my sophomore year of high school. I didn't have a care in the world. Ah, the first days of summer are the best!

The day seemed like a normal day. My two buddies and I woke up early to do some fishing in our pond, which was about 30 yards from the house. We caught a mess of catfish. My father, who loved catfish, had stocked the pond a few years earlier with blue channel catfish.

I called him to tell of the morning's catch. Dad was my best friend. He was my hero. I knew he would be excited because his favorite meal was catfish and hush puppies. Although we lived in the country, he came all the way out from work to watch us clean the fish. (I've always suspected he came out to make sure we did it right.)

That night we enjoyed the feast. We then hurried off to church. That week was the week of our summer gospel meeting. Our family didn't miss a night. At the end of the service, my dad led the closing prayer.

When we got home, Dad went outside to hook up the camper to our van. We were heading out early the next morning to San Diego.

I poured my dad a glass of sweet tea and took it to him. Being 16, and almost a man, I had decided that was the night I was going to stop kissing him good night and telling him I loved him. Men just don't do such things, I thought. Time to act like a man and put childish things behind me. I simply told him, "Good night, Dad," in the manliest voice I could muster.

He took the cue and simply said, "Good night, son."

As I began walking back into the house I felt something was undone. Something didn't feel right. I turned back and said, "Hey Dad, I love you." He smiled and said, "I love you, too, son."

Little did I know those words, words almost not spoken, would be the last words I would say to my father.

Mother woke me around 1 a.m. saying, "Get dressed, we're going to the hospital." I thought my grandmother had died. Still getting the cobwebs out of my head, I walked out of the garage to see my father being loaded into an ambulance.

My dad was only 41 and in perfect health. What could be wrong? Was it a heart attack, maybe? He was young; he could recover and be fine, I thought. After what seemed like an eternity in the emergency room waiting area, the doctor came and told us he needed to be transferred to Baptist Medical Center in Little Rock, Ark.

My dad had suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage. He was in a coma for four days. He never recovered consciousness. A CT scan showed only 10 percent of his brain left. A spinal tap showed no response. He would be a vegetable for the rest of his life. If he lived five days, brain surgery would be performed.

My mother gathered us and said, "We need to pray for your father to die before the surgery." So we did. Imagine, praying for your dad to die. My mother's faith really amazed me.

The doctor came to us in the waiting area just an hour before his scheduled surgery. "I have good news," he said, "Johnny passed away a few minutes ago."

I thought of the last words I said to my father, words that almost were never spoken and now seemed so important. I've often thought of that moment on that driveway on a humid Arkansas night. I'm thankful that my last words were, "Daddy, I love you." I'm thankful that those are words I can live with. I've had to live with them now for 32 years.

I don't know about the last conversation you've had with your father. I don't know if it was a fight or if the words were sweet. I just offer this advice: Call him on Father's Day, just to tell him you love him.

It may not be a normal day.

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Randy Clay is minister of the Southside Church of Christ in Taylorsville. Send comments to religioneditor@sltrib.com.

Each week, The Tribune presents "Messages," in which Utah clergy of various faiths present original sermons, talks, lessons and personal essays. Clergy who want to participate are encouraged to e-mail us at faith@sltrib.com.