Bang! Bang! Bang!
I shifted in bed. Weird dream.
The noise continued. Consciousness rudely poked at me. Slowly, I awoke and realized this was no dream.
Loud poundings on your front door are never a good sign—certainly not at 3 a.m. So I carefully peered through the window. A police cruiser with its lights silently dancing in the darkness was all I could see.
Uh-oh.
A thousand thoughts crashed off the walls of my mind like a pinball machine gone berserk:
Has there been a crime committed in the neighborhood?
Has something happened to my house?
Am I going to be arrested? I haven’t done anything! I’m a law-abiding citizen. . . . Well, other than those speeding tickets.
My wife stayed in the bedroom while I groggily went downstairs and opened the door. The officer looked at me stone-faced.
“Are you Josh Cooley?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, perplexed.
“Your family has been trying to reach you. They want you to join them immediately at Laurel Regional Hospital.”
Then he turned and left. Thud.
My heart plummeted. I felt sick. My wife and I raced to the hospital—the five miles felt like 20.
When we arrived we were escorted into a small, private room. As the door opened I saw my mom and aunt, both crying, and our pastor and his wife. A wave of horror rushed over me.
My dad wasn’t there.
Past
“Dude.”
It was so ’70s, that T-shirt. Just a yellow shirt with the black letters D-U-D-E on the front. I was 2 or 3 years old, with a shaggy mop of hair, standing in the front yard. And there, in the faded photograph from my youth, was my father, with his thick, black-rimmed glasses and a big grin, leaning over behind me to hold my little hands. His matching yellow shirt proudly read, “Dude’s Dad.”
(Hey, cut me a break. It was cool back then.)
That’s the way it was between me and Dad—kinda goofy. We shared a corny humor that often amused only us.
But things weren’t always chuckles between us. As a young teenager, I went through a nasty stretch of rebellion. Typical 15-year-old stuff: My parents—who, I was certain, came from Mars—were too strict, didn’t understand, always harped on me for something . . . blah, blah, blah.
Helping Dad around the house caused me particular angst. He was a relative handyman. That meant he could fix stuff, but it always seemed to take a little longer and with a few more mashed thumbs than it should have.
We all have our shortcomings, and one of Dad’s was patience. So when ingredient A (drywall project) was mixed with ingredient B (punk teen who’d rather be listening to Metallica) and seasoned with a little impatience, it often became like one of those homemade baking-soda volcanoes for science class: an eruption followed by a big mess.
Sadly, I harbored some bitterness from those episodes for far too long. Even into my early 20s I never let myself get too close to him.
Still, our relationship definitely improved. I got married in 2003, and Dad took a genuine liking to my wife. He even popped in unannounced one day shortly after our honeymoon to say hi. I was really starting to enjoy his company.
My wife and I soon bought a new house. I was anxious to invite Dad over to help on some home projects and to bond. You know, hammer some nails and mash a few fingers together. And I was excited to give him grandkids.
Then came the horrible knock on my door.
Present
Dad loved old-timer computer games: Tetris, solitaire and the like. So we assume he was headed to the computer in the basement when he fell. Mom awoke around 1:30 a.m., noticed Dad wasn’t in bed and eventually found him lying at the bottom of the basement stairs, the wall concave where his head had collided.
Dead.
It didn’t make sense. He was only 67, nearly a full decade less than the average American life expectancy. In two weeks he was to go on a short-term missions trip to Nigeria to help launch an evangelical seminary. He never got to see my daughters. He barely got to know my wife.
I could have shaken an angry fist at God and shouted, “Why me?” But I knew that wasn’t right. Dad is in the presence of the Lord without pain. Me? Yeah, I still feel pain—a lot of it. Nearly four years since his death, the tears still come.
But my biggest regret is the missed opportunities. I got 29 years with my dad, too many of which I held him at arm’s length. Close enough to interact but far enough that true forgiveness couldn’t take root.
Don’t get me wrong. I have many wonderful memories with my dad. We both shared a passion for the Baltimore Orioles and the Washington Redskins. And the man knew God’s Word. Countless mornings I’d walk downstairs and see an empty coffee mug and an open Bible on the breakfast table. I loved soaking up his wisdom.
Future
But memories are a funny thing. The more good ones you have, the more you want. Think for a moment about your age. Many of you are halfway to 29 or more. If you knew that you had only 12 years, maybe 13, left with your dad, how would that affect your relationship with him?
I’m not trying to be Mr. Prophet of the Apocalypse here, just a pragmatist. Psalm 144:4 says, “Man is like a breath; his days are like a fleeting shadow.” Quite frankly, we don’t know how long we or any of our family members are given. It could be another 50 years; it could be another 50 minutes. Again, not trying to scare anybody. That’s just reality.
What we need is a little carpe diem (“seize the day”) when it comes to our fathers. Are they imperfect sinners? Absolutely—just like us. Nevertheless, they are a blessing from God, who calls us to honor them (Exodus 20:12).
Some dads are great about being proactive with their sons; others aren’t. Some might be a little old-school, where outwardly expressing affection ranks right up there with baking soufflés.
I see some of you nodding. That’s OK. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. My dad loved me dearly, but he didn’t win any medals for showing emotion. If this is familiar, here’s a suggestion: You take the initiative! All it takes is a simple: “Hey, Dad, do you want to? . . .”
My biggest regret? I didn’t take enough initiative with my dad. I didn’t suggest enough activities for us to pursue. One-way streets don’t work so well when it comes to relationships.
The last time I saw Dad was the day before he died. My wife and I had just finished spending Fourth of July weekend with my family. Before driving home, I told Dad, “I love you” and gave him a big hug. That’s my final memory of my father.
And you? Don’t wait another day. Start making plenty of memories with your dad right now. 
