April 19

Picture taken on April 19, 2025

A year ago tomorrow, my life changed in a way that time has not quite softened.

April 20, 2025.

For the rest of my life, that date will be embedded in my mind. The day my dad passed opened the door for grief to show up and remain a constant presence that still echoes in the everyday moments—small reminders, familiar sayings, and memories that surface when I least expect them.

That said, as the first anniversary of his transition arrives, I have chosen not to focus on his death, but rather reflect on another date that has become equally as, if not more, important to me.

April 19, 2025.

The last day I saw my dad alive.

To fully understand the magnitude of this day, you have to rewind five years earlier to about a month before COVID took over the world. In February 2020, my dad retired after more than 30 years of pastoring. It wasn’t due to the lack of desire, because if it was up to him, he would’ve kept going until his dying day — a sentiment I rolled my eyes at. However, the reality was that some health challenges had gotten to the point where he just could not do it anymore.

He was not open about his health. He was a man who, for reasons I may never know, internalized a lot. But periodically, he would share some of the issues he was dealing with with me. And naturally, I went straight to Google and even consulted friends in the medical field.

It would be a tough road ahead, to say the least.

What started those five-plus years ago began a journey filled with countless doctor’s appointments, numerous hospital visits, long hours of various treatments, and hundreds of miles up and down the road that ultimately led to that Saturday on April 19, 2025.

A GUT FEELING

My dad had been in the hospital in Richmond since that Tuesday, April 15. Unfortunately, we’d gotten to the point where hospital visits were the norm. Things get bad, dad has to go to the hospital for a few days, things get better, and he goes home.

This time felt different. Maybe it was the uncertainty I heard in his voice. Perhaps it was the fact that the doctors couldn’t do what needed to be done because his blood pressure was so low. Maybe it was the text messages.

Text from Dad on April 18, 2025

That Saturday, the plan was for us to leave D.C. after my son’s T-Ball game and head to the hospital to be with him for Easter. While I was on the field coaching, he called me. Dialysis had worn him out, and the tired, low-energy voice that had become all too familiar in recent weeks was present in our conversation.

I told him we were planning to ride down later that afternoon. Surprisingly, he said that he knew we had a lot going on, so if we couldn’t make it, he’d understand.

For a moment, I considered it, thinking that I could just ride down the following week.

But something told me to go.

ROOM 422

Text from Dad on April 19, 2025

St. Mary’s Hospital in Richmond had become almost like a second home in recent years. I had a favorite “spot” in the parking deck. I knew what I’d order from the cafeteria. And even some of the staff's names and faces had become recognizable.

So there was nothing particularly different about walking into room 422 on that Saturday afternoon. That said, seeing a parent in the hospital is something you never get used to. The larger-than-life figures you grew up idolizing are reduced to a version of themselves that’s unrecognizable.

The man who shaped and molded much of who I am today lay there weak and tired. But when he looked up and saw us walking in the room, particularly his grandchildren, he lit up. It was a familiar façade to mask the pain he was going through.

Through that pain, he talked with us, asked for life updates from my wife and me, and hugged and pulled on my kids’ ears — a favorite pastime of his, which they loved.

But as our visit went on, things started to look different. His speech was slow, his words weren’t coherent, and there were small moments where he would appear to be spacing out.

Growing up, the elders used to talk about intuition. As a youngster, I had no idea what that meant. But as we wrapped up our visit, that feeling became more prevalent. I felt that something just wasn’t right. Before we left, I placed an Easter lily in my dad’s direct line of sight so he could see it from the bed and turned on an NBA playoff game for him to watch.

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as we all hugged before leaving.

The phone rang early Sunday morning, and the moment I answered, I heard the distress in my mom’s voice. My response was simple: “I’m on the way.”

No more than 12 to 14 hours since we sat around in his hospital room talking, asking about baseball, and watching basketball on TV, there my dad lay lifeless in a hospital bed, prayerfully at peace in a place he had preached about on many an Easter Sunday.

LIFE AFTER DEATH

After his death, I reflected not only on the loss but on the enduring impact of the man who shaped so much of who I am today. The memories are endless. The lessons are palatable. The gratitude is everlasting.

That’s what made the last time I was able to share a memory so special. I’ll always carry the comfort of knowing I was able to be there, to see him, and be with him on his final day.

As a wayward believer, I know that it was God‘s plan for us to be together that afternoon. I also know that if I had chosen not to make that drive that day, I would’ve regretted it for the rest of my life. While the pain and grief have been at times hard to bear, choosing not to visit him on April 19 when I had the chance? I’m not sure how I would’ve managed the regret plus the grief that came with his passing.

As I sit and reflect on the past year, it’s true that life is never the same after a parent dies. Your life keeps going, but internally, it takes a long time to pick up the pieces.

I have felt all of the emotions that you can imagine: sadness, regret, and anger. I have felt resentment towards family members, who, in my opinion, have not shown up in the way they should have. People I try to pour into have not once picked up the phone to ask, “How are you doing?” I have experienced anger and disappointment at my parents for not adequately managing the business that should have been handled in their seasoned life stage. And finally, peace. Peace in knowing that the pain and suffering that my dad experienced for the last 3 to 5 years of his life is no more.

I think about my dad often. Not too many hours pass without him crossing my mind. He still remains a constant presence in my life. When I talk about him, I tell people that I wasn’t cheated in the fatherhood sweepstakes. While every moment was not perfect, I was blessed to have a great dad for 42 1/2 years. I was gifted a lifetime of memories that I will carry with me for the rest of my days.

And I think his final gift to me was sticking around long enough to have that Saturday afternoon in the hospital.

And for that, I’m grateful.