Sometimes you can't get a raincheck.

Tuesday after father's day is a little late, I suppose, to write this. But now is certainly better than never.

Sunday, the country observed a day honoring fathers. I've been blessed in my life not only to have a dad whom I love dearly, but also to have several surrogate "fathers" over the years. They've all be valuable to me and I'm better for the influences of all of them.

When I was young, my dad hung the moon. My mother says at the mention of "daddy," stars twinkled in my three year old eyes. He could do no wrong -- like Superman, only better. He was my hero, my safety net, my teacher, my friend and my guide -- and promised he would be forever.

He taught me how to ride a bike, throw a baseball, use a toilet plunger (hey -- dads have to be practical, too), and to memorize scripture. He taught me to think for myself -- and later I'm sure he wished he hadn't. But he supported me, even when he didn't agree.

Dads aren't perfect, but it's hard to see that as a little kid. Growing older, though, it's something we realize instinctively more than incidentally. I don't think that there was a day I simply decided, "Dad's not perfect anymore. He's ... human. Like me." It's something that changes gradually, like summer becomes fall and suddenly it's cool. Things are changing.

But I still thought he'd live forever.

For 24 years now, nearly 25, I've believed on some level in my dad's immortality, that since he had always been there, he would simply always be there. Just over a year ago, that belief began to crack.

My dad was diagnosed with advanced asbestosis and silicosis, lung diseases he'd acquired from his years in the Navy. Forty years later, they've advanced far enough to be diagnosed. Far enough to be fatal. When he told me, it felt like he'd already died. Even Superman fears kryptonite.

I found myself thinking of all the things we hadn't done, all the things I'd never said. All the regrets I'd collected, betting on rain checks and borrowed time came flooding into my mind at once. I thought of the times I hadn't called, of the days I didn't visit or the times I'd rescheduled, just knowing there would be a tomorrow. And now he's telling me there may not be.

There may not be a tomorrow. I didn't know how long we had. But had I ever? We're never guaranteed tomorrow -- and the depth of my regrets showed I'd forgotten that.

Just over a year later, I still have my dad. I still have the comfort of being able to call him, to see him, to hug him, to tell him I love him and to hear his voice. Every day I have him is a day I treasure -- and something I long to implement in the rest of my life: no one is guaranteed tomorrow. Don't live life in such a way that when the tomorrows run out, you regret the wasted yesterdays.