(Editor’s Note: Michelle Sinclair is the daughter of regular columnist Melodie Davis. She is a novelist looking for an agent and her day job is handling legal notices for The Washington Post.)

Ann and John decided it was time for him to go into hospice. That news woke me up like an alarm.

For me, one of the most memorable scenes in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer is the chapter where Tom and Huck Finn hide in the church gallery to listen to their own funeral sermon. They get to hear the praises, the reminiscences, and the regrets of the townspeople who wish they'd shown more appreciation for the boys when they were alive. Of course, the chapter ends happily for the little community. Tom and Huck are safe and sound. But great fiction is truth wrapped in the trappings of make-believe. Have you ever frittered away the chance to tell someone how much they meant to you until it was too late?

My mother recently interviewed a man whose friends and loved ones threw a huge “This Is Your Life” bash for him on his 89^th birthday. Together, they told stories and made sure he knew how he'd touched their lives because they knew there was no guarantee he'd be around to hear these words on his 90^th. What a wonderful birthday gift!

Like a lot of people, my dad had a “sandpapery” relationship with his own father. Even though they loved each other, a simple conversation could turn hotheaded in a second, and vocalizing love just wasn't part of the equation. After my grandfather's death, my dad's grief was long and difficult because of all the things he wished he'd told his father and never did. However, he did something remarkable with his grief: he let it change him into being more open about his feelings. That isn't to say he's turned into an introspective nutcase, but from reuniting his extended family to being there for friends in need, my dad rarely wastes an opportunity to let the people in his life know how important they are to him.

It's easy to just assume people know the impact they've had on your life. Maybe that's because in the day-to-dayness of living, we just assume they'll be around tomorrow. And tomorrow. And the tomorrows after that. We're natural procrastinators when it comes to speaking the words, and it isn't until they're gone that the loss comes into real focus. So with this column, I'm trying to take a cue from Dad's book.

My pastor's husband has been fighting prostate cancer for over 18 months now, and since I don't see him on a regular basis (I live two hours away) it's been easy to put my grief on the back burner. Then last week, Ann and John decided it was time for him to go into hospice. That news woke me up like an alarm.

I first met Ann and John when Ann became pastor of my childhood church when I was ten years old. I became instant friends with their oldest daughter, and before I knew it, I was in a choir. If that progression of events seems a bit strange, it was definitely strange at the time. My church had never had a children's choir before, but suddenly there were all these practices, and my new friend's dad was directing me and the other kids to make our mouths round like we had an egg in there—like our heads were these huge caverns where sound could just ring and ring and ring. And that is how John taught me to sing.

He gave me that gift with his quiet patience and determination, and it's because of his gift that when I decided I was going to join choir my junior year of high school, I was able to hop right into the top group. Later, I went to college determined to be lazy, but the camaraderie of being in a choir drew me back. When junior year rolled around, I aced the last minute audition. Nowadays, I have no problems jumping in to lead songs at my new church, no butterflies involved. It all goes back to John.

Between him and the environmentally-oriented people who gravitated to the congregation because of him, I learned about hiking in the woods and leaving no trace that I had been there. I discovered the fun of sitting around a campfire reciting poetry, but I still do not understand John's fascination with the German language. He and Ann introduced me to cross-country skiing. They took me in as an adopted daughter on trips when my parents could only afford to send me and not go themselves. John gave me my first tastes of culture in the wider world.

And so, though I wish I was writing this piece thirty years from now, I want to say all of this to John before I lose my chance. Thank you for giving me music, and for being like a second father to me. I'll never forget.

You can post your thoughts at the Another Way Newspaper Column Facebook page, at http://www.thirdway.com/talk/?Topic=AW or at Michelle’s blog, http://michellesinclair.wordpress.com/