My most memorable Valentine has nothing to do with candy, flowers or a romantic dinner. But it has everything to do with hearts. My dad’s heart to be specific.

It was Valentine’s week 1990. I had invited my retired pastor-father to room with me at a clergy conference in Chicago.

It was a great week. I flew to the Windy City from my home in Northern California and my dad traveled from Wenatchee.

For the first time in my life I related to my dad as a peer instead of merely a son.

We attended seminars and worship services together. Over deep dish pizza we talked about marriage, parenting and ministry. Our week together was more than I could have imagined.

At the end of the conference we packed up, paid up and sat down in the hotel lobby awaiting a shuttle to the airport.

It was then my dad suffered a massive heart attack. Medics rushed him to the nearest hospital.

I didn’t know what to make of the fact that it was called Resurrection Medical Center. I hoped for the best.

Before the end of the day, the resident Catholic priest gave my dad last rites. I was worried.

By the next day doctors determined my dad needed quadruple bypass surgery.

I sat in the hospital waiting room praying and reading Scripture. As I flipped through the pages of my Bible, I found a folded handwritten note.

I immediately recognized my dad’s scrawl. On hotel stationery was a written reminder of how proud he was of me and how much he loved me.

Tears crawled down my cheek.

I looked at the date. He’d written it the morning we’d vacated our hotel room. He’d placed it in my Bible without my knowledge. It was his desire that I’d find it sometime in the future when I was in need of encouragement. Reading the loving words that flowed from his heart ended up comforting mine. My dad’s “love letter” gave me confidence in the midst of fear and uncertainty.

I read and re-read that note as I waited for what seemed like an eternity. When the surgeon eventually entered the waiting room, he had good news.

My dad made a complete recovery and lived 18 additional years. During those years, I would often look at that yellowed letter. The words were a powerful reminder of my father’s belief in me. Since my dad’s death seven years ago, that “love note” has meant more than a winning lottery ticket.

It truly was my most memorable Valentine.

Pastor Greg Asimakoupoulos is a regular contributor to the Mercer Island Reporter. You can reach him at AwesomeRev@aol.com.