Seminal moments in our lives rarely announce themselves. Rather, they come from nowhere, leaving us to grapple with the residual effect.

It was been an extraordinary difficult few days for me.

This is what happens when you come face to face with a piece of your mortality.

A few days have passed since I attended the funeral of Timothy J. Callahan Sr., my close college friend's dad. My friend Tim Callahan — we simply call him "Callahan" — delivered his dad's eulogy with brilliance and eloquence I could neither fathom nor summon.

And I also can't stop crying.

Tim's words bore lessons we should all heed.

A primer on Mr. Callahan: He flew 65 missions in World War II, dying last week at 96. War hero. Big fan of the Pats and Sox. A man to emulate.

Tim is the first in our group of friends — my best friends in the world — to eulogize a parent. It was a not-so-subtle reminder that while we're fortysomethings and still young, we are likely approaching the back nine, if we haven't already.

There was great irony listening to Callahan's 15-minute eulogy. To think our gatherings are normally joyous, usually at Boston College for a football or basketball game. An avalanche of laughs, merciless needling, embellished stories, too many Heinekens and friendship that knows no bounds.

And now suddenly we see one of our own eulogizing a parent.

A dad.

The ride home from St. Theresa's Church in North Reading, Mass. — and the subsequent few days — have provided many moments of self-reflection. I'd like to share.

"Even now that he's gone, the giving hasn't stopped," Callahan said. "This past week, though extraordinarily difficult, has brought a rejuvenation and renewal. A reconnection with family and friends. Old neighbors. Relationships laid dormant by time. It is through laziness and embarrassment that we've stayed so out of touch. I pledge not to make this mistake again."

Tim began to weep.

So did everyone else.

Because we are all guilty.

Life ... happens. We lose touch. Even with the people closest to us. I don't know. Maybe we're so afraid of our feelings that we're scared to reach out and be vulnerable. But darn, if Mr. Callahan's death didn't give me a new respect for life.

It hearkened this quote from late religious leader Joe Wirthlin: "The more often we see the things around us — even the beautiful and wonderful things — the more they become invisible to us. That is why we often take for granted the beauty of this world: the flowers, the trees, the birds, the clouds — even those we love. Because we see things so often, we see them less and less."

How true.

I've made it a point in the last few days to reach out to people with whom I'd lost touch. Just to say hi. Thinking about you. And then I realized: What about the people closest to me? Do I ever tell them what they mean?

And that was Callahan's point.

We'll be mad at them from time to time. It's called being human.

We'll take them for granted, sure. It's called being human.

But at some point, we ought to realize what they truly mean to us. And say it. Take a risk. Before too much time passes and it's too late.

Callahan said this about his dad: "He was my advisor and my coach. I worry he didn't know that. I hope he can see down now and know it's forever the truth."

My guess is that Mr. Callahan knew every day of his life.

But his son's words are a cautionary tale for all of us.

Life's too short to play games with the people we care about.

What began as a mission to support a friend in need — being there for a buddy giving a eulogy — turned into an invaluable life lesson.

I hope we can all learn from it.

We all have a person or two in our lives who mean more to us than they'll ever know.

How about we tell them?

This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro