“One more hug!” my son says in laughs as he wraps his arms around my waist drawing, squeezing, tightening as strongly as he can hold. He laughs the louder. “I’m not letting go!” he squeals in the giggles high in spirit and energy even as bedtime has arrived and we seek to tone it down—but don’t.
He looks up to me and sees my eyes.
“Are you going to cry?” he asks.
“I’m just happy,” I tell him.
Something hits me. He is nine years old, but in his hug I feel and see a future.
It is he beside my bed in the moment that I pass. It is he holding, loving, and with me—wanting me to stay—just as he does in living moment; but it is bedtime and I must go.
I’m not sad. It’s joy to be held and loved and wanted as he gifts all to me right then. I am overwhelmed in understanding and recognition of the blessing. What have I done to be so blessed?
I smile in the present as I foresee in future: closed eyes, lips up-curled at their ends; thanking God for every moment, gift, and blessing; wordless prayer spoken of the spirit—the way I saw my father in his sleep when he no longer woke but listened still to the bedside stories that we told, near end, of life-moments loved together and it was my father by his side, loving his Dad while he was there.
I do cry. My son sees, but he is not saddened. He knows they are of joy—he feels and senses too.
He holds me strong and close and tightly still.
“I love you Dad.”
“I love you too…Thank you,” I tell him in smile and cry.
I have no other words—only gratitude and love.
He does not understand all the feeling and my emotions, but God has granted vision—one day, day I pray still long away—he will; and when it comes, I pray his tears are as mine now: in joy and love and not of sadness.