If at the end of life I am given chance to re-live again, one more time, experiences I’ve loved: I pray to hear my oldest son on the piano.
I listened to him today. He played a song called “Cathedral Bells” and, closing my eyes, I could hear again the organ-sound of the church where I grew up and is no more.
I pray to listen to him then, one more time again—to feel it in soul, not just hear in ears; to close my eyes somewhere between life and death, awake and dream, in love of his God-given gift refined in effort and practice.
I pray to listen to sports stories from my youngest son told through his perspective.
I pray to see my daughter’s smile, to tell her how beautiful she is and proud I am of her.
I pray to have my wife at side; to hold her hand, to thank her for the beautiful life we’ve shared—and for always being there.
To each, I pray one last time for the chance to say how much I love them—to leave no doubt or wonder for after I am gone.
Still, I hope this day is far away; but why should I wait? Death is not a known. We do not know our day. We do not know our hour—only that it finds all of us in time.
Why should I wait—wait for future day neither certain nor guaranteed, for chance to say and live what may not come when given chance today?
Why should I wait?
I don’t.
I go, making good of the prayers I pray.