To my mom, February 5

Thursday, February 5, 1981

          The days seem so long and dreary—and of course the cold, gloomy weather doesn't make it any better. I wish you were here right now, at least I'd have you to do things for—but, I have to be patient … good things take time…

Thursday, February 5, 2026

          Long and dreary. Or fleeting and aimless? I'm not sure which of the two I'm experiencing more. And we both know it's not entirely true: how we perceive things and the way they really are. I wish we were better at discerning between the two, then maybe we'd move through life as God intends: with more grace and understanding.
          Other than that, I'm almost at a loss to respond to your second sentence there … I know having you here right now would not make things better, as I've plenty to do already. I believe you knew that, too, at the end, and that's why you were resigned to the end rather than prolong an undesirable and unpleasant existence. We have to be patient, too, sometimes. But we also need to know when to act. It's a scary place to be caught between stillness and action and being unable to commit. That's ultimately the lesson I pray I take from your example. 

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.