“So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
Psalm 90:12 (NKJV) “How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow? Your life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then it’s gone.” James 4:14 (NLT) Beloved, there is a gift more precious than gold, more lasting than silver, more enduring than anything this world can buy. It is the gift of time. Toward the end of my father’s journey, this was the treasure he gave me. For almost four years, as he lived under my roof, he was deeply aware that his days were numbered. And so, he was intentional. He poured himself into creating memories I could carry long after he slipped from my reach. Memories that would last my lifetime…and his into eternity. I can still see those trips in my heart. We kept finding our way back to Ohio. Again and again. That was the place where so much of our family story had been written. We would find ourselves walking the quiet cemetery paths, and there before my mother’s stone Dad would stop. His steps slowed, his shoulders leaned forward a bit, and he just stood there. Almost sixty years of marriage pressed into that silence. Laughter. Tears. Trials overcome. Prayers whispered at midnight. All of it seemed to rest on his face in that moment. Sometimes a tear would slip down. Sometimes he would talk…soft words about the old days, about my mom’s smile, about things only the two of them shared. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from deep inside, he would turn, and we’d continue on to the next place together. Dad had a tradition that spoke volumes about his heart. With his carpenter’s hands, he built simple brown wooden crosses. Each had a small hole drilled into the top, holding a solar light that would glow in the dark. He stapled flowers to each one, plastic flowers that would withstand rain and snow. Together, we placed them at the graves of his family and my mother’s. What had begun as a tradition between husband and wife became a sacred duty between father and son. He showed me how to make them. He mentored me. And he left me with the charge: “Carry it on.” Yes, I will. But the memories did not stop in Ohio. Dad also gave me Maine. Four different trips, each on a different route, because he wanted me to see everything that mattered to him. From Portland’s bustling harbor to the winding stretch of Route One that kissed the shore, we passed through seaside villages where clapboard houses leaned toward the sea and fishing boats bobbed in salt-stained docks. He showed me his favorite diners, where the fried fish sandwiches always seemed to taste better when eaten with sea air in your lungs. And finally, always, we reached Lubec…the easternmost town in the United States, his childhood home. How can I put into words those conversations? The long hours on the road. The wisdom he poured into me. The way his voice softened when he spoke of faith, love, and the brevity of life. He knew. His body was already failing. The shadow of leukemia lengthened over him. But instead of retreating, he leaned in. Instead of wasting away, he invested. His treasure was not money, but memory. We meandered back through the White Mountains of New Hampshire, past sleepy Vermont villages, white steeples pointing heavenward, and hillsides ablaze with maple trees. Even the winding roads became sacred when driven slowly with someone you love. One month before he passed, we made our last Maine trip together. We ate again at Moody’s Diner and Helen’s Restaurant. We laughed at the little roadside shacks where the food was simple but perfect. We went whale watching on the Atlantic, the salty spray wetting our cheeks as those giants of the sea rose in majesty. We stood side by side at West Quoddy Head Lighthouse, the red-and-white stripes bright against the endless horizon. We crossed the bridge into Campobello Island. And though neither of us said it aloud, we both knew: this was the final journey. And what a gift it was. Dear one, hear my heart: the most precious gift you can give your loved ones is not things. Not possessions. Not even accomplishments. It is your time. We are all so busy, aren’t we? Work presses in. Responsibilities pile high. We crowd out what truly matters. We promise ourselves “someday,” but someday rarely comes. And before we know it, the window has closed. Life is a vapor. The clock does not stop. But you can choose what you do with the hours you are given. Time invested in those you love will become a fragrance that lingers when you are gone. A hand held. A story told. A journey taken together. These are the memories that live on when everything else fades away. Slow down, friend. Don’t rush past the moments that matter. Stop long enough to notice the yellow roses by the side of the road. Take the time to laugh a little. Don’t be afraid to cry. Sit and listen when someone needs to talk. Share what’s in your heart with the ones God has placed in your life. Most of all make room for family. Because one day, when your journey here is over, nobody in your family will be clinging to the trophies you earned or the houses you built. What your children will carry in their hearts is simpler, yet far more lasting. They’ll remember the sound of your voice. They’ll remember the warmth of your presence. And above all, they’ll remember the gift of your time. Today is my father’s funeral, and I have the honor of officiating the service. I would deeply appreciate your prayers. With Love, Steve Porter www.morningglorydevo.com
No comments:
Post a Comment