Thanksgiving isn't a holiday that I usually go home. This year my mom went to my dad's cousin, John and his wife Vonnie, and they filled candy bags for the Salvation Army. This is something my mom has done for several years, but this was the first year she did it without my dad. I was home for Christmas and this was the first year my dad wasn't at the head of the table and saying the prayer before our Christmas dinner. December 31 was my dad's birthday. This is the first year, I will think about him, but won't send a card or try to think of a gift for him. On January 1, we will begin a new year and things will happen in 2010, we'll have happy times and perhaps some not so happy times, but it's the first year my dad won't be a part of any of it.
Firsts aren't always bad, in fact many are good. I remember the first time I held my children, I remember their first words, their first steps, their first day of school, their first athletic endeavors. But this particular Season of Firsts is one I never wanted to happen. Karen Kingsbury has written a children's book called "Let me Hold You Longer" about "lasts."
So often we don't realize when we are having a "last." A couple weeks ago, Cody, Carson and Carissa were all home and as we were eating dinner, Cody made the remark that it had been a long time since our dinner table looked like it did that night. I remember all of them being there for dinner, but before this particular meal, I don't remember the last time it was the five of us at the dinner table. I remember the kids' first days of school, I took enough pictures to document the events, but I don't remember very many of their last days of school. When was the last time they sat in my lap while I read them a story? When was the last time I fed them? Or gave them a bath?
I have thought about "lasts" now for a while. Last summer as Noah and Brianna played in their brand new pool, I sat on the deck with Nancy and their neighbor, Fran, who has been in the neighborhood my whole life. On Christmas Eve last week, Fran passed away suddenly. I realized that night on the deck last summer was my last conversation with Fran. I never asked her about her life or her growing up years or how she met her husband. I realize that maybe every event, every encounter should be treated as a "last."
"Let me hold on longer, God, to every precious last." ("Let Me Hold You Longer" by Karen Kinsgbury.
Love Every Moment,
