The text message arrived unexpectedly, from someone I hadn’t spoken to in five years. Just a brief invitation to a church ceremony the following day. My first instinct was to dismiss it as a mistake. But this wasn’t someone prone to careless errors.
I reached out for clarification, and the devastating truth emerged. A mutual friend’s husband had passed away that morning.
The news stunned me. Though it had been decades since I’d seen her, memories rushed back with surprising clarity. We had once lived in the same apartment complex, our lives interwoven in the chaotic rhythm of early motherhood. During one of the most challenging chapters of my life, when I was pregnant with my daughter and on strict bed rest, it was she who stepped in without hesitation. Every day, she picked up my three-year-old son, took him home, and cared for him alongside her daughter until my husband could take over in the evening.
The next morning, I found myself in a church filled with white lilies, standing beside my grieving friend, our children now grown. I gently reminded her of what she had done for me all those years ago. When I saw the friend who had messaged me, we embraced silently. No words were necessary. Grief, memory, and connection did all the speaking.
Sitting in the pews, I was transported to the time of my own father’s passing. I remember being engulfed not only by sorrow but also by anger. Many who hadn’t made the time to visit him while he was alive came to his funeral. I remember thinking that if only they had come sooner, it would have meant something to him.
That’s the cruel illusion we all live under: we believe we have time. We save the good perfume, the special outfit, the heartfelt message and file away the urge to connect until we are ‘less busy’. But the truth is that life itself is the special occasion. The greatest gift we possess—time—is the one we most carelessly squander.
The priest’s words lingered in my mind as I left the church. One day, each of us must leave this world. What remains is not our wealth or accomplishments, but the lives we touched, the kindness we extended, and the presence we offered.
In our hyperconnected yet isolated world, increasingly distracted by screens, perhaps the most radical act of love is simply to show up. To be present. Not scrolling through phones while someone speaks. Not waiting for grief to force us into action. Not assuming there will always be another chance.
To remember that relationships are built not only in joy but in grief, and not only through words but through quiet, unwavering presence. My friend’s daily kindness during my bed rest didn’t require grand gestures. It simply required showing up, consistently and without condition.
Time is running out for all of us. The question isn’t whether we’ll leave this world, but whether we’ll truly inhabit it while we’re here.