no regrets

Over the years there have been a handful of phone calls that changed everything. Calls that made the whole world look different, almost sideways.

"It's malignant but they think they got it all. You should come now."

"Your father has had a heart attack. We'll know more in the morning."

"I've been in an accident and the ambulance is on the way."

"Your mother had a wreck and is at the hospital. But she'll be okay."

And just Friday, another call. This time not as scary. After all, it's his third heart attack now. He's apparently one tough s.o.b. (figure of speech, of course). We've been through this so many times now it seems almost "normal." The terms we learned the first time around that seemed so foreign: cath lab, stints, nitro, are second nature now.

But yet, once again, it brings home the same feelings. Fear, anger and worry.

How could this happen less than two years after a quadruple bypass? He should have at least ten good years to look forward to.

I'm not ready to lose him. I want him to see my boys grow up and graduate. I want him to be a great-grandfather. He, more than anyone I know, appreciates each day. He spends his time giving to others, traveling around the country and to hospitals to honor and support fellow veterans from long ago and just last week. He's sentimental and soft under his tough exterior. He dotes over his grandsons. "They are just delightful," he says, even after spending an entire day listening to all the noise little boys make.

I try to imagine how it would be to be him, at this point in his life. How would it be to feel like tomorrow is not guaranteed. That you could be leaving your loved ones at any time. I imagine it could really test a person's faith. The questions of, 'What if we're wrong? What if this is all there is?'

But I know my Dad and I doubt his faith ever wavers. He probably knows better than anyone that this isn't all there is. There's just too much evidence to the contrary. And whatever comes next will make this earthly existance seem like a mere moment in the grand scheme of eternity.

And the truth is, tomorrow is guaranteed for no one. Not for the sixty-seven year-old heart patient and not for the two year-old toddler.

Last week my six year-old thought it would be funny to stand in the street and try to get run over because he said he, "Wanted to see heaven." After forcibly removing him I explained that we all want to see heaven but it's not up to us when we will. There's a reason we're here and we need to try to figure out what it is. And as "fun" as it will be to move on to the next world, we can't rush things. And we can't slow things down, either.

We can try to see each day as a gift and love each other so we have no regrets.