You Never Know

I lost a friend two weeks ago. A young friend. He was 17 years old and in the prime of his life. He had gone to the track near his home to run, working on one of the final badges he needed to earn his Eagle Scout. When he didn't come home, his Dad went to look for him. He found him - face down on the track. He was gone.

I was able to attend his funeral last week and was amazed that all of his family members spoke. I was so touched by all of them, but particularly his mother. She talked about that Monday. She had been out that afternoon and called home to find out if the family needed anything from the store. Her 17 year old answered the phone and excitedly said, "Mom, guess what? You're going to be so proud of me. I'm going to earn my Eagle Scout!" She responded, "That's great. I am so proud of you. Now hand the phone to Dad." Life - a quick phone call, a simple verbal exchange, but those words ended up being the last words she ever spoke to her son. "I am so proud of you." What a comfort to a grieving mother that she hadn't said anything she would regret. She could have reminded him to take out the trash or asked him why he hadn't made his bed that morning. She could have felt rushed in the craziness of her afternoon and simply said, "That's great. I'll talk to you about it when I get home - please hand the phone to Dad." But she didn't. She had a moment to connect with her son in a loving, positive way, and she did. She said, "I am so proud of you."

Those words have been haunting me the past two weeks. Each time I hang up the phone or send someone off for the day, I replay the last words I said to them. If they were final words, would they be comforting to me, to them? I find myself listening to my words more carefully. What am I really saying to those around me, especially to my family? In the bustling busy-ness of life, am I taking the time to connect, to uplift, to simply say, "I am so proud of you."

I was at a birthday party with one of my children on Friday. I spoke with two other mothers there, both women I knew from my neighborhood. We are all so busy that most of the time our interactions consist of waving to each other as we pass by in our cars. But as we watched the children roller skate, we had a few moments to connect. I found out that one woman had recently survived a massive blood clot. She had been in the ICU for days following what she thought initially was a pulled muscle. She has four children. Another woman told me of her recent scare with breast cancer, her husband overseas on a difficult job assignment. She also has four children. She spoke to me of her brush with mortality and the wake up call she received. She has been rushing for so many years, this experience has taught her to slow down, to breathe, to connect. She realized how fleeting and fragile this life is. The reality is that you never know. You never know when your time will come.

Am I ready? I don't suppose I'll ever really know that for sure, but I feel the wheels of time spinning under my current daily routines, asking me if I am. If a blood clot or breast cancer or genetic heart defect took me tomorrow, what would others remember as my last words to them? I'm trying to preemptively edit myself, to hear what I say even in seemingly mundane conversations differently. I want them to hear, "You are important to me. I love you. You are the breath of my life. You are my everything. I am so proud of you. Now hand the phone to Dad."

Because, you never know.