Losing Loved Ones: Don't Take Anyone You Care About for Granted

"My father died." I can say that, usually with little emotion, for even after nearly four years it still has not fully registered as a fact. My father was one of those rare people who had a quiet inner strength, causing him to "come through with flying colors" every major medical disaster in his later years. This led me, and probably others who knew him well, to hold the illusion that nothing could ever befall him; so, foolishly, I believed there would always be time for the words, that there was no pressing urgency to express all I needed to say.

It's often that way with parents; I can imagine it must be much harder for people who reach middle-age still holding grudges and resentments, or unresolved issues, and I'm grateful to not be in that category. My parents, as most, made mistakes; but the truth is from where I stand at this point in my life today I am no longer affected by any mistakes they made but instead very much affected by all that they did right-- imparting values and standards, more by example than by words.

A year ago, someone very special died. Much different circumstances, but the same theme of believing or at least hoping that the time would come, the time when what stood in the way of expressing how much he meant to me would cease to be an obstacle. The time never came. I learned much from him-- including the truth that life has no guarantees, Tomorrow does not always come.

Four months ago, a young acquaintance was murdered. I'd had words for him, too-- words of encouragement, support, caring. But as I was trying to form the words, the time to say them vanished; the last time I saw him he was walking down the street with one of his "friends" who killed him less than two days later.

Loss is a part of life, but life should not be about loss. No one but a parent could understand the anguish and despair when a child one has brought into the world, and nurtured, and loved, breaks those ties and walks away. Not in the natural turn of events of growing up and moving on, but with hostility and anger. On Rosh Hashana I had been composing a letter-- a letter about regrets for mistakes, about hopes and plans for the future, about appreciation for her uniqueness, her individuality, her potential. But the words could not come to one who had already decided to not listen.

Are words always necessary? Sometimes I think to myself that people know, so it is not essential to say the words. In some instances, though, the words are put on-hold because I am uncertain of what to say; in some instances fear of a person's possible reaction keep the words unsaid; occasionally, but rarely, the lack of words is from procrastination, the belief that it is okay to wait until "tomorrow." But as I've learned, sometimes "tomorrow" is too late.

Not long ago, when I was in the deepest darkness, when everything in life felt hopeless and empty, and nothing existed past that present moment, a friend walked into the building, made a cup of coffee, and brought it out to me. I was so overwhelmed by this most basic act of kindness that I was speechless. But he needed the words.

Also, not long ago, a lady I'd known briefly sat on the bus singing a beautiful gospel song to an unfamiliar passenger who was in obvious emotional pain. She had the voice of an angel, a true gift from God; I thought to myself that surely others had told her so. Perhaps; perhaps not. She, too, needed the words.

Is there someone in your life, or someone who has been in your life, to whom you should give words-- words of encouragement, or appreciation, or kindness, or love? Don't take for granted that they will hear what they need to hear from someone else; don't assume there will always be a different or better time. Pick up the phone or email or a pen. Do it now.