Several years ago I taught a teen Sunday School class. For one of the lessons, I used Tim McGraw’s song, “Live Like You Were Dying,” as the basis. I asked the kids to imagine they knew for sure they had one year left to live and to discuss how that would change them. There was nothing too unexpected, most said they would go to Disneyland, quit school, and spend lots of time with friends and family. Some said they would make sure they were right with God. We took the time down to six months, and then to one month. It got interesting at that point. Many of them dropped spending time with friends, unless they had some exceptionally close ones. Most said they would spend the time with family doing things they loved. When we got to a week only a few included their friends, and the majority said they would spend their time with their families, doing “normal” stuff; a lot of them said they would spend time reading their Bibles and praying. I finally had them imagine they had 30 minutes left to live. Without exception, they all said they would gather their family around them and spend the remaining time in prayer together.
I find myself feeling like I am in the one week timeframe. My husband of almost 39 years is scheduled for open heart surgery on Monday. I know the risks are small and I truly believe he will not only be fine, but will be healthier when all is said and done. But as we spent the weekend together in Seattle, alone for the first time in months, we had a lot of time to discuss the various possibilities. He wanted to make sure I know where all the important papers are and what the code is to access his bank account. We even talked about what he would want at a Memorial Service, all the time making sure we used phrases like, “not that you’re going to need one.”
What this has done for me is to make me very aware of exactly how precious our life together is. Though I expect him to come through this surgery beautifully, there is a tiny seed of uncertainty. And the very act of talking about the possibility has made me super sensitive to all the wonderfully “normal” things life has to offer. We are choosing to live in the moment this week. We went and saw our granddaughter play volleyball yesterday; tonight we are going to see our grandson play football, then we’re going together to a TLC small group that we love. We are going to spend an evening with our kids and grandkids, just eating and laughing together. We are both part of our church’s Celebrate Recovery program and we sing together on the worship team, along with our son and our daughter. As we sang songs of praise last night, I was keenly aware of how our voices blended together, and I was careful to notice everything. How Cliff looks when he is lost in worship; how he and my daughter sound when they sing a verse together in a duet, how my son’s bass guitar and bass voice adds to the harmonies. We ended with our family’s “theme” song, “The Power of Your Love.” As we sang our hearts out in close harmony, I was almost overcome with the beauty of the moment.
If this were to be our last week together, I would be so thankful that God showed me this before it was too late to celebrate those moments. This realization is sweetly bitter to me; it is so sweet to be lavished with this uncommon poignancy, but bitter to contemplate what it could mean. Today, I am choosing to cherish every second, to notice things and to treasure these gifts. I only pray that I will continue to be as aware of and grateful for these gifts—these precious moments—when my emotions are back on solid ground.
Thanks for listening. Caro
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