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Facebook is seldom subtle. There was no gentle warning, but this morning, I read enough status updates to know that my mom's dear friend Kim had passed away.
And death never comes quietly enough. Not in car accidents or when it comes in the night. The ripples and repercussions astound us with their depth - their noise. Every life is oh so precious. And every life, when ended, leaves holes in the fabric of our humanity.
The very thing that makes us human - our mortality paired with soul - is the very thing that makes us broken.
Today I am thankful for my mother's health. That her battle, seven years ago, has staved off the cancer. That she hasn't seen reoccurance or worry. That her mind is sharp, her body able. She lifts her grandchildren and stays up, as late as us sometimes, to watch them sleep. I am grateful for these days and these moments. Because we have them. Because we might not have.
And I'm reminded of the words of the late Arthur Quinn. "Death is always there before us, as an ineveitable coming attraction." And then short weeks later, he died.
And last night, as we sat with our friends as they retold the story of a stroke. "You don't expect your partner to have a stroke at 25." And yet they got through it. "Only my mom can really tell a difference now," he says a year later. But they admit it still haunts them. Still freaks them out. "What if I woke up one morning and he was just next to me... but gone."
I have these same fears. I have these same worries. I have lived through many deaths and assume I'll live through more before my demise. But I do not know, any more than you do, how long we each have. So we'll share what we can now. And we'll thank God for the moments.
We're human because we care.
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