It is Christmas Day night and my brood is gathering for our traditional meal of Christmas Eve leftovers, after which we will open packages, turning the Christmas card scene in my living room into something resembling the aftermath of a tornado. My little one and her husband have just arrived, her brother and his crew are not far behind. Still bundled in her coat with hands stuffed in her pockets, she walks up to me, leans in, and rests her head on my chest. The mommy in me wraps my arms around her and asks, “Are you tired, Sweetie?” to which she replies, “Too many of my friends’ parents are dying.” And then I understand.

My child has been slapped in the face with her parents’ mortality. As she walked up on the porch her father met her at the door and told her of a death call we received. It was the father of her childhood friend, a man she had known for years who lived just down the road from us. Our children had been constant companions and playmates, sharing giggly nights and tea parties and church trips over the years. She had been a guest in their home and, in recent months, listened as we discussed his declining health, as his wife absentmindedly dropped bits and pieces of information that indicated death was on the horizon.

I assured her I had no plans for going anywhere on a permanent basis for several years, knowing full well that I could not promise her my continued existence. “Good,” was her response as she moved away to repeat the scene with her daddy. Even though we all work in funeral service, even though we all are made acutely aware of Death’s presence on a daily basis, it is departures such as his that bring that knowledge uncomfortably close to home.

Which brings me to the purpose of this post. In case you have been residing under a rock and haven’t noticed, we are approaching a new year. The chaos of the holidays is drawing to a close, as is the blanket of goodwill, kindness and patience that seems to cover many of us during this time. Life will return to whatever our version of normal is and we will once again become immersed in our individual daily grinds. Many of us will take this opportunity to make those silly New Year’s resolutions—those things that are the end result of the best intentions and which generally fall by the wayside less than 30 days into their implementation. Diets disappear, the gym membership goes unused, the attic is in greater disarray due to our efforts at organization . . . the actual result is never what we intended on January 1. So this year I would like to make a suggestion. My resolution won’t cost you anything; it won’t even take up too much of your time—and exercise is definitely not involved.

Tell the people you love that you love them. Do it every day. And don’t just say it—show them. Breathe deeply when you are angry and choose your words wisely and carefully. If you have children, hug them whenever they are in reach. It doesn’t matter if the world is watching, tell them it’s required by law and you’ll get arrested if you don’t. They’ll know it isn’t true, but they’ll probably groan and bear it. Then one day they’ll actually greet you with open arms, knowing the inevitable is inevitable. Understand that life is not forever, it may not even be for the next 60 seconds. There are no guarantees. I want to scream that from the rooftops and plaster it across every billboard I can find. I want to stamp it across the heart and mind of every human being. Please don’t make the mistake of believing there will be a next time to say “I love you”, a next time to speak softly or grant forgiveness or perform an act of kindness. Treat everyone as though it will be the last time you will ever see them, the last time you will ever touch them or speak with them. You see, one day you will be right. The problem is we just don’t know which day.

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