Steve Fountain, pastor, Largs Church of The Nazarene

Next month will mark the third anniversary of my mother’s death. She was 85, and she died unexpectedly just before Christmas. Since then, the holiday season has been shaded by memories of her passing, and I suspect it always will be. Grief never goes away, but life and hope and joy can surround it like new skin around a wound, and those of us who remain in the land of the living after loss can find that the pain subsides and is not always at the front of our minds, even if the scar remains.

Hardly a week, maybe even a day, goes by for me that I don’t think of something I’d like to be able to ask my Mom about.

Some question about the way she made one of my favourite childhood recipes, some request for her opinion about the day’s news, some appeal for her wisdom and guidance about this problem or that. When I think about that, I’m thankful that it has given me the awareness that I am still able to ask my Dad about those things.

And while he might not know anything about how Mum made spaghetti sauce, or what her opinion might have been about the day’s news report, he does know, even at 90, what his thoughts are about those things. And I am thankful that as we visit our family in the US this month, I can talk to my father about that stuff, knowing that he still has the mental clarity and acuity to remember not only what happened this afternoon, but what happened decades ago as well. That’s a blessing that I do not take for granted.

Sometimes it takes losing the opportunity to reach out and connect with someone who is important to us to make us realise that we ought to treasure the ability to interact with others who still remain on this side of the veil of eternity with us. None of us know how long those folks be with us, nor do we know how long we’ll be with them. And it’s that uncertainty that makes being able to pick up the phone, to share a table or a park bench, or to communicate through the silent expressions of hugs and holding hands, all the more precious. I know I’m certainly mindful of the gift I’ve been given, and I hope you are too.