Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how brief this life really is. Maybe it’s because I recently lost a cousin. Maybe it’s because a dear friend is fighting hard against stage 4 lung cancer. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older and becoming increasingly aware that the years behind me now far outnumber the years ahead. Or maybe it’s all of it. Sometimes life has a way of slowing us down long enough to make us look around and realize just how quickly the years have passed.
I’ll be 69 soon, and honestly, I don’t know how that happened. It feels like just a few minutes ago that I was a little girl sitting in a first-grade classroom, my feet probably not even touching the floor, with absolutely no understanding of how quickly life would move. I didn’t worry about cancer. I didn’t worry about losing people I loved. I didn’t think about mortality or doctor’s appointments or the possibility that one day my parents wouldn’t be here. I simply lived. I laughed. I played. I went home when the streetlights came on. I had no idea that those ordinary days would one day become precious memories.
Now I look back and realize that childhood seemed to last forever, but somehow nearly seven decades have passed in what feels like the blink of an eye. And along the way, I’ve said goodbye to people I thought would always be here. My parents are gone. My brother is gone. Other family members and friends have gone on ahead of me, leaving behind photographs, memories, stories, and an empty space where their voices used to be. Recently, I lost another cousin, and once again I was reminded of something I sometimes try not to think about: We are always one breath away from eternity, and we are always one second away from losing someone we love.
That realization can be frightening if I dwell on it too long, but I’m beginning to think it can also be a gift. Because when we understand how fragile life is, we begin to appreciate the life we have been given. Twelve years ago, cancer entered my life and changed the way I looked at everything. When I first heard the words, I thought I was going to die. Cancer has a way of making mortality very real, very quickly. Suddenly, tomorrow wasn’t something I could simply assume would come. There were tests and scans and surgeries and appointments, but underneath all of it was a question I couldn’t escape: What if I don’t get to grow old?
I prayed. I cried. I was afraid. And yet, God allowed me to live. Twelve years later, I’m still here. I don’t take that lightly. I know there are no guarantees that any of us will wake up tomorrow. None of us knows how many mornings we have left, how many sunsets we will see, how many birthdays we will celebrate, or how many times we’ll hear the voices of the people we love. We simply don’t know.
That’s why I don’t want to waste what I’ve been given. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life worrying about the days I may not have when I could be living the day God has placed right in front of me. I want to love more deeply. I want to laugh more often. I want to forgive more quickly. I want to tell people what they mean to me while they’re still here to hear it. I want to make memories instead of constantly chasing things. I want to sit on the porch and watch the sunset. I want to linger a little longer when my grandchildren hug me. I want to take the pictures. I want to write the stories. I want to pray the prayers. I want to call the friend. I want to say, “I love you,” without assuming there will always be another opportunity, because there may not be.
That’s the part about getting older that nobody really prepares you for. You begin to realize that life isn’t an endless road stretching out in front of you. There is an ending. And while I don’t know when that ending will come, I know where I want to be when it does. I want to have lived. Really lived. Not perfectly. Not fearlessly. Not without regrets or mistakes or difficult seasons. But fully. I want to squeeze every bit of goodness out of the days God gives me. I want to be present instead of always waiting for the next thing. I want to stop postponing joy. I want to stop thinking, I’ll do that someday. Because someday is not promised.
This moment is. This breath is. This ordinary afternoon, this conversation, this cup of coffee, this hug, this phone call, this sunset—these are the pieces that make up a life. And perhaps that’s what my recent thoughts about death are really teaching me. I’m not supposed to live afraid of dying. I’m supposed to live aware that life is precious. There’s a difference. The Bible tells us in Psalm 90:12, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Numbering our days doesn’t mean counting them with fear. It means recognizing their value. It means understanding that every day is a gift that cannot be saved for later.
My friend fighting stage 4 lung cancer is teaching me something simply by fighting for another day. My cousin’s death has reminded me that our time together is never guaranteed. And the people I’ve already lost remind me that someday, if God allows me to live long enough, I will be one of those people someone else misses. That thought makes me want to live differently. Not desperately, but purposefully. With urgency, but not anxiety. With gratitude, not fear.
Because twelve years ago, I thought cancer might take my life. Instead, God gave me more life. And I don’t want to waste the miracle. I want to use whatever time I have left to love people, encourage people, make memories, tell stories, share my faith, and appreciate the simple things I once overlooked. I want to wake up each morning remembering that the fact that I am here is not something to take for granted.
At almost 69, I realize something I couldn’t possibly understand when I was sitting in that first-grade classroom without a care in the world: Life is both incredibly long and incredibly short. We spend our childhood wishing we were older, and then we spend our later years wondering where all those years went. We assume we’ll have more time. More time to visit. More time to call. More time to apologize. More time to travel. More time to tell someone we love them. More time to make things right. But none of us knows how much time we have.
So today, I’m choosing to stop taking time for granted. I’m choosing to love the people who are still here and cherish the memories of those who aren’t. I’m choosing to be grateful for every ordinary moment because I’ve learned that ordinary moments are often the extraordinary pieces of a life. And when my time on this earth finally comes to an end, I hope I can look back and say, I didn’t waste it.
I hope I loved well. I hope I gave generously. I hope I laughed often. I hope I encouraged people. I hope I pointed others toward Jesus. I hope I left behind more love than I found. And most of all, I hope I lived with the understanding that every breath was a gift from God.
Because that’s what I know now that I didn’t know as a little girl in first grade. We’re only here for a little while. We’re one breath away from eternity, and we’re one second away from losing someone we love. So don’t wait. Call the person. Give the hug. Take the picture. Say the words. Forgive. Laugh. Pray. Love. Live. Don’t wait for someday. Someday isn’t promised. But right now is. And right now is a gift.
Lord, thank You for the gift of another day. Thank You for the people You’ve placed in my life and for the memories of those You’ve already called home. Help me not to waste the time You’ve given me worrying about the time I don’t have. Teach me to number my days, to love deeply, forgive freely, and live intentionally. When I’m tempted to take another moment for granted, remind me that every breath is a gift. And when my earthly journey is finally finished, let me be able to say that I lived the life You gave me with gratitude, purpose, and love. Until that day comes, help me make every second count. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
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