The Present Is Not Just the Present

People who know me as a pastor are often surprised when they hear I was once a lawyer.

My father was the reason I went to law school and was shocked when I told my mother and him about my call to ministry. But by the time he was almost 90, he had made peace — more or less — with what he considered the silliest decision of my life.

At that point I was 10 years into my new calling, serving as pastor of my second church, and still receiving his unfiltered commentary on the sermons he made me send him, even though he had left the church in a huff when I was in high school.

He was very sick with mesothelioma, a cancer that took its time to appear and then wrecked his lungs.

Dad died in April, a week after I preached Easter.

Dad loved to gather his family around him in the house that he and Mom built about the time our children were born. After mom died, we usually feasted on takeout that one of the guests would bring.

One evening over the holidays, when my sister was visiting from overseas, Dad and his caregiver declared a family party.

We brought fried chicken takeout — including a box of fried gizzards, his favorite — French fries AND mashed potatoes, creamed peas, coleslaw, biscuits and honey.

He felt good that night and seemed to savor every moment. In fact, he would be the first to tell you to live in the present, because now is all we have.

He was a carpe diem type of guy.

When your loved one is sick like that, it gives you joy to see them happy. But you also can’t help thinking multiple times inside your head — is this the last time?

The last Christmas, the last great conversation, the last hug, the last…

The wise ones say to live in the present because now is all we have. Don’t dwell on the past. Don’t worry about the future. Don’t grieve losses that have not yet occurred.

Our kids and the grandkids were there that night — all but one, the littlest who had not yet been born. And even though Mom had been gone six years, she was there in our hearts.

Vintage toys decorated the big kitchen, procured over the years from estate sales, flea markets, and eBay. The grandkids played on the floor with Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs and other timeless playthings. There was a wind-up Santa that Dad kept out year-round, to the delight of the children.

That night the present moment was glorious.

Laughter and teasing, talk of travel and food and jobs and politics and all the things families talk about. Not a big drinker anymore, Dad nursed a single glass of red wine while offering his usual unfiltered opinions.

They say, live in the present — you only have today. Carpe diem.

I had forgotten the evening — until I stumbled on the photos in an old Dropbox account. Nearly 100 of them.

In one of them, two small children sit on the floor, their faces turned away, building something out of Tinker Toys.

And just like that, another ten years have passed.

The cousins in the picture now study drama and play baseball. They are still talking back to their parents.

The girl’s slightly older sister was deep into mermaids then — books and movies, the outfits, even a swimmable tail for the pool.

Now she is almost old enough to drive.

The little sister born the following year is an artist and an athlete.

They say, live in the present. Focus on the now.

But it turns out that the present does not confine itself to the present. It is always richer than we can see, or feel, or know at the time.

Looking back today — memory augmented with photos — there is more here than a simple family evening. Here are the unseen beginnings of what would inevitably unfold, up to the present, as well as the moments to come, long after my husband and I are both gone.

Could all our days and moments be like that?

Carrying seeds of grace, unfolding into futures we cannot yet see?

This is not the kind of truth that you prove in a courtroom. It’s the kind you see when you stop trying so hard.

That’s one of the reasons that the pastor’s life suits me better. I was tired of trying to make things fit together neatly that resisted the effort as much as life does.

I am more at home keeping my eye out for grace and wonder and a bit of whimsy each day.

There is a story behind the title Mermaid Blessings that I will tell soon. It was another ordinary moment that shimmered like a mermaid’s tail breaking the surface of the water.

Grace is like that too. It often comes when it is least expected. It cannot be pinned down or explained. It shines through the cracks of broken things.

It is even placed in our hands and on our lips to share.

That night, we were given more than we knew.

We had my father’s presence a little while longer — his voice, his laughter, his opinions. The children will not remember it, but they were held in it.

And now, looking back, I can see it for what it was: not just a family dinner, but another beginning — a blessing still unfolding.

Thanks for sharing the blessing!

I write more reflections like this at Mermaid Blessings on Substack.