Talk all you want about how you’ve lived a full and meaningful life, done more good than bad, got right with God and the universe, and how you’re in good stead with yourself and others. But I suspect at the very end, when shown the light toward which we all must walk, all the artfully articulated words of your peace and readiness become instantly and utterly vain and meaningless, eagerly traded in a panic for just one more day, hour or minute that might just make the bigger difference you always dreamed about but had never yet found.

Things that make me cry:
Cutting onions
Remembering my dad
Fishing a stream at dawn
Watching poor people surviving
Watching very hungry old people
Underdogs
Puppies
Flash mob proposals
Compassion acting without audience
Epiphanies
More puppies
Endings of most novels
Irreconcilable regrets
People kissing
Things I can’t change
People who do
Total surprises from God
Songs at just the right moment
Every kind of cancer
Hopeless addicts
Soulless people
New regrets I just remembered
Cuddling no one
Writing stories that will long outlive me
Serendipity
A really, really good laugh
Lists like this.

I hardly recognized her.
Wearing pink lipstick, faintly rouged cheeks and the brush of a crusted old eye shadow she’d packed away 30 years ago after her husband died, she removed her new glasses and struck an atypical pose remarkably athletic for a woman her age.
“I’m baaack!” she said through a smile wide enough to be a laugh.
Since her early 50s, she’d never clearly seen herself in any mirror. What she could make out of the blurry image that peered back was less than half the cheery disposition she’d adopted overnight since they arrived.

To be specific, it was five business days. That’s how long it took to get her first vision exam in 30 years and the corrective lenses that notched her view of herself up about 10 points.
“I haven’t seen myself in 30 years, Don,” she blubbered through the tears that dampened the mascara and the artful thank you face she’d spent all morning to create for me.

His death back in 1985 had left her with a halved income and nothing extra for anything–including an exam or glasses–for at least three decades. Putting on makeup had become impossible and checking to see if she’d applied it in the right places was worse.
So long ago, she’d given up on making herself beautiful for a man or a mirror…and ultimately, herself.

Now she can see and read most anything, anywhere for the first time in years, including her own beautiful new self image, all because I work at a great place called HopeLink who saw her need and gave her hope and vision and a great view for the future.

No more bruises for Gina.

No more bad excuses or long sleeved disguises to hide the evidence of long suffering codependency. Others now follow your story about when enough was enough and follow the scent of your flower’s first bloom released at the exit that saved your life and three little others.

You’re on your own now. Your own money and future and hope since it was never too late to ask for help out of a hell you’d called home for too many painful years.

Best of all, no more bruises but those fading distant memories which hurt less each courageous independent step forward.

And just this morning, three little hearts looked up at you and called you hero as if it was your destiny. And indeed, as you poured their breakfast cereal, God knew it always was.

No more, now that you know more.

She just smiled, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

I was on my 4th cup at 4am feeling responsible for breaking my daughter’s water 40 minutes ago via text message and thinking strange things like if all these 4’s mean anything other than I’m gonna be a grampa today!

The only ones up at this hour are narcoleptic fathers and severely pregnant daughters.

Nearly 5am now and she’s on her way to the hospital and I’m walking circles in the carpet at Mom’s house where I stayed last night. Writing this, I’m seated in the very chair at the very table where only 36 weeks ago, she and her husband broke the news to us that we were all gonna have a new baby in the spring!

Transcript as follows:

313am: Goooooooood Morning Daddy!

–Ha, you saw I was posting on Facebook, lol.

I did, lol. The baby is doing some work in here.

–Bummer, she’s gonna have my sleep gene.

I think I’m having mild contractions, they woke me up.

–When is Alan back? (My son-in-law is away on business in Florida.)

Sunday morning.

–Better hurry his ass back here!

At this point, I asked her to be my date at our non-profit’s big fundraiser on Saturday and she replied “If I’m not having a baby, I will!”

–That makes me soooo happy, honey!

335am: Hey, so this really hurts, whatever is happening right now.

–Hmm…Think this could be the real thing?

Yes.

–OMG. Call your mom right now. If your water breaks….well you already know what to do if your water breaks….right?…..Right?….Hello?

(Literally, a very very long and pregnant pause ensued while I stared at the chat waiting for another bubble with the three dots that would tell me she’s okay.)

Dad, it just broke, she’s up, and they just woke up Alan to fly home now.

–No shit? Are you serious?

I’m serious.

She’s on her way to the hospital right now and I’ve sent 430am OMG texts to every stranger in my phone. I woke my mother. She smiled, told me to sit down, shut up and relax, and then went back to sleep. I seriously thought I might turn off her oxygen so she wakes up to share this moment with me.

5th cup. Overdosed on caffeine. Thinking about how I’m gonna be a grandpa today, and thinking about how my first granddaughter, Makenna Jacquelynn Berry, will come into this world and I will get to hold her and give her the first of a lifetime of kisses.

So I sat on the couch in the dark alone, percolating. I got up and peed four cups into the toilet while looking at myself in the mirror and I realized my life will change today, and in my head, I’m planning a birthday party. I sat down to write some more.

For experienced great-grandmothers, they must think this baby thing is just no big deal. For inexperienced grampas to be, this is hell. Nobody is texting back because they probably hate me for messaging at zero dark thirty. My closest friend is this keyboard where I’m obviously trying to get hold of myself and every racing thought in preparation for the coming hours. Aaaand, Mom’s sleeping. And again, I’m thinking seriously about the oxygen.

559am, standing next to the oxygen. “What are you doing?” “Nothing, just making another loop in the carpet waiting for your 78 year old ass to get up before I do something I shouldn’t.”

We spent the next half hour reminiscing about all her labors and deliveries with the three of us and laughed about how after all the hurt and pain, women still want another one. A concept I will never understand but I did thank her for making the decision about 57 years ago.

Dilated to a 5 and moving fast, I got my orders. I arrived at 7 centimeters o’clock.

Blur.

More blur. Anxiety. Then more blur.

They called me back to see her after the epidural.

My little girl was about to give me another little girl 27 years later.

For as much as I have lived for and died to, I will never understand this thing called the Cycle of Life. Seeing her lying there, calm and beautiful, preparing herself to produce my first grandchild, felt like I was walking into a birthday party I never had. All the people I love most were gathered there in anticipation of the moment that inevitably arrived at 9:36am.

10 fingers, 10 toes and as planned, zero penises, Makenna Jacquelynn Berry entered the world of my dreams for as many unknown years as I had left. And something about that moment shocked my existential being to the core. If I had been called home that very minute, it would have been okay. The blur ceased, and the first tick of the clock began another lifetime.

It was awhile later when I was invited to meet her in person. The passing of her 5lb 13oz 19” little body into my cupped grampa arms rivaled every preceding moment of my life for first position as I looked down at my birthday gift as if they’d made her just for me.

It was then that I remembered the poem I’d written for her months ago:

Your mommy’s face, your daddy’s chin,

Your grandma’s smile and winning grin.

Your auntie’s humor, so very funny

Will find their place in you, my honey.

Smarts a given, kindness too,

Good looks, talents, all wait for you.

You’ll have it all, my first of many,

Adorning darling sweet Makenna.

If one thing I could give to you

A heritance with which to view

Your world ahead for many years

Wisely, safely, vision clear.

I hope you get my eyes, sweet girl,

To watch your little life unfurl,

And keep you safe when I’m not there

To see you through each day and year.

To shield you from all things that hurt

Protect from harm and help avert

Your precious life from things unseen

And close them tight for lovely dreams.

To flood your world with brilliant light

Prudence to know when to take flight.

Blindness to encroaching hate

And keen to know our God is great.

And if by chance my eyes aren’t yours

When I’m long gone to heaven’s doors

Of this be certain and of this sing,

We’re watching over everything.

And at that very moment, she opened her eyes and stared up at me, and every grandfather whoever lived, cried.

It was both very dark and very cold at 4:15 this morning when I was inspired by a young black father in line at Walmart.

Waiting for the checker, I remarked “Sick kid?” He said “Yeah, all night,” as he laid out a small pharmacy on the check stand. We talked about the pain of a parent when kids hurt and he shared she’d been sick most of this week and how being a single father it was difficult to leave her home while he was at work ten miles away.

The checker arrived. He paid and we shook hands, both desperately wanting a speedy recovery for his little girl. My purchase made, I walked out into the dark, cold morning to see him fidgeting with an old bicycle to remove the lock. Turns out, he lived four miles up Boulder Highway and didn’t relish the ride home or the couple hours ahead for a nap before riding that same rickety bike across town to his job.

After much insistence on my part, we packed up his bike and drove the distance, pulling into the drive of a small trailer where he and his six year old lived. I wished him well and he said thanks. Nothing more needed said. It was just the chance meeting of two fathers who will never meet again, but who love their kids so much, it hurts, and an inspiring way to begin both our days.

He’s a real life hero.
Kayla, get well soon. Your dad loves you a whole lot.

I’m liking not stinking
And each hour thinking
I need to step out for a bit.
I’m liking not flaming
Coming in feeling shaming
I’m really too smart for this sh*t.

You’ve been there a hundred times before.
Good food, good service, good price. So you’re back for breakfast. You order, wait, make some conversation, then watch a table of eight loud, self-centered, drunk leftovers from last night walk out on your waiter because they simply changed their minds after ordering and because they are assholes.
It’s busy and you can tell he’s been busting his butt as he walks out to serve two huge trays of ordered meals to another suddenly vacated table. It’s been a long night and at the end of his shift, this is a tough pill for him to swallow.
Empathy.
What’s it like to be him right now?
Still waiting for your own meal to be served, you call him over and ask if he might wrap up a few of those unserved sandwiches for you to buy and take for lunch this week. It’s just enough goodwill and at the right moment to lift him out of a momentary pit which, at 5am, is working overtime to reinforce the belief that nobody cares about him.
Your offer engages him for a minute or so to talk about the rough night and the demanding crowd who care nothing about what it’s like to be him, only how fast they can get their food and which excuse they’ll use to stiff him on the tip. But he’s off shift shortly and because you were different…because you empathized and showed you cared at the right time…he heads home on a slightly more positive note with a renewed belief.
And a small piece of humanity is redeemed at a cost to you of just $27 plus 20%. And it’s totally worth it.
You say your goodbyes and head to work. And though yours is already in the office fridge, your coworkers thank you for catering today’s lunch.
Especially your underpaid, overworked receptionist with three kids who’s been doing without all week until payday.
And though it’s just beginning, today could easily be the start of the best day of my life.

I wish I’d planned better, worked harder, took the other job, done that and not this. I wish I’d had someone to tell me what today would be like. I wish I hadn’t called in sick, took that fall, been more careful at certain things and more careless at others. I wish I’d been able to see the world, see my grandchildren, see my lover one last time. I wish I’d stayed in the game, away from those of some people and closer to those of others. I wish I’d lived when I had the chance and taken the chances that made me feel alive when I had them to spend. I wish I could go back in time to take the road less traveled more or just traveled more often. I wish I had more wishes that came true and that I’d been truer to myself. I wish I’d given more instead of giving in. I wish it wasn’t all over when I still have beginnings left. I wish I’d dwelt on cliffs instead of in the valleys, in the nows instead of in the maybes and I wish I’d been more aware. I wish it wasn’t so quiet and dark and moist and blurry. And I wish it wasn’t so red.
And I wish I’d kept my eyes on the road
instead of my phone,
and had more time for a better final wish than that.