Yesterday I got a call that my good friend's father passed away.  He was 62.  That's not the saddest part of the story, though. The saddest part is that he passed away while he was packing to come spend a week with her, her husband, her brother and her son (and my godson). 

She went to the airport to pick him up, little J. in tow.  She waited for him to get off the plane.  He never did.  She went to the airline and found out he hadn't been on the plane.  She assumed he'd missed the plane, called his house, called his friends.  She said she was picturing him at the United counter frantically trying to book another flight. She was not picturing him dead in his chair  in Florida, half-packed suitcase spread open on the bed.

She finally called 911, and the police had to go through the process of breaking and entering.  This entire ordeal took hours.  Today she's on a flight to Florida to go settle his affairs.  All she could say between sobs was that he was supposed to be there, in her house, with her son, with her.

How many times have I realized I was supposed to be somewhere, but was not?  How many friends and family members did I disappoint as I went on with my own little agenda, not realizing they wanted me there, just at that moment?  The story of C.'s father slowed down time for me yesterday.  As I rocked the little angel to sleep, I did pray that she would never stand in an airport waiting for me to not get off a plane.  I can't really control that - can't control fate - but I can make sure that she knows I am totally there for her, in the moment, in these precious days and years we have together.

I called my parents after that and told them I loved them. They know that I love them, but I told them again anyway.  It's a good thing to do.  It can't be done often enough.