It Goes Fast

Final words of a loved one remind John to savor the present moment.

“I’m losing it.

These were the final words spoken by the great singer, Frank Sinatra. The man who spent his life performing at sold-out theaters and proudly proclaiming he did it his way recognized at the end of his life that none of us are totally in control.

Emily Dickinson offered a more poetic reflection as death approached. She looked past those gathered in the room and spoke these words, “I must go in, the fog is rising.”

“Go on, get out! Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough.”  Karl Marx shared this sentiment as he prepared to die. Even though he felt he’d said enough, they unintentionally became the last words he ever spoke.

Fools or not, at some point we all speak words which will become our last. Have you ever considered what your final words might be? Have you ever heard someone share theirs?  As we savor the last summer before taking our oldest son to college, I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on some last words shared with me.

Just weeks after Beth and I welcomed our third son, Henry, into the world, my father-in-law received a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. Joe had just entered into retirement and was savoring his role as a grandfather. Offered just a few months to live, it was an obviously crushing diagnosis for the entire family. And yet, Joe lived as fully as he could until the very end. A man who always rejoiced in his large family, seemed to draw even closer to each of them.

Just days before he ultimately passed away, I took our two older boys to visit their grandfather. While Jack and Patrick ran around the front yard unaware of how sick their grandpa was, I sat with Joe on his front porch. We chatted about his cancer, about some struggles, about his family and about the things that ultimately matter most. Although Joe was obviously deteriorating physically and in constant pain, he was still quick to laugh, generous with his words and simply loved the mere presence of his grandchildren.

Near the end of our conversation, with Joe visibly exhausted, I ushered the little boys into the house and my father-in-law to his bed now stationed in the family room. The boys came over and hugged their grandpa goodbye. He told them he loved them.

I took Joe’s hand and told him he raised an awesome family, that I was wild about his oldest daughter, and that these little boys would go on to make him proud. He smiled, looked at the boys, nodded, and said softly, “It goes fast, John.”

He then fell asleep.

Although I assumed we’d continue the conversation next time, these were the last words Joe ever spoke to me. I eventually wrangled my kids, hugged my mother-in-law Mary goodbye and took the kids home. Later that evening I flew out for a couple speaking events and never heard the sound of his deep voice again.

Last week we remembered Joe on the anniversary of his death.

In the 14 years since his passing, Beth and I welcomed another baby into our lives. Joe would have been wild about Grace. And he would have adored his seven other grandchildren. Absolutely no one enjoyed their grandchildren more than he did.

As Beth and I savor our last summer with our oldest before taking him to college, Joe’s final words seem as relevant today as they were then.

It goes fast.

My friends, in a world that races so quickly to get to the next thing, Joe reminds us of the power of slowing down, focusing on what matters most, and letting go of the unimportant.

For although none of us know when our time will come or what our final words might be, we can live in such a manner that others are better because we were in their lives.

Today is your day. Live Inspired.