My Friend, Bernie Schwenck

How do you summarize a friendship of over fifty years? I have been wrestling with this for a couple of weeks. I still can’t figure it out, so I’ll start at the beginning.

We met Bernie when my mother-in-love bribed us to attending church with her. We had stopped going to church several years before. We had lived out of the state, and when we returned, our previous church was gone.

In the interim, Larry’s folks had purchased a mobile home in Dana Point. When we came back to California, we began to spend all our weekends there with them.

Mother’s birthday was May 6. A week or so before, she announced, ”All I want for my birthday and Mother’s Day is for my family to go to church with me.” So, we went.

That first week, we discovered that the pastor was a surfer. It was enough to get Larry to go back. The next time we went, the pastor’s wife greeted us by name! I later discovered she’d had the ability to really see and remember people from the time she was young. She never forgot a name. This was Bernie.

She was far from the stereotypical pastor’s wife. She didn’t play the piano or teach Sunday school classes. She sang in the choir, participated in Bible studies, and took part in women’s activities. She attended all the women’s retreats and contributed wisdom to all of them.

Schwenck family 1972

She didn’t look like a stereotypical pastor’s wife, either. Her long hair hung to her waist. She wore short skirts and knee boots—or whatever was comfortable. Since this was a “beach church,” people accepted her as she was, and she did the same. She always seemed to see the best in people.

The door to their house was never locked. Their friends and their children’s friends knew they could walk in at any time—and they did. Bernie’s only request was that if folks showed up and she was busy, they could either talk to her while she continued or they could help. And if she was watching a sporting event, guests were expected to join her. (They could cheer for the opposition, but she would cheer louder for UCLA or the Dodgers. And she would yell at the referees if she thought they made a bad call.)

Bernie had worked as a PE teacher and coached the cheerleading squad in New Jersey while Bob was attending Princeton Seminary. She had a real passion for sports, having been a cheerleader in high school and college. She never missed a game or sporting event for either of her children or her grandchildren.

Larry and Bob and our friend Diana Gardner (nicknamed “Gidget”) formed the Community Presbyterian Surf Team. They had great times surfing together, and Bob became Larry’s best friend.

After the Schwencks’ first trip to Hawaii, they became as hooked on the islands as we were. By this time, we had gone quite a few times and had visited all the islands (except Niihau). The four of us began to vacation together. In time, we traveled all over the world, and we always enjoyed spending time together.

We usually followed the same pattern. We would start planning a trip several months in advance when we discussed the details. Since I am somewhat of a control freak (an understatement), I usually made the arrangements for flights and hotels, etc. (unless they had miles or credit they could use to book their own). In our first meeting, however, each of us chose one thing to do on the upcoming trip. I usually selected something adventurous, like taking the helicopter flight over Kauai or visiting the leper colony on Molokai. Larry’s choice always involved surfing. Bob usually picked something fun, like bike riding down Mt. Haleakala on Maui. Bernie, however, always wanted to do the same thing: paddling the outriggers on Waikiki. She said, “This is the only place on earth where you can do this.” And she loved it.

Bernie 3rd from left

We all liked “funky” places to stay, and we always tried to save money. However, we found some incredible places where we returned on future trips. Fortunately, we had quite a few friends who lived in the islands, so when we were there, we tried to visit them. I have terrific memories of special adventures with dear friends.

Bernie always went along with whatever craziness I planned. She’d say, “I just want to go along and have fun.” The only other thing she wanted to do in Hawaii was spend time sunning on the beach. Because I am far too fair to spend much time in the sun, I either went shopping, or swam laps in the hotel pool, or read a book.

On one memorable trip in 1990, we were joined by our friends Don and Karen Seapy. Don always said it was his very favorite vacation. The highlight was the glider flight over Dillingham Airfield.

l-r: Larry, Bob, Bernie, Don, Lorna, Karen

When Bob did an exchange pulpit in Scotland, we stayed with him and Bernie and spent several days with them before we visited with my family and did a bit of sightseeing. When he did the same thing in New Zealand, we went to visit before exploring the country on our own. In both places, we met lovely people from his guest congregations, some of whom we are still in touch with.

We also traveled to places in the US together, and many of those trips resulted in great memories—like the Rainbow Motel, the very worst place we ever stayed. (Bob picked it.) Even the not-so-great experiences became shared legends and the sources of much laughter.

We visited Italy, Ireland, Australia, France, and other spots in the world with them. We never failed to enjoy our travels.

Through the years, Bernie and I cried together and laughed together and shared lots of love. We lost friends and loved ones and grieved together. We comforted each other and knew we could count on each other.

But, who do I count on now?

Bernie passed away on May 23 after a battle with Parkinson’s and a couple of strokes. It’s hard to believe that her vibrant spirit and contagious laugh and smile won’t be there for us anymore. There are so many things I will miss: hugs, and wisdom, shared silences and shared laughs, moments when no words are necessary, and moments of understanding.

I visited with her each of the three days before she passed and was able to tell her it was okay to let go. I assured her that Larry and I would be there for Bob and her family, and they would be okay because she helped to make them the strong, loving people they are. I prayed with her and told her I loved her. I assured her that I was certain her daughter Erin would be waiting along with her mother and other friends and family. And I assured her God would greet her with: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” I truly believe this.

But my dear friend left a huge hole in my life and that of the others who loved her.

After she passed, I did what I do. I helped Bob write her obituary and then created her obituary website: bit.ly/459dNMl

I also spoke at her memorial service and created the video: https://youtu.be/cSJoF6a4nfM

But these small things just can’t begin to capture who she was and what she meant to me and to those who loved her. I shall miss her for the rest of my life.

Remembering Kae

 

Kae Komiyama came into our lives as part of a homestay. In prior years, we had hosted five other young ladies from Japan and one from Spain for this six-to-eight-week English-intensive program. Our close friend, Terri, was the coordinator and teacher. Students were housed in individual homes and became part of their families for the time of their stay. In our case, they have remained part of our family.

For this group, our student was Fumiko. Our daughter, Kim, who lived about five blocks away at the time, hosted Ikue. And her neighbors, Ceil and Keith, hosted Kae. I said we got three for the price of one in this group because they spent a great deal of time together—often at our house.

My mother was living with us at the time, and she often provided transportation for the girls. She couldn’t remember their Japanese names, so she identified them by their personal characteristics: Fumiko was “the funny one,” because of her ready sense of humor. Ikue was “the little one,” because she was short like our daughter, Kim. Kae was “the pretty one” because she was beautiful. Mom adored them all.

L-R: Kim, Kae, Ikue, Fumiko, me

One evening, they fixed dinner for all of their host families. Another evening, they put on a fashion show. Kae and Fumiko wore my formal clothing, and Ikue wore Kim’s. Kae’s host mother did their hair and makeup. Such fun memories!

Ikue, Kae, Fumiko

Being silly with Dad: Fumiko, Kae, Ikue with Larry

It was hard to say goodbye to this group, but we hoped we would see them again when we moved to Japan the following August.

Saying Goodbye: Kae, me, Ikue, Fumiko

In April of 1999, Kim and Mom came to visit us in Japan. We would spend a total of 31 months there building the Universal Studios Japan theme park. While they were there, we celebrated Larry’s birthday, and Kae and her then-boyfriend (and future husband), Toshi, were in attendance.

Kae, Toshi, Kim

Larry blowing out his candles

During our time in Japan, they visited about once a month. They arrived with no agenda except to be with us. Although we saw all but one of our Japanese daughters while we lived there, we saw Kae and Toshi the most.

We returned to California in the spring of 2001. Toshi had a job which required him to come to the US a couple of times a year on business. He always tried to extend his trips so he could spend a few days with us. He sometimes brought Kae with him.

One day in late October of 2003, we received a message from them. They had been married in Japan. Like many other countries in the world, they went to the city hall, filled out the paperwork, and left officially married. The wedding, however, was a separate occasion.

“Mom, we want to have our wedding in Orange County. We will arrive on December 28.”

They wanted an American wedding. What the heck was that?

We had a few questions.

Church or at the park where Larry’s brother had been married? Church. (When our kids stayed with us, they attended church with us on Sundays, despite the fact that the Japanese don’t really practice any religion.)

The pastor was Larry’s best friend, and they had met him several times before. They wanted him to marry them. Religious or secular ceremony? Religious.

They didn’t need a license since they were already married, but they insisted. They wanted one stating that they were married in Orange County. Toshi had already done his homework and found that he could complete all the paperwork online and pick up the license in Santa Ana. They went straight from the airport to the city hall and picked it up.

Kae’s brother was coming with them and he would be Toshi’s best man. Kim would be Kae’s maid of honor. I mentioned that here, it was traditional for the father of the bride to walk her down the aisle. “Do you think Dad would do it?”

Silly question. Of course, he would. But he no longer owned a suit. When he left the engineering company where he’d worked for over 30 years, he donated all of his suits. We had to rush out and get a 3-day suit so he could be the father of the bride. (Kae’s father had died when she was quite young. I think I identified with her because I had lost mine at a young age, too.)

The wedding came off without a hitch, and it was beautiful.

Mom, Kae, Toshi, Dad

On our anniversary, September 4 of 2010, our phone rang at about 3:00 a.m. Toshi could barely speak because he was so upset. “Kae collapsed. She may not make it.”

“We’ll put her on the church prayer chain, and we will pray for her, too.”

Of course, I went to pieces as soon as we hung up.

She’d had an aneurism. The neurosurgeon who treated her (the best one in all of Japan) later told Toshi he would have given her less than 5% chance of survival. However, Toshi posted a picture on her Caring Bridge site on her birthday, October 16, of her jumping on her bed. Her doctor could not explain how she had recovered with only slight impairment. He called it a miracle.

Of course, I was worried about her until the following March when we went back to Japan for the 10^th anniversary of the opening of USJ. Kae and Toshi came down to Osaka and spent several days with us. It felt so good to hug Kae and tell her how much we loved her. Even more important, we got to see how well she was.

A couple of years after her aneurism, Kae attended culinary school at Cordon Bleu in Tokyo. With a lot of help from Toshi, she graduated. Quite an accomplishment!

In 2015 when they next visited, she brought her chef’s coat and toque and cooked a gorgeous four-course dinner for us and four other couples. Magnificent!

Chef Kae and Ruth

She wouldn’t have been able to handle the fast-paced schedule in a restaurant, but she started her own cooking school at home. She taught private lessons to small groups of women and thoroughly enjoyed it.

They continued to visit often, and we kept in touch through email, text, and Facebook.

Then in April of last year, when she was supposed to be starting a college course toward her MBA, Toshi sent me a message: “Kae might have pancreatic cancer.”

Unfortunately, she did, and Toshi fought to get her the treatment she required. I assured him I had two prayer chains praying for her with some of the same people who had prayed for her before.

She underwent surgery and chemotherapy, and more experimental treatment Toshi researched. He wanted to bring her to see us, but her doctor would not clear her for plane travel following surgery to place a drain.

Meanwhile, Toshi’s father died, so he had his hands full dealing with that and caring for Kae.

She was finally cleared to fly, and he brought her on September 29 for ten days. She still had a drain in place.

After we returned from the airport, she came in the front door, looked around, smiled at me, and said, ”Mom, I’m home.”

This both touched me and broke my heart because I knew more than anywhere else in the world, this truly was her home, and we truly were her family.

They were joined a couple of days later by her best friend from high school, Ayumi.

This was Kae’s “bucket list” trip. She had about six or seven items she wanted to do while she was here. And she did all of them and more, including a final trip to Disneyland.

She looked much better by the time they left. And she was happy.

Kae with wig at the church where they were married

A couple of weeks later, I received a message from Toshi. They had been to see her doctor, and he told them she probably had only four to six weeks left. His last line, however, really broke my heart: I’m sorry. Mom. I couldn’t save her.

On the morning of December 20 at about 10:00 a.m. our time, Toshi messaged me: Kae loses consciousness…hope she comes back. I began to pray for both of them and continued throughout the morning.

We went to Larry’s brother’s house for lunch to deliver his family’s Christmas presents. I had the ringer turned off on my phone, but Larry’s was on. He had an incoming call. “I don’t recognize this number.”

I did. “I know the country code. It’s Toshi.”

“She’s gone.”

I had been thinking about what would happen afterward and suggested he might think about bringing some or all of her ashes here to spread in the ocean off Dana Point, her true home.

“I have a written note from her. This is what she wants.”

So, he will bring her back this spring and we will take her out to sea after a small memorial service at the church where they were married and many people prayed for her, both when she had her aneurism and this past year. She’ll be with Grandma, who truly was the only grandparent she had.

We will love her always. She was truly our daughter.

HUGS

Those of you who know me are aware that I am a hugger. Always have been. I discovered a big secret years ago: you can’t give a hug without getting one.

This past year has been very hard on those of us who are affectionate. We are people who need people. And we want to be with them in person.

A year in virtual isolation has been difficult for us.

Larry and I got our second vaccinations several weeks ago. It felt like the beginning of hope. It felt like the promise of being with friends and family again.

From the start, we chose to follow the science. We paid attention to CDC and NIH. guidelines. We listened to Dr. Fauci. We read the studies and papers written by scientists. No personal biases. No opinions. No emotional rants. Just facts.

We also listened to friends who were treated for COVID. We followed their treatment. We followed their therapy post-disease. And we mourned those who did not survive.

At this point, we are willing to be together with fully vaccinated friends and family members for a meal or visit—unmasked.

Yesterday, we celebrated my brother-in-love’s birthday at a local restaurant (Harpoon Henry’s). We sat at a table overlooking the water. We enjoyed a wonderful meal. For an hour or so, life felt more like we had known it pre-pandemic.

Casey and Lucy

Tables were still spaced, and servers were still masked.

Of course, the very best part of the evening was hugging again. It felt far too long since we had done so.

This past year has been the most difficult of my life. Too many deaths (most non-COVID-related). Too many lost friends—dear friends—long-term friends. Too many lost family members.

My brother, Ron Lund

Larry's cousin's wife, Claudia Tedford

And without any way to reach closure.

The usual means (funerals, memorial services, etc.) were not possible. Some may happen at a later date, but meanwhile, the losses accumulate. The pain remains.

For the first time in my life, I began to wake in the night with panic attacks. Often. Larry didn’t sleep well, either. He wanted to be sure to wake so he could touch me and reassure me everything was okay. I was okay.

The promise of some return to a form of normality feels like a breath of fresh air. The renewed hope feels like a new beginning. And the panic attacks have subsided.

Of course, we haven’t reached the point where we go out in public without masks. Many people remain unvaccinated. Some refuse. Some are waiting for their opportunity. But more and more are receiving their shots. And they pose less of a threat to everyone else.

So, I look forward to growing hope. I look forward to spending more time with friends and family. I look forward finding closure for some of the losses of friends and family members.

And I look forward to many more hugs.

How are you feeling? Do you sense growing hope? Do you feel more freedom? Have you also lost friends and family members? Do you need closure? And have you missed hugs?

Tribute to a Great Lady

On September 1, 1990, Wilma Sehnert died. I was asked to speak at her service. She lived two doors down from us in Alhambra and became our second mother. Here’s what I said that day:

There’s hardly a significant event of my youth that Wilma was not part of. Looking back, I can remember the beautiful woman with the dark, shiny hair, the ever-present bangs, the warm twinkling eyes, the mischievous smile, and that contagious, throaty laugh.

I remember scorching summer afternoons before the advent of air conditioning, where the only breath of air was expelled from our seared lungs, and the only hope of relief lay in the Sehnerts’ backyard under the shade of a tree in the few inches of cool water contained in Dan’s small wading pool. And I remember our childish amusement when our mothers dared to share our little oasis of comfort. And amidst it all was Wilma—bringing sweat-frosted glasses of lemonade and iced tea. She refilled the little pool as fast as we emptied it with our games and always made us feel as though she enjoyed our play as much as we did.

I remember days which, with the magic of time, have taken unto themselves a sort of mythic unreality. Were we ever really that serene? Was life ever that pure and untouched?

During those lovely summers of our innocence, our families took turns hosting neighborhood potluck suppers. The Grahams, Sehnerts, and our family rotated these weekly events. But I remember the evenings at the Sehnerts with particular fondness. Perhaps it was their wonderful patio, which my dad helped build. At one end was an edifice of brick—a magnificent structure which was the equivalent of today’s outdoor kitchen. On the nights of the potlucks the built-in barbeque was put into service. During our play, however, it might be used as a walled fortress or a mountain to be climbed or a bunker.

Perhaps I remember best the quiet times after our meal when ancient grey-covered songbooks with yellowing pages would be passed around and the singing began. I can recall falling asleep to the strains of “Show Me the Way to Go Home,” “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” and “Good Night Irene.” The latter may have been Wilma’s favorite, as I can’t recall a single time when it was skipped. Or perhaps I remember it best because of her enthusiasm in singing it. While she may have lacked a bit in technical ability, she made up for it in enthusiasm! Sometimes Laura Lee Graham or my mother would add harmony, and the sweet sound of those female voices still rings in my memory.

I remember the wonder of the first television I ever saw—in the Sehnerts’ living room. At the center of a massive wooden cabinet was a small, slightly blurred screen on which real people moved and talked! The Hollywood Christmas Parade was an annual tradition. We kids sat on the floor as close to the set as our parents would allow and watched the parade. Don would build a fire in the fireplace, and in the background was Wilma, serving up mugs of delicious steaming hot chocolate. Sometimes there was also popcorn or cookies. It was the official beginning of the holiday season for many years and a memory my brother and I both cherish.

I remember Wilma during the hard times, too.

She was there for Mom, too. She was the first one at the house when Mom got the news of my father’s death, and was a constant fixture for the following weeks and months. She took care of us kids and saw to it that we had a second home to go to if we needed it. My brother, Ron, and I counted on that assurance and probably took advantage of her generosity far too often.

One of the most vivid pictures in my recollection is of Wilma dragging Dan’s little wagon, filled to overflowing with good food, up the street to our house each night after my dad died when I was seven. She’d arranged with all the neighbors to prepare the dishes, and then delivered these feasts herself.

Since Mom didn’t drive, Wilma was generous about taking us wherever we needed to go and helped her practice driving.

Since there was no money in our budget for extras, I had to pay for my own bicycle: the enormous sum of sixty dollars. (To me at ten-years-old, it might has well have been a thousand!) Wilma was there again. She invented excuses to have me run to the store for her so she so she could tip me more than was required when I returned. She ‘hired’ me to help her clean her house and overpaid me for the job. (When I was older, I realized that she probably had a cleaning service and didn’t really need any help.) I don’t know how much of that bicycle was purchased through her generosity, but I do know that without her, I never would have gotten it!

During my high school years, she was there for me, too. I remember once when a particularly important occasion arrived (so important that the particulars have escaped me) and as always, there was no money in our tight budget for a new dress. I had nothing close to appropriate in my wardrobe. But Wilma loaned me one of her dresses. It was a favorite of hers and mine. I can picture it clearly: white pique cotton with a V-neck, tight bodice, low back, and flared skirt. I felt like a princess wearing it! And I was frightened throughout the evening of soiling it.

She saved me the night of my senior prom, too. A girlfriend had offered to do my hair and makeup the afternoon of the dance. By the time she left my house, my hair looked like a huge rat’s nest and I was hysterical. Mom did the only sensible thing she could think of: she called Wilma. Still sobbing, I went to her house where, in a very short time, she transformed the disaster into perfection. She styled my hair into a sleek and sophisticated French twist with wispy bangs and fragile curls in front of my ears. Then she added her own lovely hair band of tortoiseshell, to match my hair, studded with rhinestones. It looked as though someone had sprinkled stars in my hair. She redid my makeup, and when she was through, I felt like Cinderella with my very own fairy godmother.

As I grew older and moved away from the neighborhood, I didn’t see as much of Wilma as I probably should have. But I always knew she was there. We met several times for lunch, and I’d stop by if I was visiting my mother.

She was always such a constant in my life—rock-solid and dependable. When I try to picture the world without her, I know that much of its sparkle and energy would be dimmed. What a bright light she was to so many of us!

She took in all of us strays and gave generously—of her possessions, but mostly she gave of herself. She was never easy on us. Quite the contrary. She expected the best from each one, and we did our best not to disappoint her.

One of her most memorable phrases to us kids was, “come on, you can do it!” And, although I know it would embarrass her terribly to hear it, much of what I learned about the kind of love they tried to teach in Sunday school came not from that source but from the example she set. Through her faithful and constant acts of selfless love, I observed what commitment and unconditional love were all about.

Love is a verb, and Wilma put it clearly into action. Those acts of love are very real and precious to each of us who was blessed to be a recipient of them and had Wilma touch our lives.

Losing a Job

Even before the current financial crisis, people have lost their jobs. However, as the economy began going downhill, more and more American jobs have disappeared. I’ve been there several times, and it isn’t fun!

The first time, my position ended because the manufacturing company I worked for decided that doing business in California was too expensive. So they outsourced the basic operations to China and the Dominican Republic. The administrative functions, including Document Control for which I was the manager, were sent to Texas. This was one of those special companies where the employees became an extended family. We genuinely cared about each other, and even after our work ended, we continued to meet at least once a month.

I was originally given two months’ notice, but ended up working seven. The company provided lots of resources and assistance with resume writing and retraining. Nearly everyone was reemployed within a couple of months. But that was in 2003.

I moved from manufacturing to banking, a ‘secure’ profession. I was unemployed exactly one day, and only because the bank had that Monday off as a holiday. I was hired as the Document Control Lead in the Information Technology Department. A few years later, I became the Change Manager. 

The bank was a smaller, local one where the employees were very close. We still hold reunions, including one last year at our house.

As the banking crisis began, we started to hear rumors that our own bank, previously the ‘gold standard’ for conservative fiduciary responsibility, might be in trouble. In November of 2008, the FDIC shut the bank down, and another larger institution took over.

This time, the resources provided were few. Since the acquiring bank had its own IT Department, there was no need for most of us to stay on. I assisted with the transition for six months, and then my job ended. This time I was out of work for two months, following which I accepted a contract as a Sr. Technical Writer.

A year later when that contract ended, I was again unemployed for two more months before accepting another contract as a SharePoint Administrator.

Even though I was fortunate to have found employment so soon after each job loss, the period of job hunting was frustrating and disconcerting.

So whenever I hear about a friend or acquaintance losing a job, I truly understand the stress and uncertainty.

This is the situation the protagonist in my new book, Ghost Writer, to be published this summer by Oak Tree Press, finds herself in. Nan Burton is employed as a computer programmer by a bank which is taken over by the FDIC. Sound familiar? I could feel all her concerns and frustrations, which made her story an easy one for me to tell. Have you lost a job in the current economic crisis? How did you cope?

Loss

This has been a year of loss—many losses. From Dad’s death on January 3 through the loss of my mother on July 26, and so many others in between and since, the year seems to be whittling away friends, family members, and the families of friends. I had counted 28 of those deaths before the end of February, when I stopped counting. But it didn’t end then. There’s been at least one a week since.

Losing those I love provided some powerful reminders for me.

Don’t take anyone for granted. My father died when I was seven. I went to second grade one morning, and when I came home that afternoon, he was gone. Forever. It was a powerful lesson I never forgot: People die. You never know when or how.

This is the reason that Larry and I tell each other, “I love you” on awakening each morning. We try never to part without a kiss, and reunite the same way. And we can’t go to sleep without another kiss and the words, “I love you.” When Larry traveled, he’d usually call home just to say goodnight. On a couple of occasions when he didn’t, I’d call him. If we couldn’t get through or were unable to make contact for some reason, we didn’t sleep well.

Youth doesn’t insulate you from death. People can die at any age. My father’s death taught me that one, too. He was thirty-seven. His mother was twenty-three. His grandmother, thirty-eight. And my maternal grandfather was fifty-four. All far too young. 

This point came home last year when our dear friends’ daughter died very suddenly at forty-two. Erin practically grew up in our home. I used to tease her that even though her parents thought she was theirs, she really belonged to us. On my birthday last year, among many other notes was one from Erin which said, “Happy Birthday Mama! Have a great day!” It told me that she knew she was loved. What a gift that was the next day when we received word that she was gone.

I was creating a movie for her folks’ 50^th anniversary this week and added family photos including Erin. I wept when I saw them. I miss her very much. But at least I knew that I loved her. And she knew it as well.

Tell the people you love that you love them—often. Years ago, another daughter of dear friends died at thirty-one after an illness of a couple of years. Several months before her death, I saw Peggy. Our conversation ended with a hug and my saying, “I love you, Peg.” She stepped back, looked me in the eye, and said, “I know you do.” What a gift!

Far too often the people we genuinely care about either don’t know it or don’t believe it. I keep hoping the repetition of the words will eventually reinforce the very genuine affection I have for the people in my life.

Many years ago now, another dear young man died in his early thirties. Looking at the large assemblage at his memorial service, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had any idea how many people cared about him. I doubted it. John just never seemed able to accept that others cared about him. And that has always made me sad.

There is a ritual I indulge in with many of the people in my life. Whenever we part, I always tell them I love them. I mean it. I wasn’t able to say goodbye to my father or to tell him I loved him. As long as I have breath, I want my loved ones to know without a doubt that I do.

My niece and goddaughter both caught on to this early. Whenever I talked to them on the phone, I’d end with, “I love you.” And they’d answer, “I love you, too.” However, as they got older, both of them would try to sense the end of the conversation so they could say the words first. They still do, and I love it that it still matters to both of them.

Life goes on. Even with the pain of loss, life continues for the survivors. Hopefully it is richer for the presence of all the special people in our lives—including those no longer living. My personal belief is that we will see them all again when we join them and that the love we shared in this life will remain between us. In those moments of grieving and sadness, this confidence is a great comfort.

Everyone suffers loss. Everyone grieves. The only way we can honor those we have lost is to live the remainder of our own days well. And that’s what I’m attempting to do now.

Remember, friends and family, I love you.