"The car is totaled." The estimate for repair was more than it was worth. The market value dwindles with time, but the real value had grown richer. 

Our son had taken one of his many African friends (this man helped him with French translations) for a driving lesson, against his better judgment, but because he is a generous friend who cares. Things had gone well, once they found a suitable place to practice (not the State Farm parking lot where we taught our sons to drive years ago). In the last few minutes, though, the friend backed into a concrete post, deeply folding the rear bumper and the trunk lid. No one was injured.

This car had been my father's car. Seven years ago, he moved into a nursing home here in Columbia after my mother died. His car became our son's car. Despite his Alzheimer's disease, my father knew it was serving others.

My father kept possessions in perspective. When I, as a teen, kept driving the family car with a red engine light on, I caused $500 in engine damage to our only car ($3,700 in today's dollars). My father was understanding. I, his son, was what mattered most.

So, this parking lot lesson is an apt ending for the car. It died in service to a friend in need who hailed from another culture, as an act of generosity and service. I think my father would be pleased. Totally.

This week would have been both my parents' birthdays. Dad born Seven-25-27, and mom Seven 29-29. My nifty numerical nmemonic helped me remember the date and calculate their ages.

Different styles

"Bill, it's time to go" was a familiar refrain from my mother, Iris, when my parents visited. Mom was the punctual & tidy one (who might put away the plate I had just placed on the kitchen counter before going to the bathroom). Dad was the one who would get engaged and linger: playing on the floor with his grandchildren, stopping to chat while out and about, or figuring out how something works. They were a good pair, balancing each other's tendencies.

I don't want to be a bother

My mother died about 6 years ago after a fairly short illness, on hospice care, only days after arriving home. She didn't linger. It was time to go. 

My father lived for nearly 6 years in a nursing home here in Columbia, slowly declining year by year. He seemed in no hurry to go … that is, until he got the final call. 

My mother-in-law, Lydia, died in early February this year. Our dispersed sons made travel plans for a memorial celebration to be held a month later, coming from Hong Kong and New York. Then in late February, as if not wanting to cause anyone further inconvenience, my father quietly died days before Lydia's memorial celebration. Piggy-backing family plans, we held his funeral 2 days after Lydia's. 

It was as if, at Iris' cue, he heard the call, "Bill, it's time to go."

This photo reminds me of a lesson about savoring a moment. We had high hopes. They were exceeded beyond our wildest dreams. And it took very little more than to open our eyes and be present. The memories of joy and satisfaction warm me. 

About 6 years ago, widowed for a year, away from his home of 60 years, my father enjoyed a little core family reunion that we, his children, staged. The aim was to get Bill and his sole surviving sibling, Alyce, together with his children and my wife to enjoy a weekend while we still could. 

We went for a walk at nearby Ballard Nature Center. Wildflowers bloomed. A tree frog perched atop a post. The air clear and inviting. Filming as I trailed our little group, I saw my father pause to look around and savor the little wonders all around us. In this photo, we sat — allowing the wonder and sunshine to soak in. That's one lesson I take from that day. 

We may have some disappointment today. Hopes aren't met. Expectations were too high. But let us not miss the little wonders. Small blossoms. 

Today, I woke to the dawn chorus. I'll hike with some dear friends before the summer heat sets in. We'll walk in worship of the wonders of this world. Hearts will be open.  Allowing the little wonders.

Appreciating two mothers this Mother’s Day. One here. One gone.

Most days, our appetites serve us well. When we are hungry, we eat (if we can). When full, there's a signal to stop. In this image, the two mothers most important to me are communicating silently. My own mother's posture speaks of resignation. Her head in her simply adorned hand. The other hand rests on her tray, acknowledging its presence while signaling indifference. The bands identify her as "the one cared-for". The white towel protects the modest dignity of her gown. Her hair holds its coif. 

My wife (the other mother) looks on, patiently ready to offer whatever my mother may need. The signals are subtle, but another mother would recognize them. For this brief moment, nothing more is needed. 

Eating has been perilous in the preceding days, and hope has been fading. The simple food before her will not address the longing that will be satisfied at home in a few days. The longing is for her final home. Where all our needs are met, whether tired or hungry.