It’s 5:56 p.m. on Monday, May 5. I’m writing to essentially work through the shocking news. A colleague, who officially retired on May 1 after decades of public service, died over the weekend—his first full weekend without any responsibilities to an employer; his first full weekend living with the type of freedom that most of us believe only comes with retirement.

I can’t begin to imagine what his family must be enduring.

Sadness and grief is only beginning to creep into—and slowly fill—the crevasses of the hearts of his former officemates and work friends who loved him.

Death, at the start of a person’s second life, seems so cruel… now and back in July 2023.

It was Sunday, July 9, that my 66-year old uncle had died— unexpectedly—in his sleep. His death changed—and continues to shape—the course of my life.

He and I were estranged. After spending nearly two years reflecting on our relationship, I’m still not certain of the cause, though I’m sure distance played a heavy hand.

The gap between childhood and adulthood fell into a time before constant connection—back then, when phones had minutes, email was clunky and Facebook was for .edu addresses only. And, his life launched in big, new ways and he made his own choices.

Twenty years of distance built one very high hurdle between us, and on July 9, 2023, any opportunity for us to reconnect simply faded as he took his last breath.

It’s one of my biggest regrets.

But even in loss, we can still gain.

I offered to dig through my uncle’s tech in search of details that could help us honor his wonderful life. Photos. Any journal entries or notes that could help us figure out the story he’d like us to help tell. It’s incredible what you can learn about a person by swimming through their phone.

I listened to the last song he played the night before he died: “These Eyes” by The Guess Who (1969).

The song is described as a soulful ballad reflecting on lost love and longing. The lyrics emphasize the pain of heartbreak, with the recurring line “These eyes cry every night for you.” The song’s emotive delivery and orchestration encapsulate the essence of unrequited love.

I learned the last song he favorited on his Spotify playlist was “Everywhere” by Fleetwood Mac. It’s a dreamy, upbeat love song about being completely swept up in the feeling of wanting to be with someone all the time.

The song is described as not being about heartbreak or distance — it’s about a pure, joyful longing to share every moment with someone who lights you up.

Music tells us so much about the listener. Cellphone apps do, too.

As I continued to scroll through my uncle’s iPhone I learned he had one of those apps that counts down specific dates—in this case it was his retirement. By the app’s count, my uncle had less than a year before he would gracefully retire from his career. Saved webpages painted a clear picture of what he dreamed of doing: camping, road trips, traveling and DIY projects around his house. He had serious plans. Big plans. A whole other life ahead of him—after retirement—it seemed.

Why he didn’t fully lean into those dreams I will never know. But I do know this, life is not about waiting for “when.”

Raise your hand if you’ve ever said something like this:

I’ll do this when I lose weight.

I’ll do that when I save enough money.

I’ll make that change when I get more experience.

I’ll walk away when I find something better.

I’ll take the leap when I am older.

I’ll tell him how I truly feel when I gain enough confidence.

I’ll be better when I am happier.

I’ll be kinder when I am less stressed.

I will focus on myself when everyone else is okay.

Okay, but when is it truly enough for us? When we retire? When we’re older? What age do we need to reach? How much life do we need to experience to allow ourselves to truly live?

Nearly 20 years of local journalism and 40 years of cultivating my Christian faith remind me that a long life is not guaranteed. Tomorrow is not promised. Heck, we all hope to make it home safe and sound today.

I’m writing this all to process—not to incite fear, but to encourage us all to consider more.

After 10 years of living in The Heights, an inner-city Houston neighborhood, I’m literally in the process of packing up to move downtown. And I’m catching myself delivering a one-woman-show of “when.”

“When I move downtown, my life is going to open up with excitement and adventure,” I tell my friends and family in an unsolicited monologue about how I’m suddenly going to do all of these things I haven’t done for the last 10 years… all because I am moving 2.9 miles away from where I currently live.

I’ve signed up for salsa dancing lessons in the park in June. I’m ready to explore downtown restaurants and nightlife. I’m finally going to take the METRO light rail from Downtown to one of my favorite places in the city: the Museum of Fine Arts-Houston. The world is going to open up wide for me… when I move… in three weeks.

But right now, my life is paused. I paused it. My home is a prolonged state of packing and purging. It’s fascinating, when you think about it. All of my treasures, carefully tucked into boxes—fragile, antiques, photos—neatly stacked up to eventually be upacked by me when I decide it’s finally time.

I’m not taking any dance classes now. I’m not going to the downtown farmer’s market, yet. I’m still a few weeks out from moving. Let’s just pack it all up now, so I’m ready for when it’s time.

Okay, but when I move, why is it suddenly going to be so different?

I miss my uncle and our relationship that wasn’t. Perhaps listening to some of his music allowed one last drop of connection for us to share.

“These Eyes” and “Everywhere” live on opposite sides of the emotional spectrum, but somehow, they echo the same heart.

These Eyes aches.
Everywhere is light spilling in.

When you hold both songs in the same breath, you’re reminded that love, but really life, isn’t just one thing. It’s not just joy or ache. It’s both. The weight of what was. The lightness of what could be.

And maybe that’s the point to living.

It’s all never going to be perfect. Each day is a gift from God. When will today be enough?