How Today Is Different

I spent my fifth-grade year in Alva, Oklahoma. It was the worst year of my life, but I did come away from it with one good friend. Her name was Gina, and although she was a year older and we went to different schools, our moms were good friends and we "clicked" right away. We've written letters over the years and seen each other a few times as adults. Later this week, under the worst of circumstances, I'll see Gina again. 

Her best friend in the world moved from Houston to Colorado Springs seven months ago. Gina was heartbroken to lose daily contact with a friend who was more like a sister, but they managed to juggle their schedules and still spend hours on the phone each week. As mothers of boys, they liked to joke about how they would be mothers-in-law some day and how they would vent their frustrations only to each other while being extra kind and helpful to their daughters-in-law. (My best friend Kendra and I have had this same conversation.) They were looking forward to going through all the stages of life together. 

Gina's friend Jena, along with the rest of her family, got the flu last week, like so many other people I know. Gina talked to Jena on Friday, and although Jena had laryngitis and felt miserable, she was planning to meet with one of her son's teachers later that day. Instead, Jena came down with pneumonia. On Saturday, she was admitted to the hospital. On Sunday, she went on life support. Monday morning at 5 a.m., this 36-year-old mother of four boys died. Just like that. 

My friend Gina is flying out today to stay with the boys and their dad for a week. She's devastated herself, but she's more concerned about them. The boys range in age from 7 to 17; the oldest is actually Jena's brother, who she has raised since their mother died seven years ago. I don't know any of them personally. They live on the opposite side of town and they haven't been here long enough to make connections, though Gina probably would have connected us at some point. She's connecting us now, but not in a way she intended.

People die all the time. Moms die all the time. Women in their 30s die all the time. But Jena's age and number of kids, along with the suddenness of it all, bring this death closer to home. Words from one of my favorite songs, by Chris Rice, keep playing through my head:

"Every day is a gift you've been given;

Make the most of the time every moment you're living."

Today is a day just like any other day. I've got a long list of things to do. I'm irritated by a few things; I'm happy about others. I have some regrets about yesterday but am looking forward to tomorrow. But today is today. Instead of just getting through it and existing, I will make the most of today. I will sit with my kids on my lap a little longer. I will give them my full attention when they're telling me their stories. I will tell my husband I love him. I will mail a letter to a good friend who's been on my mind. I will be kinder to the telemarketer on the phone. I will stop and enjoy the strawberries I'll eat for lunch instead of just cramming them in while I bustle around the kitchen. I will tell Jena's story with the hope that other people will make the most of every moment they're given. At least for today.