The last time

There's something about the last time for anything that just leaves us with a sense of incredible loss. Whether it's the last time we experience something good or even something bad we can never experience it again and it leaves us feeling desperately lost. The last time I saw my dad ("Pop"), we took photographs of him, me and my son--the three generations. I had this forboding premonition that it might be the last time I'd see him--I hope I was wrong--so we spent a good deal of time trying to retrace and record the family tree, which I know will be lost with him. Then we played and sang some old gospel songs. Pop was never happier than when he was making music or hunting. The last time we went hunting, I didn't realize it would be the last--Pop lost part of his leg--and I didn't savor the experience as much as I should have. I haven't gone hunting since then, which is pretty incredible since, as a child, I looked forward to the first day of hunting season like most kids look forward to Christmas.

Tomorrow, I will walk down the aisle with my youngest daughter and give her away--the last of my three children to get married. Oh, I know no one can really belong to anyone, but the preacher will ask: "Who gives this woman . . . ?" Whether it's a business, a photograph, or a relationship, God has graciously given us the capacity to attach, an ability without which we could never empathize. And once we've given our heart to something or someone we really can never get it back. So, while we may come into this world naked and leave this world naked something in the insula of our brain struggles with our responsibility to be good stewards of God's gifts, and we grieve our losses. I guess that's why the first beatitude Jesus uttered was: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." The person who has no capacity for loss has no capacity for love.