I Thessalonians 4:13-14.

A dear saint from our church died last week Wednesday. That was the same day that my grandpa would have turned 96 years old. Grandpa has been gone for 7 1/2 years now. But it doesn't stop hurting, really. It's just a new hurt.

We spent Tuesday evening with Jerry. He sat across the table from us at an auction, and he kept saying that he should be allowed to bid on Ellie since she was there. By the end of the night, I told him that I would PAY him to take Ellie. I was joking, of course, but he would gladly have taken her. When we were leaving, I said, "See you Sunday." He said, "Yes. See you Sunday."

Then, on Wednesday, he died. I saw him Sunday, all right, but he didn't see me.

Over the last few days, things that we said to each other in our short time of friendship have been creeping back into my mind. He loved that I sang on the worship team. He loved my daughter. He loved to laugh. He loved to sing--loud. Just like me. Tuesday night, we were eating dessert, and he was loving his strawberry cake. He looked at my German chocolate cake and asked, "Is that coconut on top?" I looked down and said, "Yes. And it's great."

What a strange thing to remember.

I think the thing that has hit me the most is that I was distracted on Tuesday night. When I spent time with Jerry, I didn't know that it was the last time we'd spend together. I didn't know that we should spend our time saying more than how great our desserts were. I figured we'd have other time to talk about how much we meant to each other. Instead, I told his wife after his funeral. I was eating dessert then, too. But there wasn't coconut on top. I wonder if German chocolate cake will always be to me Jerry's dessert.