Let the Good Times Roll...
“Thanks for coming over, guys,” I said, my voice soft but carrying a weight of relief. “It was a terrible day until you came over.” Then I smiled, letting the gratitude spill over. “Thanks.”
Leo and Sydney returned the smile, their voices bright as a sunrise. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“Anytime,” I said, and I meant it.
We ended up at Bartonville Diner, that little place where the coffee smells like comfort itself. I told them about meeting Jack and Margie yesterday, how Pastor Roman and Ami had come with me, how Jack’s home-brewed coffee always seemed brewed with kindness.
“Anytime,” Jack had told me.
But earlier that day, I had left Vinnie at St. Jude to pick up Brother Tom for his doctor’s appointment. His walker shook beneath him, his body frail. He nearly fell as we left, but I caught him—his weakness cutting deep into me. Tom worries me. My heart aches to see him so worn down. They want him to see a neurologist.
And Margie, yesterday, sitting in her wheelchair. Her smile was brave, but her body told a different story. I leaned down, whispered, “I’m praying for you daily,” and gave her a hug. Jack too. My arms wrapped around both of them, not out of duty, but out of love.
That’s what made the day feel heavy. When people I love hurt, the world feels dim. But even in the dimness, the light of friendship glowed. My time with Jack and Margie was real, unpolished, unscripted. My conversations with Tom were the kind that make you feel alive.
“Conversation is a thing of the past,” I told him. “People don’t do it anymore. They’re glued to their phones. A conversation these days usually consists solely of text messages.”
But oh, how much gets lost in text—no raised eyebrows, no laughter spilling over, no gentle nudges or knowing smiles.
So, no. It wasn’t really a terrible day. Not when I think of these moments of goodness stitched into it.
And then there was Leo and Sydney. Leo, practicing his boxing, shadow-sparring with Sydney who could hardly stop giggling between playful jabs in the middle of my living room. She’d laugh, he’d grin, and I—sounding like Grandma Carolyn—couldn’t help but say, “Be careful!” My words were half warning, half endearment.
Watching them together was joy itself. Like sunlight breaking through clouds.
I remembered New Year’s Eves at Jack and Margie’s, games around the table, the clock ticking close to midnight. Sometimes we’d start praying at 11:30, sometimes 11:45, carrying the New Year into God’s presence before it arrived. Those nights wrapped us in warmth and togetherness. I miss them.
But here’s the truth: these aren’t days to mourn—they’re days to cherish. The love I’ve tasted in these friendships will stretch into eternity. Every hug, every laugh, every whispered prayer will ripple into Glory.
Jack and I will find mischief in Heaven, I’m sure of it. Brother Tom will be right there, whole and strong again, laughing in the middle of it all. Margie too, her chair long gone, her body light and free.
And so, even in the sadness, even in the shadows—good times await.