Just Don't Waste It

I'm always leaving my mom's house with stuff.

Leftover dessert, a spare jar of peanut butter, endless tupperware stuffed with leftovers.

She can be quite the savvy estate sale shopper as well, and once, she sent me home with a chunky pair of binoculars, perfect for birding. I wonder if there's a non-creepy way for me to walk around my little town with a big pair of binoculars...

This time, however, my mom sent me home with notebooks. Notebooks are always welcome in my house - all shapes and sizes have a different role - mostly for sketching, but sometimes for the occasional idea that I scribble down in frenzy for fear of forgetting it. (some of my best ideas come this way). One notebook in particular was small, teal, and made of a leathery material. The paper was high-quality, too.

This had obviously been one of my dad's notebooks. He'd used dozens of these tiny notebooks for writing, note-taking, even scheduling. He had a very particular brand that he swore by. He didn't have much need for them any more, having passed in October of last year, so I was happy to take them off my mom's hands, especially if they were hard for her to have around.

My wife and I drove back east through an inevitable rain storm (why does it always rain on those long car trips?). We got home late, and I thought I might set one of my dad's little notebooks at my bedside, in case I have any weird ideas in the night that need written down. I set one of my extra-dark gel pens next to it, and popped open the notebook to put my name in the front. I was immediately met with a half-dozen pages of my dad's handwriting. I soon realized this wasn't just any notebook. It's very possible it was the last one he wrote in.

"T [September]3 Cotswolds

F 5 London

W 10 Liverpool

M 15 York"

This was an agenda for my parents' trip to Great Britain in September of 2025. Being the anglophiles that they are, it was only a matter of time before they took a pilgrimage to see the Scottish Moors and Paul McCartney's childhood house.

Sadly, just days before they got on the plane, my dad started having breathing difficulties. He was admitted to the hospital for the dogged heart issues that had been giving him grief for as long as I can remember. There were a few times during those weeks where we thought he'd come home, but he eventually passed away in hospice on October 11th.

There's a temptation to tear out the pages of my dad's itinerary for a trip he never got to take, but for now the notebook stays on my bedside table with its pages intact. It serves as a strong reminder to me that life can be brutally short.

Even though he never got to take that trip with my mom, my dad lived a very full and adventurous life. He'd been on mission trips overseas and all over the States. His running list of National Parks visited and explored is impressive. He hiked down and out of the Grand Canyon twice - heart problems and all. But even greater than all of his travels was how he lived in between those trips. He shepherded hundreds if not thousands of people throughout his lifetime. He wrote countless sermons that were sharp, thought-provoking, and always pointed his congregants back to what's important. He loved me, my sister, and my mom with a quiet, consistent strength. Above all, I want to love God and others like my dad did.

My dad's great life challenges me not to waste mine. I have ambitions and goals with my writing and my illustration, and sometimes I'm afraid to even admit that I have those goals. Sometimes I'm afraid to touch these projects and develop my skills because I don't want to fail. But the notebook at my bedside reminds me that even if those dreams don't come to fruition, it doesn't mean I shouldn't try. There can even be delight in trying. The notebook is a finger pointed straight at my heart that reminds me that my own gifts are worth investing in, even if I won't get to enjoy the fruits of them in this life.

With that spirit of challenge, I want to challenge you, readers, as well. I challenge you not to be afraid of the stories, talents, time, and relationships you have been given. Take up your shovels and shears and tend to your gifts well. Don't let the culture wars, politics, comparison games, and bottomless algorithms stop you. Let it fuel you. Now more than ever, people need bright spots in their lives. You have the unique opportunity to be a bright spot. Just don't waste it.

Thanks as always for stopping by my stoop, I hope to see you again soon. Until then, safe travels.