The upbringing of children is a great and daily creative process. It is the parents’ hard work and constant, wise attention to their children. I have many times had to confess people on their deathbeds. Their confessions are not about not having earned a million dollars, built a luxurious home, or been successful in business. People in their final hours are first of all full of regret for not having done some good, not having helped or supported their family, friends, or even incidental acquaintances. The second thing that torments almost everyone before death is that they gave so little time to their children.

Metropolitan Tikhon (Shevkunov) of Pskov and Porkhov

We have so much time. We can get to the things we know we should do tomorrow. We can think of our neighbor. Our spouse. Our children later. Today is my day. This is my time.

I have savored this lie. It has run through my mind countless times to justify my desire for my own good. My own pleasure. All else is a distant second.

Yet who, when faced with eternity, wishes that they would have done more for themselves? More to boost their ego? More money in the bank? More cars in their garage?

With eternity staring back at us, we wish for more time to do what we knew we should do. But didn’t. More breath for words. More moments for embraces. Just a bit more strength to say I love you.

Of course, those moments have long been spent.

On straw.

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