If your family is like us, we strive through the week, so we can make it to the weekend. From the end of school on Friday until early Monday morning is the most celebrated time of our week. I usually combine these days into a collective "we had a great weekend", "we spent the weekend..."
I think most people do. It's why I thought nothing of telling everyone of what my plans were for last weekend.
But the weekend wasn't over.
We lingered longer in church because the Ugandan director of our church's mission program was speaking. We met friends for a late lunch and I responded to texts from my baby brother throughout the day, pushing off a phone call he wanted to make to me.
When we finally spoke, he was grumpy, but no less than a regular bad day. We texted again later and even later still and the theme grew more somber with each text.
I began to worry.
I tried to call.
It was too late.
My baby brother was already with Jesus.
I've heard so many people say that you can't waste moments of your life, but the past few days have taught me that I must stop trying to process my life into seasons, a series of days, or even moments. I can no longer claim that "weekends" or "work week" are allotted to us. This inhale of breath may not be followed by an exhale. That every rise and fall of my chest or your chest is not guaranteed to us.
I want to relive EVERY. SINGLE. BREATH of Sunday. Because Sunday was the separation of "weekend" into a day; a day that was given and not seen for the gift that it was meant to be.
It is a lesson that I will remember for all of the breaths that I am gifted with on this earth and a reminder that days and breaths and moments are to be separated and cherished.