I place my coffee in the microwave and push the 3 and the 0 and wait for it to heat it up for the second time. The house is oddly quiet. And as the mug rotates on the glass plate my thoughts are of the two funerals last week. One, a seven-year old boy and the other, a woman down the street, less than a mile away, who lost her battle to cancer. She left behind a 15-year-old daughter. And in these moments, I wonder if it’s possible to live a life with no regrets.
And the microwave dings and the coffee is steaming once again.
I trace my familiar steps in my familiar kitchen. And I wonder, what if consciously, to spite my fear and trepidation, I make my way to life’s massive auditorium and choose to sit on the front row? What if I were to take in every moment, sip it like sweet sugary tea? What if I didn’t constantly check my watch counting the second-hand tics until intermission? And what if I sat mesmerized at the beauty performed by the people who have sung solos throughout my years? What if I never scrutinized one sentence from the cast of characters God specifically placed on stage?
And my thoughts of living this large life without regrets are interrupted by a little boy who seems to always be hungry for more. I lift him up, even though he can walk now because holding him close feels like a privilege. And today as the rain falls leaving the outside colorless, there is great beauty unfolding on the front row inside my little home.