There are some articles I write because I have an opinion.
There are others I write because life quietly removes every excuse for remaining silent.
This DIG piece is the latter.
Lately, I have found myself visiting someone I dearly love.
A dear friend.
For years, we have done life together.
We have laughed until our stomachs hurt.
Argued over things that seemed worth defending.
Dreamed impossible dreams.
Celebrated victories.
Survived disappointments.
Corrected each other.
Cheered each other on.
Shared the ordinary rhythms of friendship that, at the time, felt wonderfully… ordinary.
Today, she says nothing.
For weeks now, she has lain in a hospital bed, suspended somewhere between this world and the next, while tubes, tracks and machines speak the language her voice no longer can.
And somewhere between fervent prayers, quiet tears, and the relentless beeping of monitors, I have found myself standing trial before my own conscience.
Not because I failed to love her.
I love her dearly. Intentionally. Dutifully. Fondly.
I loved her with the dangerous assumption that there would always be tomorrow.
Perhaps, the greatest arrogance of the human race is not believing we are immortal.
It is behaving as though the people we love are.
We postpone conversations as though time has signed a contract with us.
We leave disagreements unresolved because there will surely be another dinner.
Another weekend.
Another birthday.
Another Christmas.
Another ordinary Tuesday.
Life signed no such agreement.
Life Never Announces the Last Time
The strange thing about life is that it almost never announces the last time.
It simply lets the moment pass.
The last hug.
The last bedtime story.
The last school run.
The last family photograph before someone is missing from it.
The last time your child reaches for your hand before deciding they are old enough to walk alone.
The last time your mother tells that familiar story and for what ever reason she was right all along and you did not have wisdom enough to see what the elders saw….
The last time your father calls and you have conversations that do not quite come from an absolute place of love…but respect. After all you did not choose the loins from where you came.
The last time your spouse falls asleep beside you after an argument that, years from now, neither of you will even remember.
The last time you and your friends met up, and laughed so hard that you promise each other, “We’ll do this again soon.”
You don’t know.
Because if you knew…
You would stay a little longer.
Listen a little more carefully.
Laugh a little louder.
Forgive a little sooner.
Love a little more intentionally.
Perhaps that is God’s greatest mercy.
Or perhaps it is life’s greatest mystery.
We are never told when ordinary moments are quietly becoming priceless memories.
Instead, we discover their value only after they have become impossible to recreate.
How Tragically Human We Are
We photograph sunsets overlooking the faces sitting beside us.
We chase milestones, neglecting moments.
We collect achievements while quietly spending the people who helped us achieve them.
We insure our homes, our cars, our businesses, our health.
Yet every single day we gamble recklessly with relationships…
…as though love itself comes with a lifetime warranty.
It doesn’t.
Marriage teaches this.
Or at least it should.
The person sleeping beside you today is not the same person you married years ago.
Neither are you.
Love was never about finding one perfect person.
It was always about choosing the same imperfect soul through every version life asks them to become.
Yet we spend years complaining about habits we may one day ache to witness again.
The missing remote control.
The door you leave open.
The loud laughter.
The endless reminders.
The snoring that stole our sleep.
The questions that interrupted our silence.
Isn’t it extraordinary how the things we beg life to remove often become the very things we later beg memory to return?
The Quiet Lessons of Parenthood, Friendship, and Work
Parenthood whispers the same lesson.
One day you carry your child.
Then one day you don’t.
No announcement.
No ceremony.
You simply put them down…
…never realizing you have also put down an entire chapter of your life.
Friendship is no different.
We assume true friends understand.
We assume they know we care.
We assume we can always call next week.
Until one day, next week becomes a sentence history refuses to finish.
And then there is work.
We tell ourselves we are too busy.
But perhaps busy is one of the most socially acceptable lies we tell ourselves.
Busy rarely means we have no time.
It simply reveals what we have decided matters most.
If we are painfully honest, many of the people who deserve our presence have quietly slipped beneath meetings no one will remember, emails no one will ever read again, and deadlines that will be replaced by new ones before the month is over.
We spend years learning how to build careers.
Very few of us learn how to build memories.
History has an unsettling way of exposing what truly mattered.
Not through success.
Through absence.
Loss Wears Many Faces
There is another truth that has refused to leave me.
Not everyone we lose dies.
Some simply become strangers.
Some move away.
Some stop calling.
Some lose themselves in burdens they cannot explain.
Some drift into different seasons.
Some slowly disappear while still very much alive.
Loss wears many faces.
Death is only one of them.
Which is why love cannot afford procrastination.
Neither can forgiveness.
Neither can gratitude.
Neither can presence.
Because tomorrow is not the only thing that disappears.
Opportunities.
Conversations.
Versions of people.
Versions of ourselves.
The older I get, the more convinced I become that life is not measured in years.
It is measured in unnoticed moments.
The pot of Ozumba stew with the clan.
The drive home with hubby.
The ordinary text from a friend.
The playful disagreement with your spouse.
The noisy dinner table where tablets and Nintendos seem to have a sit at too.
The colleague who interrupts your day simply because they enjoy your company.
These are not interruptions to life.
They are life.
Everything else is merely administration.
A Teacher Who Speaks Without Words
My dear friend has not raised her voice to curse a crazy contractor out.
She has not written me a note that reads….
Iya… I have left a box of cupcakes, we can eat amala and goat meat for lunch.
She has not spoken a word In 9 weeks.
Yet she has become one of the greatest teachers of my life.
She has taught me that presence is a privilege.
Not a promise.
That love should never be rationed.
That apologies should not be scheduled.
That forgiveness is too beautiful to postpone.
That ordinary days are, in fact, extraordinary gifts disguised as routine.
So I have made a quiet covenant with myself.
I will answer more calls.
I will hold fewer grudges.
I will say, “I love you,” while it can still be heard.
I will stay at the table a little longer.
I will notice the people hidden inside my routines.
I will remember that every ordinary day is a miracle wearing work clothes.
And when someone I love is speaking, I will try to remember that one day I may search every corner of my memory hoping to hear that very voice again.
Tomorrow Has Never Belonged to Us
Today, somewhere in the world, someone will unknowingly kiss their spouse goodbye for the last time.
Someone will end a phone call with a parent for the last time.
Someone will laugh with a friend for the last time.
Someone will wave at a colleague for the last time.
Someone will say,
“See you tomorrow.”
They won’t know they have just said goodbye.
Neither do we.
That is why kindness cannot wait.
Forgiveness cannot wait.
Presence cannot wait.
Love cannot wait.
Because tomorrow has never belonged to us.
It has only ever been lent to us.
A Simple Request
If these words have stirred something in your heart today, I ask only one thing of you.
Please whisper a prayer for my dear friend.
You do not know her name.
Perhaps you never will.
But God does.
Ask Him, in His infinite mercy, to breathe strength into weary lungs, restore what medicine cannot explain, awaken hope where silence has settled, and grant her the indescribable joy of telling her own testimony. Giving Him All the Glory.
And then, before you put your phone down…
Call someone you love.
Forgive someone you’ve postponed forgiving.
Tell your parents you appreciate them.
Hold your spouse a little longer.
Laugh with your children without looking at the clock.
Reply to that friend you’ve been meaning to call.
Choose presence over pride.
Because the greatest tragedy in life is not simply that tomorrow never comes.
It is discovering, when it does, that yesterday was your last opportunity to love more intentionally.
A Prayer
Lord…
Please give my dear friend another sunrise.
Give her another laugh.
Another embrace.
Another ordinary Tuesday.
Let this season end in testimony.
Amen.
Dr. Iyadunni Gbadebo (DIG)
