With The End in Mind

The sun streamed through the kitchen window, the same way it did in my grandmother’s house, where lace curtains swayed in the summer breeze and the scent of cinnamon rolls clung to the air. I can still see her hands, weathered, steady, always busy kneading dough or shelling peas, and hear her voice, soft but sure, telling me that love is what lasts, long after the body grows tired.

Later, my mother carried that same quiet wisdom. She taught me that endings are not to be feared, but to be honored. When she prayed, she prayed with her whole being, her eyes closed and her lips trembling, as if speaking to God was as natural as breathing. She lived with her heart open, even when time began to steal her strength.

Now, when I read words about living with the end in mind, I feel their presence, two women who shaped me, who still walk with me. Their lessons echo: forgive quickly, love deeply, speak gently.

Death is not a thief in the night but a doorway, a return to the One who breathed life into us. The butterflies of memory rise in me like a thousand tiny resurrections, reminding me that the soul does not vanish, it takes flight.

And so I hold the end not as a shadow, but as a lantern. A reminder that every breath is sacred, every moment a chance to weave love into the world, just as my grandmother and mother did.