This was going to be about Thanksgiving, the joys of overeating, the tradition of counting our blessings and the importance of giving thanks for the gift of family and friends.
That's what I planned to write about a few hours ago. Then I got a call that changed not only the plan, but the world as I knew it. It's hard to be thankful when you've lost someone you love. And it's especially hard to imagine a world without Sally.
We were friends for 35 years through the best and worst of times. She was older by more than a decade, but you'd never have guessed it to look at her or talk with her or try to keep up with her on a hike.
No one lives forever, not on this Earth. But I thought Sally might come close. I was certain she would outlive me.
When she called a few weeks ago while on a trip to Brazil, and said she was in a hospital, I was stunned. In the four years since she lost her husband to cancer, she probably earned enough frequent-flier miles for a round trip to the moon, but never got sick. Until now.
"Get better," I said, and she did. At least, she got well enough to be flown home to a hospital in California.
When I phoned her last week, she was hoping to be released soon, and I promised to come see her over Thanksgiving.
Then on Friday came the awful news that she'd suffered a stroke and was in a coma.
My husband and I were planning to leave early the next morning for an overnight trip to Zion National Park.
"Want to catch a flight to California instead?" he asked.
Sally was in ICU. I wouldn't be able to see her. She was surrounded by family, an army of friends praying nearby.
I asked myself what she would want me to do. And then I laughed, "hearing" her answer, "Don't be silly, go to Zion!"
So we packed up and drove for three hours from Las Vegas to Arizona and into Southern Utah, to a place that is as close to heaven as I ever expect to get in this life -- God's masterpiece sandstone carving of soaring cliffs, blood-red canyons and enormous monoliths, complete with a river running through it.
The real treats for me in my thirst for a taste of fall were the cottonwood trees that dripped bright yellow leaves like shiny gold coins, covering the ground and sending them flying on the wind. I closed my eyes, snapped a mental photo and sent it on a prayer to Sally.
We were waiting under blue skies to catch the shuttle for a tour of the park when we heard the first clap of thunder.
A moment later, we climbed on the bus as rain began to fall and temperatures plummeted. Then the rain turned to hail. And the hail turned to snow. And fall turned into winter.
It lasted only minutes, but what fine minutes they were.
That was the image that filled my mind today when I heard that Sally was gone. I pictured her like the Snow Queen enthroned on all that beauty, and somehow it made it easier, just a little, to let her go.
The seasons of our lives, like the seasons of the year, pass that swiftly, that beautifully, from one to the next.
The secret, if there is one, is to love them all -- sun and rain and hail and snow -- to love the beauty and mystery of each moment before it is gone.
This Thanksgiving, as in the past, I will set two tables for all the people I hold dear: One in the dining room for those who will be with me; and one in my heart for those who will not.
I'll eat too much, count my blessings and give thanks for the gift of family and friends -- especially my friend Sally.
To you and yours from me and mine, here's wishing you a blessed Thanksgiving.
(Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077, or at www.sharonrandall.com.)
COLUMN
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