My father died when I was 36, he was 72. It struck me that he had been 36 when I was born.
So much of my younger years were so filled with busy-ness and the immaturity and self centeredness of young adulthood, I just lived at a frantic pace and let the years slip by; there were so many conversations I wish had happened that simply did not.
It never occurred to me that HE probably felt the same way as he was dying. Now, I regret the conversations that never happened with my own boys, even though I'm still here. Some of that time that slipped away was because of the busy-ness and pace of life I had, and some of it was because of a time when I slid into a morass of bad decisions, depression, and more bad choices that dominated my life. How I wish I had that period to relive.
This blog will serve to capture some of the things that haven't been said that my 3 boys will wonder about someday if they haven't already, and some of these posts will just be one sided thought trains, not supposed to be profound or valuable; it's just the stuff that will spin out.
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