One More Cup of Coffee
Recently, I returned to places with treasured memories from when Leeboy was alive. As I retraced familiar steps—the beach where we watched sunsets and had Thanksgiving on the beach one year, the coffee shop where we worked side-by-side, the neighborhood where we took daily walks, and our favorite taco stand—great memories flooded my heart and mind. His presence felt so close. I could still see his smile, hear his laugh, and picture him engaged in deep conversation with a stranger, skipping the small talk to ask about their life and challenges.
The beach held memories of Susan and me watching in awe as the sun dipped below the horizon, hand in hand, overwhelmed with gratitude. The beauty of the sunset reminded us of God’s glory, and somehow, Lee’s pain drew us closer—not only to each other but also to life and to God. Looking back, I realize that Lee’s struggles were woven into these precious memories, bringing us closer and helping us savor each moment.
These moments were both melancholy and comforting. I missed him deeply, yet I was grateful that these memories were still so vivid, as if we were reliving them. I remember how, even then, I sometimes wished I could freeze time, knowing that each precious moment was a gift we might never experience again. Leeboy’s pain was a constant companion, and it reminded me to cherish every bit of time we had together.
The grief of his absence is still raw, but I’ve come to appreciate how vividly I can recall our times together. It’s a reminder that I can carry both sorrow and gratitude—the pain of missing him and the joy of remembering him, alive and present in those memories.
This experience has shaped how I now see life. Pain, sorrow, and grief have a magnitude that can’t be denied, but they also invite us to live more intentionally with the people we love. I feel compelled to be more others-focused, fully present, and deeply connected in each moment. Lee taught me that there’s beauty in slowing down, looking beyond the surface, and truly being there with others. Now, more than ever, I try to embrace each day without rushing through it, recognizing that these moments are a gift.
When I visited the coffee shop, I could almost feel him there with me, his gaze lingering on me as he’d done so many times, as though he were taking in every detail of my face. Those long, meaningful looks and how he held on just a bit longer in his hugs—it was as if he understood that each time could be our last. I texted Susan from the coffee shop, telling her it felt like he’d just stepped away and would be back soon. “Oh, how I just want one more cup of coffee with him,” I wrote. Her reply was simple but so profound: “You will!!!”
Loss has given me a deeper awareness of eternity, where we’ll be reunited with loved ones, and loss will no longer exist. Until then, I hold onto these memories and live each day intentionally being present and creating moments that will one day be cherished memories. I’m convinced each day, this side of Heaven is an opportunity to make connections, build meaningful relationships, and create memories, all of which will be the only things we will take with us when we pass through the doorway to Heaven.
Our Big Reminder
On that great day, the main takeaway for me was that grief and gratitude can coexist, and I’m so thankful for the memories I have of Leeboy. And I know that when I live intentionally and connect meaningfully with loved ones, I create memories that will sustain me in my grief or melancholy. By being others-focused, fully present, and curious about their lives, I don’t just live the moment—I create a legacy of love and connection that will outlast the pain of loss. You’re right, Honey; I’m looking forward to spending much more time in a coffee shop with Leeboy.