Last night, I watched an episode of a television series that stayed with me long after the screen went dark. It told the story of two elderly men—lifelong friends—who had planned one last fishing trip to their old cabin. Just days before they were to leave, the star of the show received heartbreaking news that his friend had passed away.
Grief-stricken yet determined, he went to the cabin alone. As he cast his line into the still, glassy water, memories came flooding back—laughter echoing across the lake, quiet talks, and the kind of friendship that only time can build. It was a simple story, yet it touched something deep inside me. It reminded me how precious time is, how valuable true friendship can be, and how quickly life passes by.
As I grow older, I am more aware that my time will not last forever. That is not a sad thought, just an honest one. Everyone I love—family, friends, will one day leave this world. Instead of filling me with fear, that truth brings gratitude. It reminds me to slow down, to love more freely, and to prepare my heart for the day I will go home to be with the Lord.
Just last Sunday, Carol and I joined a few close friends for a wine-tasting event. The host, a kind man of eighty-five, welcomed us with warmth and joy. Between sips and smiles, he shared poems he had written and stories about his vineyard—how each grape carried its own story of patience and hope.
Then his tone softened. “Lately,” he said quietly, “I have been preparing to meet Jesus.” He told us he had started going back to church and was bringing some of his family with him. He said he wanted to do the right things so that he would be welcomed into heaven.
Carol and I looked at each other but said nothing. His heart was sincere, but I could hear the weight in his words. He was trying to earn what only grace can give. His preparation, though honest, was misplaced. The truth is none of us can earn our way into heaven. It is not about what we do, but about who we know. It is about opening our hearts to Jesus, who already paid the price for us.
That conversation made me think about my brother Frank. He was twelve years older than me—a man of strong faith and quiet strength. I often called him a world missionary because he truly was one. His love for Jesus carried him across the world, but it was his compassion that carried him into people’s hearts. He noticed those who were hurting and always offered words of hope.
One Tuesday morning, while I was driving to San Jose for work, I felt the urge to call him. His voice sounded weak and slow. Worried, I asked my daughter Dori to check on him. Later that day, we learned he had been rushed to the hospital. Two months later, the doctors told us he would not be coming home.
It was during the height of COVID-19, when most people were not allowed to visit loved ones in the hospital. By God’s grace, I was allowed to go in before his family arrived. Frank was lying quietly, his arms moving restlessly across the bed. He did not respond when I spoke, so I reached out, took his hand, and whispered, “Frank, it is me. I am here. God’s Spirit is with us.” At that moment, his arms grew still. A deep peace filled the room, and I could feel the presence of God surrounding us both.
I knew it would be the last time I saw him on this side of heaven. As I prayed over him, I felt the Lord lifting the burdens from him—the worries about his family, his home, his work. In that quiet moment, I knew Frank was free. His time of struggle was over. He was ready to go home.
The Bible says, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in and dine with him, and he with Me.” (Revelation 3:20)
When we are young, that knock sounds loud and clear. But as we grow older, life becomes noisy. The worries, the routines, and the pain of living can dull our hearing. Sometimes we have heard that knock so many times that we stop noticing it. Yet Jesus never stops knocking. He keeps reaching out—softly, patiently—waiting for us to open the door. I opened that door a long time ago and let Him in. And His presence fills my heart and my life.
Lately, I have thought a lot about life and about my friends. I do not want to spend eternity without them. It is my prayer that they, too, hear the knocking and open the door to Jesus.
I know my time here is getting shorter, and that is all right. Like Frank, I am preparing for the journey home—not through my works, but through faith. Not through worry, but through trust.
And when that day comes, I pray that I will be ready—ready to let go, ready to rest, ready to step into the arms of Jesus. My prayer is 2 Timothy 4:7:
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, and I have remained faithful.”