“I just got a text. Bob died.”
My heart sank when JP told me this morning. Bob was our neighbor. At 93 he still walked the neighborhood daily, raked his own leaves and waved every time I passed his house. Our girls affectionately dubbed Bob “Mr. UP” because Bob looked exactly like the old man from the movie.
Just a few doors away and slightly down, sound from his house travels to ours in an almost lyrical way. Standing in my kitchen with my windows open I can (could) hear his sweet voice—louder than most due to his hearing—chatting with neighbors walking dogs or visiting with those who frequently took the time to stop for a minute just to say hello on their way home from work.
I’m going to miss that voice.
It’s funny how the simple things bring the most joy. A sound. A laugh. A hug. A wave.
One word keeps washing over me as I think about Bob. Notice.
It’s impossible to be grateful for things we don’t notice. Things like how your kids look when they sleep. Or how your husband stands when he shaves. How laughter lightens your mood or how a smile eases your stress. How the wind feels on your face or the sun feels on your back. How a hug warms your soul.
I’m thankful for every time I paused long enough to say hello to Bob; for every time I stopped my car, rolled down my window and visited with my neighbor, even if only for a few minutes.
I’m thankful for every time I didn’t rush.
Nobody’s ever thankful for the times they rushed. They’re only grateful for the times they didn’t.
My house is quiet as I write this. It’s early and JP’s already gone. Taylor’s still asleep. But I pause long enough to appreciate it all—the quiet now and the noise later. The empty moments and the ones crammed full of activity. The voices of those I love—and some of those I barely know.
These are all gifts. Today I won’t rush. Today I will pause long enough to notice.
And be grateful.
