Blessings counted

I'm just back from a funeral home where I witnessed a parent's worst nightmare come true. A young man I knew when he was in elementary and middle school with my son had died. I can't begin to imagine the depth of his family's grief.

My son was with me for the calling hours, his first time at a funeral home. He held up well -- better than I did, but I kept wanting to put my arms around him, hold him tight and never let go.

I can't, of course. He's got his own life, his own family. He knows how to take care of himself.

Still.

We humans are so good at taking what we have for granted, and that includes our own families. But how many times have we heard stories of healthy, happy young people heading out the door and never coming home? How many times have we watched news reports of massacres such as the one at Fort Hood -- and, earlier this year, in Binghamton, N.Y. -- and wondered how a day that probably seemed quite ordinary to the victims could turn so deadly so quickly.

Tonight, as I write this, I'm counting my blessings. My children have not always been good to themselves, but they are learning. And they are still with us.

I hope they'll be patient with me if I hug them a lot in the days ahead. I need them to know they're loved. I need them to know how glad I am that they're still here.