Just One More Time
on friendship, mortality, and the sacred gift of being present
presence is the last and greatest offering
“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who…have cared enough to share our pain.”
— Henri J.M. Nouwen
I received a note—really, a love note—from a buddy of mine who is going through another round of chemo and radiation. Unless God intervenes with nothing short of a miracle (and I do believe miracles happen), he is entering the final stretch of his life. That reality unsettles me.
With the friends I’ve been closest to, I’ve always joked that if one of us has to go first, I hope it’s me. It’s my odd sense of humor, but beneath it sits a truth: the idea of losing them has always felt harder than facing my own end. Most of us know, at least intellectually, that there is no schedule for passing on. That belongs to God alone.
Over the past several years, I’ve experienced more deaths of friends than I care to count. It comes with the territory. I’m 82, and this is the natural pattern of aging, though it’s a reality many of us would rather not acknowledge. Death and taxes, they say. Both inevitable, both out of our control.
What my friend shared was brief, poignant, and straight from his heart. He wrote:
“Just one more time
One more round of golf…
One more fishing trip…
One more cruise…
One more family vacation…
One more answered prayer…
Just one more thing I can do for you…
One more thing I can do for God.”
The capstone is in those final lines. The second‑to‑last isn’t a plea. . . it’s an affirmation of the way he has lived for years, and the way he intends to finish his life: outwardly, generously, faithfully.
My silly “rule”, that I should go first, would, if granted, deny me the privilege of walking with friends right up to their end. And that is no small thing. The significance is this: it isn’t about me. It never was. Others matter more. Just as God intended.
Each of us could make our own list of “just one mores,” and each list would be unique. But the real question is this:
Would the last three on your list look anything like his?
I’ve walked alongside many friends in their final chapters, but this one feels different. Maybe it’s because the years have thinned the ranks. Maybe it’s because the older I get, the more I understand that presence, not advice, not solutions, not strength, is the real gift we offer one another. Writing this piece is my way of honoring a man whose faith, humor, and generosity have shaped my life. If it nudges even one person to cherish the time they still have with someone they love, then it has done its work.
Before you move on to the next email, the next task, the next small urgency of the day, pause for a moment. Think of someone whose presence has mattered to you, someone who has walked with you, laughed with you, prayed for you, or simply stayed when staying wasn’t easy.
Reach out to them today.
Not tomorrow. Not “when things slow down.”
Today.
Tell them one thing you’re grateful for.
Or ask if there’s “one more” moment you can share while you still can.
These small gestures become the stories we carry when the chairs around us begin to empty.
For Arne—
my friend, my brother in faith, and a man who has taught me more about courage, gratitude, and quiet service than he will ever know. Your “one more time” list is a sermon all its own. Thank you for letting me walk beside you, even now, even here. I am honored to be part of your story.
Postscript
We don’t get to choose how long we walk this earth, but we do get to choose how we walk with one another. If there is a grace in aging, and I believe there is, it’s that the unnecessary things fall away. What remains are the people we love, the moments we share, and the quiet certainty that none of it was ever meant to be hoarded. It was meant to be given.
And given again.
Just one more time.
very well said Joe. This one too, hits home right now.