I've been writing to you every week for a long time now. This is number 133.

Those of you who have been with me for a while know how this works. I live the week. I pay attention to what my heart is carrying by the end of it. Then I write that.

As late as Thursday morning, I had an article mostly written in my head. I knew where it was going.

Then, in a single moment, my heart went somewhere else entirely.

This newsletter has become such a happy place for me. I write what I'm feeling, in the hope that something I find on my journey might help you on yours.

So this is where I am today.

The Visor

Thursday morning I picked up my daughter's car. It had been in for service, getting ready for winter.

I figured I'd take care of the whole thing while I had it. Fill it up. Get it washed.

I filled it up and headed toward the car wash.

Sitting at a stoplight, I started cleaning up a bit. Pulling some papers out from the visor. Little things.

I pulled down the driver's side visor.

And there was my father.

His Mass card. His picture. Pinned to the inside of the visor of my daughter's car.

My dad passed away in October of 2017.

Nine years ago. Almost to the day.

It brought back a whole set of emotions, all at once.

Remembrance of him, first.

And then my daughter. The fact that she keeps him there. Right above her, every time she drives.

Not Today, Guys

And I was headed to the very same car wash I went through on the day he died.

Nine years earlier, I was in that car wash with my two youngest kids. They were little then. Very little.

My parents lived only a few minutes away.

As we were finishing up, the kids asked me:

Dad, can we go see Grandma and Papa?

It was a busy day. Chores. Nothing big. Just the ordinary list of things that fills a day.

I remember my answer very clearly.

Not today, guys.

The assumption was simple. We'd have many other days.

Later that night, as the late hours crossed into the early, early morning, my phone rang.

My brother.

Dad was being rushed to the hospital.

By the time I got there, he was gone.

There were going to be no more days.

He Was There

He came into my life when I was very young. Second grade, I believe. My stepdad.

He would be the only dad I would ever know.

And when I think back, the first thing that comes to me is simple.

He was there.

He was there when we came home from school.

He would sit down and play with us. Video games. Sports games. Board games. He taught us how to play pool.

Those things stay with you. All these years later, they're still right there.

He and I didn't always have the easiest relationship. For one reason or another.

But I see clearly now what he walked into. He chose my mom, and with her came two young boys. Overnight, he was a father.

That's a steep learning curve for anyone.

The Light

Years later, I became a father myself.

And I got to watch him become a grandfather.

He would settle into his La-Z-Boy with my kids tucked into his arms and something playing on the TV.

They watched the show.

He watched them.

Many times, that's all he was doing. Just watching them.

It caught me completely by surprise. It was like a light had come on inside him. Like he'd been handed a second chance at the very thing he spent all those years learning, and he felt immensely blessed to have it.

He was a great grandpa. My kids adored him.

He made a real impact on them.

I don't have to wonder about that.

Nine years later, it's pinned to the inside of my eldest daughter's visor.

And I'm grateful for that. Happy for that.

Wherever They Find You

I keep coming back to how small that question was.

Dad, can we go see Grandma and Papa?

The purest kind of ask. From the littlest people in my life. They just wanted to be with them.

And how easy it was to wave it off.

Perhaps you have one of those questions waiting for you right now.

The call you keep meaning to make. The visit that keeps sliding to next weekend. The parent, the grandparent, the old friend who keeps telling you to come by anytime.

You probably already know who it is.

The chores will still be there. They always are.

You're allowed to let them wait.

And for the ones you've already lost…, you're allowed to stop and remember them too. Let them come back to you when they show up. At a red light. Behind a visor. Wherever they find you.

That's a blessing.

Mine came to me through my daughter, nine years later, almost to the day.

The next time someone you love asks if you can come see them…

Go.

We never know which day is the last one.

Weeks like this remind me what matters most in life: the people around our dinner table. That's what my book, Leadership at the Dinner Table, is all about. You can find it now on Amazon or wherever you buy your books.

With Absolute Sincerity,

Ed Clementi,

Founder & CEO of Inspired Fire, LLC

Make an Impact and Feel an Impact!