A few months ago, Brandy, the kids and I were taking a nice drive down to Destin. We'd heard of those beautiful white sands and emerald waters and wanted to have a look—and basically just catch up with one another and spend some quality time. The ride was long (plus many pit stops) and there was much anticipation. Finally, we made it! We jumped out of the car, Brandy and I yelling to the kids to "stay with us."

But as we began to tear down the wood-planked runway that led to that beautiful beach, now barely visible in the late afternoon sunlight, my cell phone began to ring. The gang quickly disappeared from view as I stopped, flipped open the phone, wondering who it might be late on a Friday afternoon.

It was something I didn't expect. It was a woman's voice—a parishioner giving me news of another parishioner. This gentleman of our parish, who had been very, very sick for a long time, had just gotten word from his doctor that his time here with us looked short: the diagnosis spanned from a week to three months. Immediately, we hung up so I could call him. I struggled to hear the rings amid the windy sand dunes—I was, unconsciously, wandering my way toward the seashore, deftly following my family's footsteps. I saw Brandy far off looking toward me with her head cocked, as if to discern what was happening.

With his answer, I was speechless. I didn't know what to say—how do you begin a conversation like this? And I really liked this man, too; I had only met him a few short months before, but we connected. I felt he was an "old" soul, a sensitive, quiet man of God—the kind that are oftentimes taken away from us all too soon. Somehow, I mumbled some sort of a greeting and let him know I heard the news. As is the case with so many terminally ill people, he immediately strove to put me at ease; with everything going on in his life, he somehow was thinking about me and not himself. I felt stupid and inadequate. As I muttered awkward things about being sorry and about how much God loves him, he suddenly changed the direction and pace of the conversation. I guess he could hear the wind, maybe the screams and giggles of my wife and children playing as I finally—and still very deftly—caught up with them.

"Father, where are you?" he asked me. I told him flatly, "The beach." I was embarrassed that I was at the beach with my family, about to have an evening of fun and leisure, when he was going through so much. I silently scolded myself, in fact, for telling him where we were. But to my surprise, he wanted to know more; with excitement in his weak voice, he asked "What does it look like?" "Well, it's gorgeous—I mean, really spectacular, but listen, we don't have to talk about the beach…." "No, I want to know … tell me more." He began to question me on the details of the scene: what color was the sky? Was the sun about to set—if there were clouds, were they taking on those sunset hues yet? What did the sand feel like between my toes … were there birds around … what did the air smell like? What were the children doing—were they running through the chilly water or building sandcastles?

At first, I didn't know why he was so interested … wasn't sure exactly what was going on. Then I finally started to get it. He was facing the darkest moment in his life; he was facing an end to everything he had known, and he was trying to taste as much as he could—even from a distance—of God's magnificent creation, of human life. He was trying to reach for something profound. So I started painting the picture to his hungry ears as vividly as I could: I told him about the long shadows cast upon the pale sands by the surrounding condos and cottages; I told him about the crimson sun, just about to fall into an inviting pink and grey puff of clouds on the horizon; I told him how the children had their shoes off and that my son's rolled-up pant-legs were now wet with the ocean; I told him how my daughter's face was serene and peaceful as the wind blew her whispy hair here and there. I picked up a seashell and described it to him as best as I could, everything down to the way it felt against my thumb as I rubbed the ridge back and forth.

A few yards away, I looked into my wife's knowing green eyes and saw that they were now red-rimmed: she knew who I was talking to and what I was talking about.

Finally, we hesitated in our conversation--the excitement seemed to drain from his voice. And he began to be choked up: "Father, what is going to happen to me? What will it be like? Will I be with God?" After thinking for a moment, I told him, "You're already with God, and He's always been with you. And you know … I think this is how Heaven will be, my sweet man. Just like this moment: the exhilarating freshness of the air, the sweetly setting sun, the warmth of the sand between your toes, the painted sky, the freedom of the moment, the timeless beauty and the simplicity of this unforgettable late afternoon … you, in the most beautiful place, surrounded by your loved ones. Your children, forever at your feet, playing and laughing before you. Everyone you've ever loved smiling sweetly at you, letting you know everything is alright.”

He was quiet, and then we cried. I couldn't speak for a long time. Brandy was playing with the children with a far-away look in her eyes. Finally, I somehow managed to tell him that I would come see him the next day and we'd have more time to talk and just sit together.

Only a few short weeks later, my new friend was gone. It was time for his sunset. I pray for him and know he prays for me. Remember that someday it will be your sunset and my sunset as well. During these warm, balmy summer days, take a good look around you: see those you love, give thanks for them, hold hands, gently touch the cheek of your wife, tell your husband that you love him more than words can say. Rejoice in your children and grandchildren.

Remember that life is a sweet gift from our Lord, and that each waking moment is a miracle in itself, to be cherished and savored.