The eight hour goodbye:

This time we're gonna hear it through the eyes of a learner.

Every moment teaches you just have to listen. It was Thursday afternoon, the kind that carried the faint smell of spring, even though the calendar insisted it was still winter. Mike had just stepped out of a late lunch. One of those meals that quietly turns into something bigger. He and an old friend had wandered into a conversation about tradition.

Not the stiff obligatory kind, but the sort that clings to a family like a melody you can't shake. Why do some traditions last decades and generations while others dissolve without ceremony? At first, the answers had been the easy sort. Well, people get busy, times change. But the longer they spoke,

the more it felt like pulling on a thread that refused to snap. Mike found himself kind of sketching theories with his fork in the air. Some traditions lasted because they answered a deep hunger for belonging. Others because they were welded to the census, like the smell of cinnamon rolls on a Sunday morning, or the sound of grandmother singing hymns.

while folding laundry. Anchors dropped into memory, holding steady all the things in life while time continued to flow around them. By the time the plates were cleared from lunch, it wasn't just a conversation anymore. He'd been charting a kind of map, the architecture of memory, how humans managed to keep meaning alive through all the changes. It was definitely the learner in him, the part that could take a thought.

and turn it over and over and over, polishing it like a stone in the water until it was just right. Then his phone buzzed. Looking down, he saw it was in the family thread. no, great aunt Ruth is fading. She's in hospice. The window is narrowing. She lives eight hours away in a small town with brick buildings that

kind of lean a little bit to one side, bumpy sidewalks that knew every footstep. Even the air seemed to remember. Mike decided he's definitely going. And Lily, with him all weekend, just the two of them, she's definitely going too. The plan came together quickly. Leave Friday, just after Lily gets out of school, maybe before four o'clock in the afternoon. Drive deep into the night.

Check into the hotel just before midnight and get a good night's sleep.

We can be with Ruth by nine, maybe nine 30 on Saturday morning, spend some time there and then head home to be church by Sunday morning. That's the plan. We'll see what happens Friday morning before the day was fully awake, Mike sits at his desk with a steaming mug of coffee, black, simple.

takes a sip, he opens this folder of digitized family photos, decades of birthdays, reunions, church picnics, and he just begins to scan, looking for patterns. Huh, look where Ruth stands. Look where she leans in to speak, to whisper. Notice how decisions seem to bend around her presence.

There's one image where she's in the far edge of the photograph. She's got her apron on. She's pouring coffee into someone else's cup. She's not the focal point, but you see that everyone else has had their coffee right in front of them. She was somehow the center of gravity, even though she was right on the edge. That makes him think not all influence has to sit in the main chair. He writes that down in his notebook.

here's another photo. Decades ago, Christmas, Ruth sits at the piano. All we see is her back.

Her eyes are down on the keys and everyone else is looking at her. Again, she's making influence evident without claiming any attention.

At lunch, he takes a break. He's listening to a book on how to ask better questions. He hears a good question is a gift, a great one and inheritance. He pauses the story, says, I'm to write this down. The right questions open the right kind of silence. Then Ruth's questions flood back to him. She rarely asked, Hey Mike, how are you?

She often asked, Hey Mike, what's been shaping your thinking lately? It was always an invitation, never a transaction.

By late afternoon, Lily picked up from school, was in the passenger seat. She noticed a shoe box between them. Discovery Deck. The label was right on top and Dad's blocky handwriting. Lily opens it up. Inside there were cards, family mysteries, what ifs, and thought prompts.

She says, I'm gonna pull one of these out, Dad. He says, go right ahead. She pulls out the first card. It reads, what's the biggest secret in our family? Mike answers quickly. I'm not sure I know, but if anyone does, it'll be Ruth.

The road hummed beneath the tires at a pull off. Mike pointed to the horizon. You see that line, Lily.

way, way down the line. That's called the vanishing point. Artists use it to show depth. Travelers use it to remember there's always more ahead that you can see.

They stood for a moment, stretched out a little bit, hopped back in the car. Lily now, with her thinking cap on, says, I wanna do another one. So she pulls out another card. If our family had a motto, what would it be? Lily reads.

They chat for a little bit.

Then Mike says, yeah, it's pretty simple. Show up. Stay long enough to matter. I learned that from your great Aunt Ruth.

They stopped at a weathered historical marker. Mike ran his hand along the railing. Lily, this bridge has stood since the 1800s because the builders aimed for more than the moment. Like a tradition, if you build it right, it holds more than weight. It holds meaning.

A few towns later back in the car, the road humming along, Lily asks, Dad.

Why do people die? Mike didn't rush. He said, well, sweetie, biology teaches us that our bodies can't repair forever. Over time, these protective little lids, these little caps on our chromosomes called telomeres. Telomeres, they kind of fray and fall apart like shoelace tips that come off.

until they just can't be threaded anymore.

Telo means long, mere means unit. So these are the units that make your life long. But that's actually only half the story, sweetie. What does the Bible tell us? Lily responds.

Jesus died for our sins? He said, right, but what does John 3 16 talk about? One birth is natural.

One birth is spiritual. One birth is of water. One birth is of wind or spirit. For those in Christ, like Nicodemus when he was talking to Jesus,

Death is simply a transition and not an ending. So biology can explain to us all the mechanics and faith can explain to us the meaning. Both not only can be true, but absolutely are true. They drove and drove and drove, Lily napping heavily. And then they finally reached the hotel just before midnight, grabbed a good night's sleep.

and arrived at the hospice Saturday morning to the smell of coffee. At the nurses station, Mike was chatting, asking about patterns.

When does Ruth perk up? When does she fade back out? When does she need a rest?

And at the right time they entered the room. Aunt Ruth, Lily and I came to listen.

Lily said, Aunt Ruth, what's something that life taught you that surprised you?

Aunt Ruth breathed.

And she said in her soft frail voice, patience isn't waiting.

patience is understanding why you wait.

Mike followed up asking Ruth, how did you learn that?

She simply responded, I wasted so many years thinking that patients meant idly sitting still waiting for something to end. It turns out.

Patience is about preparing well while you wait.

throughout the day, Ruth slept and woke up kind of nodding off and returning. Every once in a while, she would offer the most amazing polished truths, like that smooth stone she would pull out of her pocket.

she would say simple things.

Like a promise kept.

is worth more than a promise made.

she would say.

You can't hold grudges and blessings in the same vessel.

If you want to know deeper truth.

First, ask a child.

Then ask an old friend.

and listen twice as much as you speak.

Mike tried to restate those and explain to those in Lily's language, trying to give her a version she could take with her, a portable version she could keep for herself.

The times Ruth rested, Mike and Lily walked the hallways.

stopping at displays of old quilts and child's drawings.

By the late afternoon, the plan to leave was faltering. The eight hour drive would have to wait.

dinner at hospice with soup and bread in the family lounge. Back in Ruth's room, she smiled faintly at the lemon candy that Lily placed in her hand.

At that point, Mike knew she was engaged. Leaving tonight would close a door that might never open again. He leaned over to Lily. We're gonna stay here tonight. Church can wait. They'll understand.

I think that's better too said Lily. So they returned to the hotel.

Getting some sleep, but expecting the phone to ring. And sure enough, it did. Just after 5 a.m., the nurse named Janet was calm.

Ruth is resting deeply. If you'd like to come, this might be a really good time. They dressed quietly in their hotel.

and drove the streets. They were quiet streets.

When they got there, Ruth was awake, just enough to hold her hand.

Mike told her what a hundred family photos had already proven. Her presence bent the room toward hope. Her quiet moved. Wait.

They dressed in quiet and drove through streets, still holding the night's cool in the air. When they arrived, Ruth was just waking up. She woke up just enough to hold their hands.

Lily said, thank you. Thank you for the bread lessons you taught my dad. Thank you for raisins in the dough, even though it wasn't time to have raisin bread.

bright eyes from their first meeting stood out. Ruth's eyes shone in response. The chaplain's short prayer was gratitude and grace. Just being there was its own kind of medicine.

When Ruth faded off and rested again, they lingered. People need people. Systems carry tenderness if you intend for them to. And some lessons are worth taking home.

They said their goodbyes and pulled out. Checking out of the hotel, they stopped at a breakfast diner. Mike pulled out an index card. Patience is understanding why you wait and preparing while you wait.

Lilly added, ordinary thank yous often do extraordinary work. What great insight for a 10 year old.

On the drive back, Lily asked her dad, dad, when do you move too fast to listen?

He said, well, when I'm more in love with my plan than with the people who are in my plan, what's the fix? asked.

fewer promises, keeping the promises I've made, wider margins.

maybe asking better questions. By the time the highway signs grew familiar, church was long past starting.

And yet Mike felt like they'd been at church all day. In fact, they've been at church all weekend. This is the truest kind of service that he could show Lily. Let's live our lives every day as if we're in church. Let's live our lives, learning lessons, teaching lessons, storing those lessons in our hearts, and then showing up.

Listening well and leaving changed. That evening, he set some cards in the middle of the kitchen table.

These were legacy cards. They were going to read them once a month. Let's pull them out and see what kind of truth we can take with us. Small questions that taught us presence, patience, and a truth that goes with us everywhere.

Mike and Lily just finished their weekend with a learner dad and said their goodbye to the great aunt Ruth. They were changed.

If this learner dad story is something you can connect to, you should take the code. MotivationCode.com is an incredible resource. You can go there, click, look, learn. And if you're interested in the code, reach out to me. I would love to connect you. If the time is right, you could even get a free version and really learn about yourself.

Today's episode is about the great Aunt Ruth. It's about Mike, it's about Lily, but it's also about being a learner.