“Mom, I need to explain something to you,” I ventured. When I tell you something—Dinner will be in ten minutes—and you respond Excuse me, dear? and I raise my voice—DIN-NER WILL BE IN TEN MIN-UTES!—and you answer, I’m sorry, dear, like you think I’m shouting at you, and I am shouting because I am trying to be heard this second time around, but I am not angry (maybe a little frustrated because you can’t hear me and don’t wear your hearing aids), I’m just trying to be heard.  “I know,” Mom sighs, “but I HATE them!” and around we go.  She came to me meekly and asked if I could possibly find time to take them for a wheelchair walk to the end of their street and back sometime that evening, and we commented on each neighbor and their house and trees and shrubs and the perfect blue sky and the day’s 100 degrees cooling a bit in the dusk and how happy we are Mark and Julie are back in their home after remodeling it for their disabled grandchild and how pleasant the fresh evening breeze feels.  Dad had called Steven earlier, and I listened vaguely from my kitchen coq au vin alchemy as they reminisced about scout camps old and new, old when he was 12 (and when I was 12) and Dad manned the waterfront and checked out the sailboats and swam the mile swim with us in Lake Seneca at Camp Liahona summer after summer—he always came and stayed the week—and now Steve is taking his sons to camp and manning the waterfront and wrestling and scrapping with boys on the dock and in the water and breaking his toe.  Dad laughed at the old memories and grimaced at the paining toe, and did not want the talk to end, and waiting a bit too long, and sent me upstairs for fresh clothing.  And he said to me that he didn’t think about dying, but rather about passing over into his next life, and when he gets there and sees his Savior he is not going to fall blubbering at His feet but will stand straight and look Him in the eye and say, “I love You, and I did my very best.”