As I drove away from the curb,
my family tucked in the car,
off to church,
on a crisp, sunny Sunday morning,
I studied my neighbor’s lawn.
house washed every year,
entire dwelling orderly.
For three years I’ve had this same view,
his Pontiac parked its usual six inches from the curb
to prevent scraping his whitewalls.
This Sunday, however, I noticed the same lawn
but with an addition.
A “For Sale” sign
stuck its ugly head up in his lawn.
For three years I’d planned to visit my neighbor.
Better do it before he moves away.
As dusk settled three evenings later,
I placed my feet on his three well-cemented steps,
crossed his well-painted porch,
breathed deeply–proud of myself, self-disciplined, I’d say
and then rang the bell.
“Oh, hello,” I said as a lady opened the door
“Is the man of the house home?
I’m his neighbor from across the street.”
“I’m very sorry, but didn’t you know?
Mr. Johnson died three weeks ago today.
May I show you the house? It’s for sale.”
Do not count on tomorrow, for we don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Prov 27:1