Recently I traveled eight miles to see my son, and since it was about nine a.m. he invited me to have breakfast. We had an interesting discussion, and he mentioned that he’d stopped paying attention to dreams, since they didn’t make sense. When I got home, I thought, they’re like my life — I so want them to make sense.

I think I’m getting to that goal. The answer is my commitment. I’m married to a woman that I recently took to a Mass dedicated for parents who have lost children. We lost two. As I stood in the pew I turned to her, and she was sobbing. I didn’t recall her like that ever.

I said to myself in that nonverbal way we think, “See that you help this woman for the rest of your life.” Commitment. This woman had delivered three sons, for me, whether I admitted it or not. She had gone with me through the pains of raising them, the joys, the travails, the glories (I could tell you what the rapamycin is doing now for dogs’ lives). In the end, God will give it sense, if only I can see it.

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