The rain has finally come. We’re wearing hats and scarves now in California. And the holidays are almost here. But Anna isn’t here. My father-in-law Tony isn’t here. A handful of my dear, sweet friends who battled cancer are no longer here. I’ve laid to rest far too many people I love in just a handful of years. And I don’t know how our family will do Thanksgiving this year without Anna. I really don’t. So I want to tell you this right up front, right in the middle of Paris bathed in blood and tears: Love gently now.

I’ve stood at gravesides and bedsides. Crosses on roadsides. Not to make this small or funny, but on Saturday morning, I buried my favorite chicken. I’ve never buried a chicken before, but this was my little red hen with the broken beak. She shouldn’t have lived when we brought her home from the feed store with that shattered beak years ago as a baby chick, but she did. Because the boys loved her and held her and fed her all special in their grubby little boy hands that baby chick lived. And she loved us. People were her friends all her life because people had saved her.

I feel this way about Jesus. He saved me. He’s my friend. I need Him. Every. Single. Day.

At bedsides and gravesides and roadsides, I need Jesus. On good days and bad days, I need Jesus. When the world comes undone like it did in France on Friday, I need Jesus. I’m not afraid to tell you this. Not ashamed to show my love for the Savior to you. To everyone. To this hard, sad, big, scary world.

And I will tell you with the humility and grief and sorrow of knowing so deep and so well the ones you cherish may not be here tomorrow, you may not be here tomorrow, so you must love gently now.

With all I have, and all that I am, I will love gently now. I have measured my days, and I will love gently while I’m here. A few years ago, at Christmastime, the doctor called and said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you have melanoma. We are scheduling surgery for you right after the holidays.”

Right after the holidays… this hit me like a truck… after the holidays… would I even be around for next years’ holidays? I sat on the couch with Cruz two-years-old in my lap, my tears slipping quietly into his soft, curly, toddler hair, and I wondered, would I live through this cancer? I wasn’t sure I would, but I decided right then, I would love gently now.

I could love gently now.

Friends started dropping by. Just to hang out. Just to spend time with me before my surgery. I didn’t know how much time I had left, so without pulling any punches, I told them about Jesus. Shared my story. That when I was a broken chicken, He saved me. That Jesus gives courage to live or to die. That Jesus is my friend. That He can be your friend, too.

The surgery went well. The melanoma was only in my leg. They cut it all out, and within a few months, I was walking again. But I haven’t forgotten to love gently now. I made this vow to myself.

Mean people I will love gently now.

Hard people I will love gently now.

Precious people I will love gently now.

The last time I saw Anna, I hugged her. I am certain that I hugged her. And told her I loved her because I always say this when I leave someone now. Or someone leaves me now. Life is uncertain. It really is. So love your people gently now.

This week, I told a little girl in Cruz’s preschool class that I loved her. I hardly know this little girl, but I told her I loved her and I meant it. I was painting her hand. Like I painted every other four-year-old hand in the classroom to make turkeys. Both little hands. Little brown turkeys out of ten little fingers. “You make me smile,” said this little girl to me. “You make me smile, too,” I told her. A half hour later, she said, “I need to hug you.” And she hugged me. After she hugged me, I told her I loved her. Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she hugged me some more.

I’ve gotten far more from loving people than they’ve gotten from me in the past several years. Maybe I’ve made them smile for a moment or two, but they have helped me live. Really live. Because I made this vow to myself that if I lived, I would love gently now.

You can love gently now, too. At your Thanksgiving table, when your obnoxious uncle guzzles his beer, and burps on your turkey, you can love gently now. When your mother-in-law comments on that casserole you didn’t make quite right, and then belittles your pumpkin pies, you can love gently now. When your kids mess up the house right before company comes, you can love gently now.

Life isn’t guaranteed.

It’s an audacious gift.

Be grateful.

Be thankful.

And love gently now.