In two months, we will mark the 10-year anniversary of my mother's departure from this life. Helen Siebert Penner would have been 87 last month.

Remembering another, earlier melancholy moment probably provoked my current state of mind. Back then, I drove home from the distant hospital to recover a few personal items for Mom's post-surgery recovery. The cliche, "My life flashed before my very eyes," seemed very real at the time. The only difference was that Mom's life was the focal point, not mine.

Later, as I walked into the home, silenced by her overwhelming absence, I had this profound sense of mortality-not only of my own tenure on this earth, but my mother's as well.

Around that period-earlier or later, I can't remember-we had a wonderful chat. She was going through boxes of personal items that made the move from their Missouri home nearly 13 years earlier. Dad's death in 1983 ended their pastoral ministry at a small country church by only two months. They had planned to retire and move to a recently purchased home in Hillsboro.

As we removed the contents of the boxes, I listened to Mom's astonishment as she recognized her find. Each item was like a little time capsule that, when unlocked, revealed stories of the good times as well as the not-so-good times. And I had a front row seat.

We talked about her early childhood and the flu epidemic that nearly took her life-stories I heard numerous times before. I listened in silence as she shared the tragic story of the premature death of not one, but two, brothers.

The stories lasted well past midnight. Not one to stay up late, this was an extraordinary moment for her. It was worth every minute.

Hours later, after a few anxious minutes of intense searching through a bundle of letters, she rediscovered and began reading the words on the two-page letter. Insisting I remain to hear her read aloud, I quietly listened to her tender voice. I could not violate that sacred moment.

Helen was in a world beyond my grasp. It was like she was in the presence of another special person. The love and affirmation of her full devotion to her lifelong companion, even now after his death, made the words come alive. Their meaning and intensity was as fresh as the day they were written.

This was her final letter to Dad before he passed away. While in his hospital room, she read it aloud to him while he rested, just as she read it to me, years later.

After her passing, I wanted to share the letter with the rest of the family in a private memorial. It was a fitting description of the nature of her character.

However, I accepted the reasons why she wanted to keep it secret and did not share the letter. This was an intimate moment between husband and wife. This was hallowed ground, if you will.

Later, as family members gathered to grieve, reflect and celebrate her life, I shared with them that special moment Mom and I had while reading the letter. We searched for the letter and never found it.

Later, I remembered one brief conversation between with Mom in which she disclosed that certain items were destroyed. Until then, I had assumed the items were merely inconsequential things like canceled checks and Medicare statements. I was wrong. The canceled checks and statements remained in their appointed places.

Back to the melancholy moment: As I collected her personal items for the return trip to the hospital, a sense of urgency came over me. Pictures of family members-from our senior high school pictures and vintage photos of our college days, to wedding photos and grandchildren- made this place a hall of honor and remembrance. She loved us all.

Little did I know how short was the time left. You never realize the fleeting passage of time until you want it to slow down in order to cherish the remaining moments.

Priorities come to the forefront. Close relationships matter most. Our relationship with God matters. People matter. Everything else-all the material, physical and social concerns-takes a distant third, fourth and fifth place.