This week, I found myself on a plane headed somewhere I didn’t expect to be , back to Michigan.
I left Oregon early Thursday morning and landed in Grand Rapids that same afternoon. The air felt different the moment I stepped outside the airport. That sharp Midwest winter chill hit my face , the kind that wakes you up instantly. The scent of snow and cold pavement lingered in the air. Not just “cold,” but that crisp, metallic, almost clean smell that only real winter carries.
My great friend Chris Kelley picked me up, and we drove straight to the hospital. Snowbanks lined the roads, hardened and glazed over with ice. The tires hummed against the pavement. The sun was strong , surprisingly strong , casting bright reflections off the snow so that everything sparkled. It was freezing, yet brilliantly lit. That contrast felt symbolic somehow. Cold, but radiant.
We hurried inside to see my grandmother.
Hospitals have their own sensory world , the soft beeping of monitors, the quiet shuffle of nurses’ shoes down the hallway, the low murmur of families speaking in careful tones. Even the smell , antiseptic, coffee from a nearby station, faint floral notes from someone’s bouquet , all blending into something familiar and oddly grounding.
Those couple of hours with her will stay with me forever.
We laughed. We shared coffee. We talked sports. We reflected on old stories , some I’d heard a hundred times, some I’d forgotten until she brought them back to life. Her voice carried warmth even in that clinical room. There’s something powerful about hearing someone you love laugh when you know time is fragile.
I knew her time was limited. And after the news I received earlier in the week, I knew I had to move quickly. No overthinking. No “maybe next week.” I booked the flight. I took the credit card plunge. I made no excuses. I refused to sit with regret.
There is something sacred about showing up.
I extended my stay a few extra days to be with my sisters and childhood friends. Driving through familiar streets again felt like stepping into a living scrapbook. The crunch of snow under boots. The icy wind brushing across my face. The golden winter sunlight pouring through bare trees, casting long shadows over frozen lawns.
We visited Biggby Coffee in Jenison , the rich smell of roasted beans wrapping around you the moment the door opens. That first sip tasted like comfort. Like memory. Like being seventeen again without the weight of adulthood pressing on your shoulders.
I spent time with my friend Matt. I sat at dinner with my sisters. Laughter came easily. Conversations felt unguarded. The sounds of forks clinking on plates, chairs sliding across hardwood floors, someone joking too loudly , all of it felt grounding in the best way.
Sometimes you don’t realize how much your soul needs the familiar until you’re back inside it.
The winter landscape was both harsh and beautiful. Ice clung to tree branches like glass. Snow reflected sunlight so intensely it almost hurt your eyes. Breath hung visibly in the air. And yet, the sun kept shining , bold and persistent , as if to remind you that warmth still exists even in the coldest seasons.
If we isolate ourselves , if we stay wrapped inside our routines, our schedules, our digital bubbles , we will absolutely miss these moments. The ones that are bigger than deadlines. Bigger than pride. Bigger than convenience.
Religion tells us to pray. And prayer has its place. But prayer without movement can become avoidance. Waiting quietly while time slips away often leaves us with the quiet ache of, What if I had gone?
I have always refused to live in that space.
This week reminded me that love sometimes requires urgency. That presence often costs something , money, comfort, time , but regret costs far more. That laughter in hospital rooms can feel holy. That winter sunshine can break through even the heaviest news. That coffee shared in fragile moments becomes sacred.
I’ll head back to Oregon carrying both heaviness and gratitude. Grief and joy woven together. The scent of snow still in my memory. The sound of my grandmother’s laughter echoing in my heart.
And above all, I’m thankful I didn’t wait.
Tony Gebhard 