NO ONE LIVES long until, reluctantly, he walks down to the harbor to watch a ship sail off into the night. I say night, for it is the night of his soul as he watches until the departing ship is only a tiny speck--then gone completely. On board is someone near and dear, about to cross the line we call death.

It may be an infant son, a teenage daughter, a noble husband, a precious wife, a dear grandparent, a Mom or Dad. Or a sister, brother, choice friend, longtime neighbor, childhood playmate.

For each of us, at some time, the ship sets sail, and it is night....

At first we say it isn't true, can't be, mustn't be. A bad dream that tells us life is not longer worth living, the void too vast and deep. So we grieve and wait, hope and wait. And day after day we return to the harbor to peer through the mists, fooling ourselves into believing the ship may return.

But it won't. Once the ship of death sets sail, it will never, never, never--in this life--come back.

However, this is a busy harbor and other ships continue to arrive daily. On board are persons, who, in some measure, can fill our painful loneliness. They come to us by way of births and adoptions, marriages, and new friends, children who grow up and youth who mature.

Yet this is a strange harbor, for as long as we insist on watching for ships that sailed yesterday, we are mysteriously blinded to the incoming ships of today. Only as we major on what's left--rather than what's lost--can we hear the bells and horns of incoming ships and see, pressed against the handrails, the open faces of those about to enter our lives.

What we see in those faces is the difference in day and night, the difference in what was and what is. Thus, confident they can fill our harbor with more good years, we welcome them with open arms. Like the Chinese proverb, "If I keep a green bough in my heart, a singing bird will come."

So, reach out and hug someone. The harbor is open. The ships have come!