My younger son arrived here late Saturday night, bringing his kitten, Franklin, with him for a several day visit. Because he stayed up late Sunday night writing the final paper for one of his college courses, I didn’t expect to see him until very late in the morning. He left his bedroom door cracked so Franklin could come and go; shades were down and all that could be seen through the crack was a couple of roundish lumps under the blankets – no head or feet sticking out, just a big round lump and a smaller one under the covers.

Once noon came and went, and I was heating up leftovers for lunch, I asked my husband if we should wake Jared up. Dave’s advice: let him sleep. So I did, but I began to wonder if he might be coming down with something – and end of term virus that might explain why he was sleeping so soundly. The thought had barely come into my head when the kitchen door opened and Jared walked in. As a Mother’s Day surprise, he had driven to Kittery, Maine, to bring me dessert: Lovebird’s gluten free donuts. The lumps in the bed were just a couple of pillows.

Once I realized he wasn’t in the bed, it was quite obvious that the lumps under the cover weren’t even close to big enough to be an adult. Even though I had looked in a few times, I saw what I expected to see rather than what was there – I was surprised because I couldn’t see through what I expected to see.

It’s a funny story, but also a cautionary tale that asks a question of me: what other things remain unseen because I am blinded by my own expectations?

I spent the better part of two hours in the dentist chair today, getting a cracked tooth repaired and topped with a temporary crown; the permanent crown will replace the temporary one in another couple of weeks. But the molar is old, with more cracks than the one prompting today’s repair. The permanent crown is only as permanent as the tooth that wears it, and the tooth is far from permanent. In a matter of years, the tooth will fail, requiring a root canal or a full replacement. But for now, just a crown.

The dentist chair isn’t a favorite destination for most of us, but it’s a place to be reminded of some profound truths. Today’s truth: every living, breathing being, toothed or toothless, is a temporary resident in this cosmos. Milliseconds or thousands of years, time ends for all things. Even the cosmos itself. None of us are permanent residents in this state; all of us move through death into the next reality. That is a truth that abides.

But we don’t leave life empty-handed, even if we can’t take anything with us. The love we have, given and received, remains and stays with us – a ribbon connecting all things in all times to every other thing and the God who brought it all into being. It’s as sure a truth as any death, and it, too, abides.