February 9, 2026
While munching on chips and salsa at our favorite Tex-Mex joint, my iPhone alerted me to a new text. It was my brother, sending a quippy little message with an attachment. I couldn’t resist and had to open the PDF immediately; the document revealed a screenshot of an old newspaper clipping dated August 18, 1971.
LOCAL NEWS, the header from the Blooming Prairie Times read. “Michelle, Bruce, and Jason Bonnicksen, of La Crosse, Wisconsin, and Amy Anderson of Shakopee are spending the week in the home of their grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. O. G. Hillson.”
Oh my goodness, I about spit out my chips from laughing so hard. Only in a small community would “town talk” like this ever make the paper. I replied with a sarcastic tone (that my brother didn’t quite catch): Only in 1971 would anybody broadcast that their grandkids were coming to stay for a week. (We’d never air such things in our society today!) How things have changed with every passing day.
Mr. and Mrs. Olaf Gerhard Hillson—I sure miss those two. My grandpa passed away in July 1981 shortly after we moved back to the Midwest. Grandpa was 77 years old, young by today’s standards. My grandma, Elva, lived until 1993, passing away halfway through her 86th year of life. My mom was Olaf and Elva’s youngest, seven years apart from Grandma and Grandpa’s oldest: my mom’s brother Merle (who is still this side of eternity at 95 years old).
Just this last week, we lost my Uncle Merle’s wife, Dorthy Hillson. She was 93 when she passed. Her funeral was held yesterday, but due to my commitment to my congregation, I chose not to attend. I’m glad that my brother represented our branch of the Hillson clan. His texts to my sister, cousin, and me were a reminder of the fragility of life and the preciousness of family.
With every passing month, I’m grateful I still have my parents around. I see my classmates losing their parents, and my heart goes out to them. Goodness, even my mother-in-law has been gone for a year now. She too was 77—way too young. I wonder how much longer it’ll be before my parents join their parents and siblings on the other side of eternity.
I know this can sound a bit morbid, and while I hate to admit it, I think about this almost daily. I’m reminded often that my mother has outlived her parents, and her sister as well. My father is now about the same age his parents were when they passed, and his brothers are also gone. Honestly, I don’t think I’m prepared to lose either of them. I dread that call from my brother, and I dread the thought of sitting on the “other side of the table” at the funeral home (rather than where I sit now as a pastor).
I buried seven members of my congregation last year; many had long lives, but one was younger than me. None are easy; they’re not supposed to be. There’s no preparing for that pain of not being able to see, talk to, or touch your loved one again—at least, not in this lifetime.
I know those days will inevitably come. But until they do, I count myself blessed for every passing day that I have with my parents. I pray often that God helps me honor them for the blessing they’ve been.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, for the gift of good, godly parents. May their days be rich and full, and may I count my blessings daily for every passing day with them—a gift from above.