A Moment That Will Last Forever

I was sitting at a table surrounded by high-profile people, celebrating the 97th birthday of a close friend — an iconic figure in Phoenix history. Trent Franks was there. Working the room the way you'd expect — rallying support, getting photographs, making small talk. He was genuinely engaged with everyone. But somewhere in the conversation, he said something that lodged itself in me and never left.

I won't try to dress it up. What matters is what it did.

Ever since that encounter, I've made it my practice to capture the moments that matter — deliberately, not accidentally. And one of the most unexpected gifts of that discipline has been learning to actually see the things that surround me daily. Things I used to walk past. Things I used to let evaporate.

I started journaling. Every day. Keeping track of ideas, encounters, conversations. Recapping my nights with the same few questions — always:

What did I see and feel? What did I miss? What did I learn? And what am I truly grateful for having — for experiencing?

This habit changed my world.

About a week ago, my grandmother was taken to the hospital. Poor responsive engagement with family. When I factored in everything — her medical history, the trajectory, the realities no one wants to name out loud — I knew time would be short.

After several meetings with family, we made the decision together to transfer her to hospice. So her remaining time wouldn't be clinical. It would be comfortable.

That decision is hard. It runs against every natural instinct to keep fighting, to hold out hope for one more positive turn. But when you grasp the reality — logically and emotionally — it changes your perspective. Hope doesn't disappear. It just shifts from more time to better time.

A few days into being home, her breathing changed. It became clear that her time to be in heaven was approaching quickly.

Last Sunday morning, I went to spend some quiet time with her.

She couldn't speak. But I knew she understood my words. She couldn't look at me. She couldn't make any effort in facial expression. But she let me know — in the most unmistakable way — that my being there was cherished.

She slowly lifted her arm. Just slightly above the mattress. Her hand was open. Ready to hold mine.

The second I took it, the moment was sparked. And I felt a personal obligation to capture it. Yes — for my benefit.

I reached for my iPhone and snapped the photo.

Selfishly, it's mine. But I'm sharing it with you — strictly for the hope that I can compel you to do the same. The benefit is mutual.

I will always remember that moment by her bed. I will never forget the timing. The softness of her hands. The effort in her grip. The sincerity of her grasp.

What I've shared with you is a moment that will last forever.