THOUGHT FOR THE WEEK: 'Sometimes tomorrow never comes' reflects Offaly columnist

“SOMETIMES tomorrow never comes.” It’s such a small sentence, just four words and yet it carries the weight of a lifetime. It’s a phrase that arrests you mid-step, mid-scroll, mid-breath. It asks a few questions not of your schedule, but of your heart and soul, "If tomorrow never comes, will I have truly lived today? Will the people I love know how much they meant to me? Will I have left this world softer, kinder, more loving than I found it?

The world grieves

In the past few weeks, I’ve felt those questions press against my heart with new urgency. The world has been grieving. The passing of Liverpool and Portugal soccer legend Diogo Jota and his equally talented brother Andre Silva left the footballing world stunned.

The death of one of my heroes in life, Brother Kevin Crowley, Ireland’s quiet giant of compassion and flag waver for the poorest of the poor left a sacred space in the hearts of so many who knew him, and many more who never did. We’ve seen heart breaking floods in Texas, unspeakable suffering in Gaza, Syria, North Ethiopia, Sudan and Ukraine, and an ongoing crisis of famine and displacement across many parts of Africa and in places like Haiti in South America.

And in the stillness of my own heart, there is the quiet ache of personal loss, the enduring absence of my niece, Aoife Doyle. Aoife was just 14 when she left us, but her spirit was an anthem of joy and grace. She lived like each day was a love letter to her friends, her cousins, her grandparents. She found wonder in the ordinary. She turned moments into memories. “Teach us to number our days, so that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12). Aoife lived that wisdom. She loved like she knew time was precious. And though her days were far too short, they were light filled.

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That verse from Psalm 90 isn’t meant to make us fearful, it’s meant to awaken us. To anchor us in the here and now. Because the truth is, time isn’t promised. It’s entrusted. It’s sacred. And it’s fleeting. And I often find myself wondering: "How did she know how to love like that, so deeply and so well, in so little time?" She didn’t wait for “tomorrow.” She loved while she had the chance. And that, perhaps, is the lesson she is teaching me when I pray to her and talk to her. We’re taught to believe that time is something we own, that there will always be another day, another chance, another someday. But time is not ours to command. It is only ours to honour. And when we forget that, we begin to live numb. We postpone joy. We delay forgiveness. We swallow our “I love yous” like they can wait. But they can’t. And sometimes, tomorrow never does come.

The call to wake up

Grief changes us. It unmasks what truly matters. It pulls us from autopilot and says, “This is real. This is holy. Pay attention.” It makes us realise, we don’t own tomorrow. Jesus tells us in Matthew 6:34, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” We are called to this day. To live it wisely. To love freely. To forgive generously. To show up, even if our hearts are trembling. There is a danger in the ordinary pace of life, a kind of spiritual sleepwalking. We rush from task to task, filling our days with distractions, never stopping to ask, Is this really what matters? Is this really how I want to be remembered? Is this really how God wants me to live my life? Loss has a way of waking us up. It pulls the curtain back on what is real and what is noise. It reminds us that none of us are promised a long life, but we are all given this life. This moment.

And it’s in these moments that love takes root. What do you want to be known for? Your achievements? Your titles? Your perfectly curated calendar? Or your compassion? Your presence? Your laughter that made someone’s burden feel a little lighter? I think of Brother Kevin, who spent decades feeding the hungry on the streets of Dublin, not with fanfare, but with deep humility. Or Diogo and his brother Andre, whose faith, families, and quiet integrity stood taller than their fame. I think of the people who are never on a stage but who show up for the lonely, the homeless, the sick and unwell, who mend broken relationships, who hold space for others to grieve and to grow. I think of Aoife, who taught me that a kind heart, freely given, can change the world more than any grand gesture ever could. These are the people who understood something sacred, that Love is not something we say later. It’s something we live now.

Letting go and letting love lead

So what do we do with the sorrow? What do we do with the regrets, the unfinished conversations, the relationships that have frayed with time and silence? We let go, not with resignation, but with reverence. Let go of perfection. Let go of the illusion that closure must look a certain way. And yet, how often do we wait? We wait to say “I love you." We wait to mend the rift. We wait to apologise. We wait for the “right” time and sometimes, it never comes. I once planned lunch with a dear friend after their very serious life changing operation. We were excited. We had so much to catch up on. But just days before we were due to meet, he passed away. I still carry that unspoken goodbye. More recently, another friend began cancer treatment. This time, I didn’t wait. I went. I prayed. I showed up. Because love doesn’t wait. “Now is the time of God’s favour, now is the day of salvation." (2 Corinthians 6:2).

We are not promised the perfect moment. We are promised this moment and that is holy ground. Let go of waiting for the “right” moment to say what’s been on your heart for too long. Reach out. Write the letter. Make the call. Mend the rift, not because you’re guaranteed a happy ending, but because you don’t want to carry the weight of what you didn’t try. My Nana Scully once said to me, "Don’t leave this life with love left unspoken or forgiveness left undone.” And I believe that to be true. Even if your efforts are not returned, your soul will know peace. Your heart will be freer. You will have done the brave thing. Because love and I mean real love is not measured by outcome, but by offering.

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When the lights go out

There will come a day for each of us when the lights go out. But when they do, the love we’ve sown doesn’t fade. It burns on in those we’ve touched, in those who’ve seen our light and chosen to carry it forward. “Love never fails.” (1 Corinthians 13:8). That’s the promise. Not that life will be easy, but that love will last. So live this week as if it truly matters. Because it does. Hold your child and your loved ones a little longer. Tell your parents you’re grateful. Send a message to a friend you’ve drifted from. Apologize without ego. Listen without distraction. Say “I love you” without hesitation. And if your heart is tired, if grief has wrapped itself around you like a fog, know this, you are not alone. You are being carried. By God, by the love of those who’ve gone before you, and by the invisible strength that only sorrow can teach. You are not broken. You are not too late. You are becoming. You are still here.

And that means your love still matters, more than you know. So, speak kindly. Rest deeply. Forgive quickly. Pray often. Live slowly enough to notice beauty and to be part of it. You don’t need to do it all. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to love! Love God with all your heart and your family, friends, neighbours, colleagues and those in need as much as yourself!

Thought for the week

As your thought for the week please remember that you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to love a little more bravely, a little more freely, a little more now. Because in the end, it’s not our titles, our trophies, or our timelines that will be remembered. It’s our love. It’s our presence. It’s the light we leave behind when our own lights go out. So live. Forgive. Be kind. And when in doubt, love. Because if tomorrow never comes, you’ll know in your heart, you lived well today.

Let me leave you with this following prayer I found in my Nana Scully's prayer book and it goes as follows, "Lord, In the sacred stillness of grief and reflection, meet us. Thank You for the lives that shaped us, those we have loved and lost, and those whose love still lives on in us. Help us to treasure the gift of today. Help us to stop waiting for the perfect moment, and instead choose love, right now, in all its imperfect beauty. When we are weary, carry us. When we are stubborn, soften us. When we are afraid, remind us that we are never alone. Let our lives become a reflection of Your holy grace, that's quiet, steady and radiant. And when our own tomorrow does not come, may we be remembered not for what we built, but for how we loved. Amen."