Polaroids.

Last night, I had the most unexpected dream. My grandfather.

We were sitting at the dining room table in Ridgefield. He was in his usual spot at the head of the table, and I was in my grandmother’s seat to his left, just around the corner. My right hand rested in his left, and I noticed how big his hand seemed next to mine—those long fingers that always looked strong but felt soft, almost like pillows to my child’s eyes. Sometimes they were dirty with grease from working on sewing machines, sometimes holding a cigarette, and sometimes letting me play with the loose, malleable skin.

There we were, my hand in his, my head resting on my left arm atop the table. I just watched him.

He didn’t say a word but moved with such calm, normal familiarity. On the table were photos, facedown—old-looking, maybe Polaroids—like he’d just taken them from his pocket. One by one, he turned over each photo, pausing long enough for me to see and absorb what was there before moving on to the next.

And as he continued, I began to understand.

Each photo was a snapshot of my life. Not posed or remarkable moments, no feigned smiles in a group setting. These were candid glimpses of forgotten, unremarkable life: moments of kindness, simple happiness, or quiet significance.

Moments I wouldn’t have remembered if he hadn’t shown me.

And you know what I saw? Moments of my life that meant something to him. Small, beautiful moments where something good had happened. They weren’t grand, but they mattered.

And I was thankful.

I’ve been thinking about this dream all day.

It made me think about God and what happens on the other side.

We often imagine judgment day as this stern reckoning, a moment to fear. But what if it’s not that at all?

What if it’s just this?

Sitting with God at a dining room table, your hand in His hand, your head resting on your arm, as He turns over snapshots of your life. Not to judge but to show you the good you did. The acts of kindness you thought no one saw. The quiet moments of joy you forgot. All the small, wonderful things you did that mattered—to someone, to Him.

What if that’s what awaits us?

Thanks, Granddad. Amen.