I've had a need to put my thoughts into words since I was twelve years old, nearly twenty-three years ago.
I still remember writing my very first poem in seventh-grade English class.
It was about Kevin.
Yeah, Kevin. I still think about him every now and then.
Kevin was my soccer teammate. One day he was at practice with the rest of us, just being a kid. The next day, he was gone. He lost his life in an accident while riding a go-kart.
My teammates and I were chosen as honorary pallbearers. I still remember carrying Kevin from the hearse to where he would be laid to rest.
I was twelve. I don't think I knew how to make sense of any of it.
So I wrote about him.
Twenty-three years later, I'm a father now.
My son is almost ten.
And somehow, those ten years feel like seconds.
I can remember holding him for the first time. His first steps. His first words. It all feels like it just happened.
In two short years, he'll be the same age Kevin was when he passed.
Twelve years.
When you're twelve, twelve years feels like a lifetime.
But watching your own child grow makes you realize just how quickly those years disappear.
A vapor.
That's exactly how James describes our lives.
“For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.”
— James 4:14
I've read that verse before, but I don't know if I've ever felt the weight of those words quite like I do now.
Ten years can feel like seconds.
Twenty-three can disappear behind you before you realize it.
And still, it's so easy to live like we have an unlimited supply of tomorrows.
I'm guilty of it too.
I can wake up already thinking about the next bill, the next responsibility, the next goal, or whatever problem needs to be solved—and completely overlook the simplest blessing of all:
I woke up.
There's nothing wrong with planning for tomorrow. We have families to provide for, responsibilities to handle, and things we're working toward.
But somewhere in all of that, it's easy to miss what's already here.
Another morning. A conversation with someone you love. Your children growing up right in front of you. Food on the table. A roof over your head. Another chance to get something right.
Things we call ordinary because we assume we'll have them again tomorrow.
But even the things I'm most thankful for aren't promised to me forever.
That's the part I've been thinking about the most.
If this life really is a vapor, then appreciating it while I'm here is only part of the lesson. I also have to ask myself where my heart is anchored when my time comes.
For me, that answer is Yahusha (Jesus).
The blessings matter. My family matters. Providing for them matters. The work I'm doing matters.
But none of those things can be the center.
Yahusha has to be.
Because if James is right—and this life really is a vapor—then what am I building all of this for if my heart isn't prepared for what comes after it?
Yahusha said:
“Do not lay up treasures for yourselves on the earth, where moth and rust consume, and where thieves break through and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven... For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
— Matthew 6:19–21
That doesn't mean this life has no value. I think it means the opposite.
This life matters deeply because of what we choose to do with it.
We can build. Provide. Love our families. Chase goals. Enjoy the blessings Elohiym (God) has given us. But eventually, every possession gets left behind. Every accomplishment becomes a memory. Even this body returns to the dust.
Yahusha put it plainly:
“For what does it profit a man, to gain the whole world, and forfeit his soul?”
— Mark 8:36
So if I gain everything I spent my life chasing but lose sight of the One who gave me the life to chase it...
What did I really gain?
Twenty-three years ago, I wrote about Kevin because I was twelve years old and didn't know how else to make sense of losing a friend.
Twenty-three years later, I'm writing about him again.
Only now, I understand something I couldn't have understood then.
Today is a blessing.
So I'll do my best not to waste it worrying about a tomorrow I was never promised. I'll appreciate the people Elohiym has placed around me. I'll handle the responsibilities He's given me. I'll love my family while they're here to be loved.
But above all, I'll keep my heart set on Yahusha.
Because eventually, the vapor disappears.
And when mine does, I don't want to look back and realize I spent my whole life preparing for tomorrow but never prepared for eternity.
Kevin only had twelve years.
I don't know how many I'll get.
None of us do.
Maybe that's something worth sitting with for a moment.
How much of our lives do we spend worrying about what's next while overlooking what's already here?
The people we love. The time we've been given. The simple blessing of opening our eyes this morning.
And beyond all of it, where are we placing our hearts?
I can't answer that question for anyone else.
But I know where I want mine.
Grateful for this life.
Anchored in Yahusha.
And ready for whenever my time is called.
— Javier