I noticed him sitting alone on the bench, his hands covering his face. I had just finished delivering care boxes at the hospital and was soaking in the sun as I walked to my car. When he heard me approaching, he lifted his head and gave me a faint smile.
“Hello, ma’am. Isn’t this weather nice?”
“It sure is,” I replied. “I hope you’re enjoying it too.”
That simple exchange about the weather opened the door to a conversation I’ll never forget. He told me his wife was gravely ill, and there was nothing more the doctors could do. She was being moved to hospice. He had stepped outside to catch his breath, pray, and try to wrap his heart around the news.
His eyes softened as he spoke about her—the love of his life for 70 years. She was the life of the party, always encouraging others, always full of joy. “Oh, she loved Jesus. Boy, did she love Jesus!” His eyes twinkled, and then he laughed—a deep, soul-filled laugh. “And now she gets to meet Him.”
Even in his brokenness, he could still find joy. He wanted her homegoing to be a celebration, not a sorrowful goodbye.
“I want it to be a party,” he said. “She loved parties.” He paused. “Does that sound odd?”
He had no idea who he was talking to. I smiled and told him about my mom, the party hats, the funny dogs, and yes—the chicken suit. We sat on that bench and laughed until our sides hurt.
I know it wasn’t an accident that I met him that day—or that I had an extra care box in my car. The care boxes we deliver include party hats—a reminder to choose joy, even in brokenness. I handed him the box.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A little gift of encouragement and hope,” I said. “I’ll be praying for you.”
He opened the box, pulled out the party hat, and pressed it to his chest. Tears streamed down his face, but then came that same deep laughter. Joy and sorrow mingled together. I gave him a big hug, silently thanking God for this sacred moment. He stood up, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay, I’m ready. It’s party time.”He walked back toward the hospital, clutching that care box like a treasure, wearing the party hat. The smile on his face told the whole story: even in the darkest places, laughter is possible.
I sat in my car wiping tears. It was no accident. This was a divine appointment—a reminder of everything I learned from my mom’s cancer journey. I thought about her funeral, with everyone wearing party hats. And I smiled at the thought of the party in heaven when this man’s wife meets Jesus—and meets my mom. I’m pretty sure Mom will be wearing a party hat.
This moment wouldn’t have happened without Mom’s legacy. The care boxes, the party hats, even the chicken suit—they’re all part of the story God is still writing.
Life is short. Choose to celebrate every second. Find beauty in the broken—it’s there if you look for it. And keep a party hat close by. You never know when you’ll need it. 
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