An elderly man sat in an easy chair in the living room as a muted television—Cantonese captions scrolling beneath the screen—shared the day’s news. He reached for the remote, turned the TV off, and shuffled toward the table. When he noticed me, a smile spread across his face and he offered a joyful greeting.
His food was already waiting—simple, nourishing porridge, covered with a tin plate to keep it warm. A newspaper lay neatly on the tablecloth. He lifted the plate, opened the paper, and began to read.
Earlier that day, Ching had gathered his clothes from the night before and carefully descended the thirteen stairs to the laundry room. He chuckled at his grandchildren as they passed him in the hallway. Later, he shuffled outside into the sunlight, bent to retrieve the newspaper, and took hold of the hose to water the row of succulents near the house.
For ninety-six-year-old Ching Long, most days followed this same quiet rhythm.
And for visitors to the Long home—myself included—Ching became a steady presence. A fixture, almost. His warm smile. His friendly manner. His Cantonese world, a barrier to deeper conversation, yet never to kindness. Always affable. Always ready with that smile.
Ching’s passing was sudden. In the days that followed, my visits to the Long home ceased as the family entered a cultural season of mourning. On the day of his funeral, I was two thousand miles away, unable to attend.
But when my husband and I climbed the steps to the Long residence this past New Year's Eve, the absence was unmistakable.
The easy chair stood empty.
The television was silent.
Ching was gone.
We gathered around the table. My husband took a seat—the one where Ching had always sat before. And in that moment, the loss became tangible. No longer abstract. No longer distant.
Never again would I see that smile light his face as he watched his grandchildren.
Never again would I hear the family turn toward him with questions spoken in Cantonese.
No more Thanksgivings. No Christmases. No New Year’s celebrations shared with his family.
Ching’s life had come to its earthly close in 2025.
After dinner, little Brian—Ching's two-year-old grandson—climbed over the arm of the empty chair as I spoke quietly with my friend Joy.
I gestured toward the photograph resting in front of the television. “Who’s that?”
“My father-in-law,” she replied. “Can’t you tell?”
I studied the image more carefully: a gentleman wearing glasses, his jaw slightly set. I had never seen Ching with glasses, but the familiar lines of his face gave him away. Still, I realized how little of his life I truly knew. I had met him only in the evening of his years.
We began to talk about World War II. About China. About the devastation that followed Mao’s rise to power.
“I wish I had asked my father—while he was still here—more about how all of that shaped our family,” Ching’s son said quietly from the table.
His words lingered.
There is something to be treasured in listening to those who have walked longer roads than we have. Their stories are not merely history; they are inheritance. And once the chance to ask has passed, the silence left behind can feel heavier than words ever did.
Standing in that room—marked by presence, then absence—I was reminded how swiftly life moves from routine to remembrance.
What remains when the chair is empty?
What stories have been told—or left untold?
What quiet faithfulness will speak when our voices no longer can?
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His life reminds us that time is a gift, not a guarantee.
There are questions worth asking now. Conversations worth lingering over today. A God worth being ready to meet.
May we be people who listen while we still can, who love faithfully in small, daily ways, and who build memories that speak peace when our chairs are left empty.
And may we live ready—to meet God, to leave a legacy, and to be remembered not merely for what we did, but for how we loved.
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