"God, please forgive me. God, please forgive me."

That’s my Dad imploring with God. It was the same tone he spoke when he asked God to release him. There was a kind of sadness and sense of urgency.

He has been restless all day. Neither television nor the newspaper, not even the sports section, held any interest anymore. In part I feel Dad’s vision had significantly declined like most of his body, however, he wouldn’t speak of such things and continued to act as if he could see normally.

I asked if he would like me to read from some of my favorite books. Yes. I went to the stack of books on my desk that I turn to for daily inspiration. And, just as I do for myself, I allowed my intuition to guide me to which books were right for Dad right now. I picked up two. I opened one and read from the pages that opened. After one paragraph, I stopped and opened the other. I started reading about forgiveness. Barely in the middle of reading the second paragraph, Dad started praying to God for forgiveness.

"Dad, what in the world do you need forgiveness for?" I asked.

"God, please forgive me for my daughters. Forgive me for sister."

At the mention of sister, I asked if he wanted to speak to his sister. Yes he replied. I wasn’t even sure if she was still alive. I can’t explain it; however, my Dad hadn’t spoken to her in the past three years that I had been living with him. I remember when he was much healthier asking if he wanted to visit her, a five-hour drive from us, and he simply said no. I didn’t push. He wasn’t going to talk about it.

I found my mother’s old telephone books and looked her up under "C" for Connie. I dialed the number and said: "Hello, Aunt Connie. This is Lynn, Norbert’s daughter, your brother’s daughter. My father wants to speak with you."

She said, in a voice I didn’t recognize, no longer husky and strong but wispy with age and disease, "Thank God. I’ve been waiting for this day."

Dad called her Muriel. He said that was the name he knew her by since they were kids. He told her how much he loved her, how much he always loved her. He told her how much he missed her. For a brief moment he asked, "Where’s mother?" I gently reminded him that she was dead many years ago. He caught himself and spoke of other things. He asked about her son, about her daughter. He mostly said how much he loved her.

In between Dad handed me the phone. In a sense, I acted as translator. Both were caught up in the emotion of the call and neither one could hear the others’ words clearly. Aunt Connie wanted to know how ill Dad was. Turned out she is 15 months younger than my Dad and has Parkinson’s too. I told her that these were his last days, as we knew them.

She was so sad. "I love him so much. I love him so much. He was the best. He was always there for me. Whatever I needed. I never told him. I love him so much. He was so good to me."

What a gift it was for me to experience this moment. Death is such an amazing teacher. Forgiveness and the inner peace that follows is just one of its lessons. But we don’t have to wait to the end of our life to get this lesson. Figuratively speaking we face many deaths and transitions throughout our lifetime. The end of each year is such a time.

So I invite you to think of one person -- friend, associate, colleague, or family member — who it’s time to forgive. Perhaps like my father the circumstances that have blocked your deep felt connection all these years may no longer be clear. Perhaps you are like my Aunt Connie waiting for the other to make the first move. Imagine 10, 20, 30, even 40 years from now. Will it really matter that much?

How does it feel now when you think of that person? How would you really like to feel?

Do not let another year pass without closure and forgiveness. Feed your life force with love and forgiveness. Allow this holiday season to truly be a time of joy, peace and happiness. Do not worry about what to say; just make the call, send the email. And, if they have already passed on, write or pray to them anyways. Trust. Know. Believe. You will be guided. You hold the key. There is only now.