Every Labor Day, I’m transported back to my father’s final month in 2008—not by grief, but by gratitude for the grace and humanity that surrounded him in his last days. Though he passed in October, Labor Day marks the moment his health turned and when quiet acts of compassion—from doctors, paramedics, and even transporters—carried us through.

That September afternoon, I arrived at my parents’ senior living community with grilled burgers, sweet corn, lemon bars, mums, and root beer—intent on bringing the Irish Days festival to their patio. For decades, Labor Day meant Irish music, dancers, and food—my dad never missed it. But that year, my mom called to cancel. He wasn’t well.

Still, I setup outside, hoping he’d join me. But within the hour, paramedics arrived. I held his hand as they lifted him from the couch, offered to carry the oxygen tank, and was gently reassured: “We’ve got it.” Before locking up, I ran back to grab his glasses and a pile of library books. “I’ve got your books, Dad.” I didn’t know what else to do—but I knew he’d need his books.

Weeks later, in the ICU, we had answers: stage four lung cancer. His physician knelt at his bedside and simply said, “I’m sorry, Paul.” One by one, nurses, doctors, and even the X-ray transporter who bonded with him over the Cubs came to say goodbye.

When he came home on hospice, I stood by his bed and read The Bourne Sanction, swabbing his mouth with root beer. He passed on October 3, surrounded by love and holding his book—his final chapter written with grace.

My father’s quiet mission was to “make every day a little Christmas.” He lived this out daily—often with two bags in hand, filled with food or clothing for “the poor.” The trunk of his car, like his heart, was always full.

Years later, I found his little blue notebook—hundreds of books read, dozens more to go. I carry it now. His gifts—generosity, stories, song—live on in us.

Every Labor Day I raise a root beer toast: to books, to love, and to the everyday Christmases he gave us all.