For the longest time, I meant to make Anzac biscuits as part of a care package for my brother-in-law serving overseas in the armed forces.
I meant to make them but first the oven was broken. Then the kitchen was being renovated. Then I couldn’t find the recipe book with the recipe I liked in it. And then, when I found a good recipe on-line, there wasn’t any toner in the printer to print it out.
And in the meantime, my life got filled with school excursion permission slips and doctor’s appointments and over-due library notices and unfolded laundry.
And so the biscuits went unmade and the care package went unsent.
And then last week, we received the incomprehensible news that my brother-in-law had been killed on a dusty road far from home. And I finally found myself making those Anzac biscuits for a completely different reason. I was making them with my children to take to the Shrine of Remembrance, to pay our respect to a long chain of fallen soldiers, of which my brother-in-law was the latest.
And I realised my mistake.
I realised I had left it too late. I had let my days get cluttered with excuses that I tripped over like so much lego scattered over the loungeroom rug. I had failed to stop and honour someone I loved while he was still here.
And now he’s not.
My brother-in-law was a good man, a fine soldier and was beloved and respected by all who met him. Lest we forget.