Sunny Smiles and Magic Moments: How a Hospice Visit Warmed My Heart

I was nervous. It was a hot day in the middle of August, and I was about to do something I’d never done before. Working in public relations for Forefront Living allows me to capture and share stories from each of our entities – including Faith Presbyterian Hospice. In this capacity, I had met patients and their families before—but always in the comfort of the T. Boone Pickens Hospice Center, where the serene setting and supportive teammates make it feel like a safe haven for those in their final chapter. Today was different. Today, I was going to meet someone in their own home—a man who had chosen hospice care and had been receiving it for months, a man whose story I was entrusted to help tell.

The heat outside felt overwhelming, but it couldn’t compare to the weight of my nerves. What if I said the wrong thing? What if I intruded on a sacred moment between this man and his family? What if I couldn’t find the words to capture the fullness of his life? These thoughts raced through my head as I walked up to his front door, trying to focus on the purpose of my visit: to share his message of living life to the fullest, even as it was drawing to a close.

As I walked inside, I was greeted by warmth—not just from the Texas sun, but from the man himself. Steve. Steve’s smile was wide and genuine, and his eyes sparkled with a mixture of peace and wisdom as River, his Dorky (Dachshund/Yorkie combo), happily wagged his tail in welcome. I introduced myself all the while wondering if this was actually the patient before me—he didn’t look sick. He wasn’t in bed or hooked up to machines like I expected. He seemed “normal”—not at all what I had prepared myself for visually. Yet one thing I hadn’t factored in during my mental hype session was the aura surrounding him that transcended the silly “what ifs” running through my mind and instantly helped me focus and feel calm. As I witnessed this extraordinary phenomenon, it became clearer to me that this wasn’t just an interview or a story. Spending time with Steve was a privilege.

We talked for just over an hour (I had promised to adhere to that timeline knowing how precious Steve’s time truly is), though it felt like no time had passed at all and I would have happily spent the entire afternoon basking in his light. He shared stories about his life, his career and his passion for magic. The way he spoke about his journey—both the triumphs and the struggles—was nothing short of inspiring. What struck me the most was how he embraced his current stage of life with such grace. He wasn’t afraid of the end; instead, he welcomes it and sees it as an opportunity to reflect, to find peace and to continue bringing joy to others, even in his final act.

Steve spoke about faith, not in a preachy way, but in a way that made you feel like you were being wrapped in something warm and reassuring. He talked about how hospice wasn’t about giving up—it was about focusing on what really mattered. “It’s about quality, not quantity,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I still have work to do, people to make smile.”

As he spoke, I felt inspired and knew that I wasn’t just there to share his message—I was there to learn from him. Right in front of me was a wonderful, living and breathing example that life is not defined by its length, but by the moments that fill it. Steve had chosen to live fully, even now, even in hospice and that was something I would carry with me long after this day.

When our time together came to an end, I felt a bittersweet mix of emotions. There was sadness, of course—because I knew that our conversation was likely one of his last interviews. But there was also joy. Joy in knowing that I had been part of something so meaningful. Joy in knowing that I would now get to help him share his story with the world, a story that would remind others to live boldly and with purpose, no matter where they are in life’s journey.

As I left Steve’s home and stepped back into the heat of that August afternoon, I felt different—lighter, somehow. My nerves were gone, replaced by a deep sense of gratitude. It was the first time I had visited someone on hospice in their home and it only reinforced that choosing hospice isn’t about the end of life—it’s about finding peace and purpose in the time we have left. And that’s a message worth sharing with everyone, everywhere.

I will forever be thankful for that hot day in August, for the man who welcomed me into his home, and for the lesson he taught me: Life is magic, right up until the final curtain call.

by Wendy Van Bemmel