Forrest Gump’s mama was onto something when she said, “Life is a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

It’s better not to know, at least for me. I’d waste too much time worrying about what I most dreaded, the imminent Almond Creams, Butter Creams, Orange Creams, and—the worst—Liquid Cherries.

My single-minded efforts to change my fate and sidestep life’s unpalatable surprises would keep me from fully embracing the Chocolate Fudge, Coconut Crunch Cups, and Caramel Cordials that came my way.

Had I listened to my husband, I might have missed out on the bits and pieces of “Forrest Gump” wisdom. After viewing a preview for the film, Gary said, “Looks ridiculous. I’m not spending money on that one.” 

OK. Fine. 

I asked my dad to go with me.

Gary eventually saw the movie. I dragged him to the theatre and said, “You might like it.”

He did.

But I digress.

By the time Dad and I took our seats for that July matinee, he had been declared healed from a bout with cancer. He had no idea he was on the cusp of a second, similar diagnosis, no relation to the first.

In other words, Dad had already swallowed his fair share of those wretched “butter creams,” in the forms of surgery, chemo, and radiation. But like Forrest Gump, my father had a knack for finding positives in any situation and taught us to do the same.

If my brothers or I said a classmate bullied us, Dad said, “We need to pray for him (or her).” 

If we complained about a demanding teacher or coach, he said, “When it’s too tough for everyone else, it’s just right for me.”

Dad also could summon a laugh at a moment’s notice. He often kept his sense of humor intact when righting our wrongs. 

If one of my brothers misbehaved, Dad playfully warned, “Cross my line one more time, and I’m sending you to Pruntytown.” 

Pruntytown (in Pruntytown, WV) was a reform school for wayward boys that employed military discipline to teach self-control. My girl status earned me an exemption. And Dad chuckled every time he threatened. Still, the mere mention of Pruntytown gave me a shiver.

At the theatre near us, Dad and I relaxed back in our seats with popcorn and zero expectations. “Forrest Gump”unfolded on the big screen and wooed us in. We subconsciously crossed the screen’s barrier and become part of the story.  

Dad and I laughed. We cried. We said not a word when the final credits rolled, as though the slightest whisper might sever the magic. Given the choice, we would have remained in our seats and watched the film all over again.

A few years later, after enduring treatments following his second cancer diagnosis, a terminal Liquid Cherry found its way into Dad’s box of chocolates.

His response?

“Don’t cry for me,” he said. “God has blessed my life. I’ve had so many blessings.”

My father chose to focus on the parts of his box that had delivered countless Chocolate Fudge-Coconut Crunch-Caramel Cordial moments. The day we saw “Forrest Gump” together was a triple sweet one. 

After Dad received the incurable diagnosis, our parents called a family meeting.

“I want you to know I’ve arranged to be buried at the National Cemetery in Pruntytown,” he said.

In a flash, my brother Donald said, “Pruntytown? Pruntytown? All those years, you told us we were headed to Pruntytown, and you’re the one who’s going to wind up there!”

Laughter filled every pocket of air in Mom’s kitchen, Dad laughing the longest.

Here’s the thing about life’s box of chocolates: we can’t spit out the bites we don’t want, but we can choose to make the best of even the bitterest of them.