“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell

You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country.

He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice.

I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited.

In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror.

My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic.

As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect.

That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded.

So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can.

My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain.

When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way.

But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week.

A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four.

There and back. Turn and burn.

His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing.

When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone.

Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for.

SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing.

Constantly.

With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display.

He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now.

SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one.

His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose.

And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation.

Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too.

Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash.

But mostly—silence.

An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence.

My God, how do you move on from that?

Patience.

Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses.

I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.”

Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost.

Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door.

Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around.

Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.”

Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him.

#essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing

2025-04-11 09:35:00

'Dad's heart stopped after I said amen to a prayer'

At 11:44am Sunday November 9, 2025, the Conductor took his last breath. My friend, a minister of the Bible, watched his father pass away even as he said a benediction for him. It is heartbreaking and beautiful.

It was a 3 month long journey that resulted in the Conductor laying in a hospital bed for more than 30 days all told over the course of the illness.

I read recently that none of us truly become men until our fathers die. Dubious logic, but absolutely beautiful poetry. And in the generations of today, losing our fathers may be the thing that is needed to trigger the metamorphosis of maturity.

It is a hard passage if it's true. I think I'd prefer to be Peter Pan if it is.

The Conductor and his family have been in and around my life since childhood. His widow, the Queen of Swords, is among my closest friends. He was a vaguer component for decades but in the last 10 years has emerged as a clear cheerleader for this wolf, often telling me how much he appreciated everything I've done for and with his family.

He was a weird guy. One of our friends describes meeting him 30 years ago in a suit with no socks or shoes. Probably about the best and most succinct way of understanding this complex creature.

He was gone a lot from his family. Conductors have to conduct (trains as well as symphonies) and his route kept him on the road for days at a time. It provided a good living for his family, but the absence took it's toll emotionally.

I don't' think it was the job so much as it was the baggage of his life, but he struggled with addiction for decades before finally kicking the heavy stuff. Though he was hooked on tobacco until things got serious for him about 3 months ago.

He had a sister who struggled emotionally too. She passed away a few years ago from heart failure. The same thing that killed her brother. His sons are now rightly worried about their own life-pumps.

As I have watched him over my life, I have seen the Conductor through the eyes of his sons and wife, all close friends. They always hoped better for him and honored him as best they could in their own flawed ways. But he could never measure up to the standard the Bible holds out to those who hope for the approval of Jesus and His father.

And so I did, as righteous men often do, judge him. Inferior, broken, needing to change. But, in all the years I knew him, he remained absolutely confident that he would have a place in God's kingdom. As a man myself who feels unworthy of that role, I always found it eyebrow raising.

He would need to change this and that in order to yadda yadda. It's a life-long mantra of the Bible-thumper. In recent years, I've started to change my understanding and softened a lot. On others as well as myself—well somedays I'm less soft on myself, but trying. And I've started to see that there are good-hearted humans who just cannot meet that standard. Something in them is broken beyond repair and they are doing the best they can.

We all have demons. Some of us are better at cowing them than others.

Some of us have to hide under the bed, or behind a haze of chemical stupor in order to function. It isn't fair to say 'you aren't good enough' if you're doing the best you can. I think the Conductor was. I think I am.

Sometimes all you can do is limp through life.

In the end, he was a kind man, a good man—if flawed. In truth, I've known many 'better' men from a righteousness point of view who didn't have half the kindness or thoughtfulness. Maybe that's why we discuss Jesus we focus not on his righteousness, which no man could match, but rather, his goodness.

He was a guidepost. A point of consistency on the landscape of my existence that's gone now. It will be far worse for his wife and his sons, but the loss of that waypoint will effect us all.

It's terrible and sad. Another loss in a long line that will just continue until the Wolf breathes his last breath. And that's not the scary part; the last breath. The scary part is all the unknown between today and that moment.

Death is only a problem for the living.

Good night, Conductor. I'll keep waiting faithfully for my own line. I'll wait as best I can. Broken, tired and unworthy. Thank you for showing me that it's less about what others think of you and more about being honest with yourself. It's a weight I am still learning to carry.

Just like all of us.

#death #memorial #essay #writing #100daystooffset

originally published: 2025-11-10 15:00:00