a look back, at the future..

People say the most important part of a headstone isn’t the dates carved into the stone.

It’s the dash.

That small mark standing between the beginning and the end — our entire life reduced to a single line.

I think about that sometimes when I remember the people who are gone. I wonder if they would recognize the versions of themselves that live inside my memory. Memory edits things. Softens edges. Rearranges moments.

The people we remember are never exactly the people who lived, or maybe they are.

My faith tells me that everyone still here already knows where they stand with God. I believe that, even while I struggle with feeling less than worthy. Even while knowing I've fallen short of what was expected of me.

The past several years have worn me thin. Living alone turned out to be harder than I imagined, even for someone who thought he preferred it. Depression has been a familiar companion for years. Recently, grief pulled up a chair beside it.

They seem comfortable together.

There are moments now when I barely recognize the man I once was. The weight of grief settles deep into the bones. I try the old trick of telling myself that others have it worse, but the mind knows when it’s being negotiated with.

Still, I made a promise to my mother before she died.

I told her I would be okay.
I told her I would keep going.
And I told her I would keep moving closer to God so that one day we might meet again.

So I keep going.

Life has knocked me down more than once. Eventually, I learned something simple: getting back up isn’t just an option.

It’s the only thing on the list.

And so I move forward the same way everyone does — carrying regret, gratitude, faith, and memory through the narrow space we’re given.

The dash between the dates.