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.

Notes from the Edge of the Circle

If I were to die right now while writing this, it might be months before anyone discovered it.

My bills are on autopay. Months sometimes pass without a text or a phone call from anyone I once knew. That’s the reality of the life I ended up living.

Being just a couple of years shy of seventy has me conserving what energy I have left to live the days God may give me. Yet I still spend long stretches of days looking back over this life, trying to understand how I arrived here—living in a quiet isolation that sometimes feels like a hermit’s life.

I’ve managed to avoid the usual woe-is-me that often accompanies stories like this. I did well financially and spent years traveling the world with a job that was often interesting and sometimes even fun. But none of those things ever quieted the restless places in my mind.

At my age, thoughts about mortality seem natural. For me they come almost daily. Not in panic or fear, but in quiet acknowledgment of how life has unfolded.

When the matriarch of our family, my grandmother, passed away, the family slowly drifted apart. What had once held everyone together disappeared, and we rarely gathered again except when someone else died.

The Bible says we are meant to leave our parents and go build families of our own. That seems to work for most people. I tried once. Soon after, I found myself pushed out of that life and never attempted it again.

Looking back, the pattern may have started earlier than I realized. As a child, I was often told to play alone rather than with the other kids in the neighborhood. That solitude followed me through school and into adulthood, where being quiet and apart was sometimes mistaken for arrogance when it was really just distance.

A kid who played alone.
A man who stayed that way.

The square peg.

Being young and alone is one thing. Growing old and alone is something else entirely.

Still, I sometimes miss the years when it might have been possible to turn things another way.

In memoriam to easier times, and to those of us who never quite fit anywhere.

Note to Self at 4am

I will likely be a broken man for the rest of my life.

It has been more than four years since my mom passed away, and the void she left behind has never closed. Her absence has taken a deeper toll on me than I ever imagined—physically, mentally, and spiritually. Some losses do not heal. They simply become part of who we are.

When a matriarch dies, the emptiness left behind is something no one truly understands until it happens to them.

It doesn’t help that the world itself feels upside down. The country I grew up in feels almost unrecognizable now, as if the familiar ground beneath my feet quietly disappeared while I wasn’t looking. Even without personal loss and health problems, that alone would be unsettling. Layered on top of everything else, it feels overwhelming.

Things that once excited me—making photos, creating videos, chasing the next job or the next adventure—have quietly slipped away. The well that once fueled those pursuits feels dry now, empty of whatever spark once lived there.

I’ve always been something of a loner, never entirely comfortable around people. Since my mom passed, that tendency has multiplied a thousandfold. Solitude has become both my refuge and my trap. There are people I care about deeply—family included—and yet the comfort that should come from being around them just isn’t there.

My mental and physical health have both suffered, and the peace I once felt in my soul seems harder to find. I keep telling myself that everything around me has changed since my mom died. But the truth is harder to admit: the biggest change is in me.

Sometimes my mind drifts toward drastic ideas—packing up, moving somewhere new, changing everything, starting over under a different sky. Then the latest lab results arrive, and I’m reminded there may not be as much time left as I once assumed.

I asked a friend recently to help me put one of the houses up for rent or sale. She kindly agreed, then quietly disappeared from the effort. And that was that.

Still, I know I cannot keep treading water like this. Even if the next step turns out to be wrong, I have to take one. I trust that God will lead me somewhere better than standing still.

Over the past year, I’ve been steadily clearing things out—from my mom’s house and from mine. Lately, the pace has picked up, almost instinctively, as if some quiet voice inside me knows the clock is moving faster than I’d like to admit.

It’s four in the morning as I write this. I should be sleeping so I can make better use of another new day. Instead, I’m sitting here thinking about something I read earlier—an interview with Suzanne Somers’ husband after her passing. He spoke about how peaceful it was at the end. She had battled more health problems than most people face in a lifetime, yet she managed to live fully and remain in a loving marriage until the very end.

Her enormous home and fortune couldn’t save her. And none of that will comfort those left behind when they miss her voice or wish they could feel her arms around them again.

How we carry that loss forward becomes part of their legacy.

And right now, if I’m honest, I don’t feel like I’m honoring my mother’s legacy very well.

That needs to change.

I still have work to do.

The Quiet Reckoning of the Fourth Quarter

This morning I woke around nine, went through the usual routine, and sat down to watch the markets.

Hours passed. I watched numbers move across a screen and did little else. At some point I fell asleep in the chair and woke again around six-thirty in the evening. The sun had moved across the sky without me, and I had never stepped outside.

My Gran never had a day like that.

She raised 5 kids, sewed clothes, cooked meals, and worked because her husband died young. There were too many mouths to feed and too much life demanding her attention for a day to simply disappear.

And yet mine did.

Moments like that make a man take stock of the life he has lived.

For years I measured my success by numbers—how many jobs I completed in a week, a month, a year. Bank balances. All proof I thought, that I was doing well in the world.

Only later did I discover the cruel irony attached to those measurements.

A life can look successful by many standards, but if relationships are not among them, the result is flawed. I learned that lesson slowly, and far too late.

Age has a way of sharpening the view behind us. I see now how often I valued the wrong things while simply being with people took a back seat—or no seat at all. I believed I could always shift toward a quieter life later, one centered more on peace and connection.

But life rarely works that way.

As a kid, all I wanted was money so I could buy things. Today I can afford almost anything I once dreamed about.

What I want most now is what I used to have.

Before I ever had a dollar, I was already rich.

My mother loved us without condition while carrying burdens that might have crushed someone else. My grandmother held a family together with little more than determination and sacrifice.

I didn’t know then how wealthy those moments made us.

My mind drifts often to those gatherings at Gran’s house—kids playing outside, the old telephone party line we used to fool with, and the spearmint Lifesavers she handed out one at a time because the rest of the roll cost another nickel she didn’t have.

Kenneth’s strange laugh. Peggy’s big hair and beautiful smile. Cousins running through the yard.

A world that felt uncomplicated and permanent.

Of course it wasn’t.

Time stepped in and carried it all away.

The weight I carry now is regret—regret that I pushed some people aside who are gone forever, regret that I didn’t show them often enough how much they meant to me. In prayer, I ask God to forgive those things, and I believe He does.

But forgiving yourself can take longer, if at all.

Faith is what remains for me now as I move through this final chapter. I pray for those who are gone and for those who remain.

Sometimes I have to remind myself to add my own name to that prayer.. 

These days I ask God for guidance and a path that is clearly lit. What I should do with whatever time I have left is a question I ask almost daily.

The days are quiet now.

And my mind keeps returning to a place in my life when I already had everything I would ever need—

long before I realized it.

twenty twenty four

Another year is almost gone.

One failed marriage quietly set the course for the rest of my life. A long road of solitude that now stretches behind me farther than I ever imagined it would.

The old music still brings the same emotion it always did. The songs, the memories, the people who once filled my life—they all come back the same way they did then. Those days were beautiful, and like most people living through them, I had no idea how quickly they would disappear.

A small part of my life today couldn’t be more perfect. The larger parts remain broken beyond repair—questions that will never be answered and paths that can never be walked again.

Many times I’ve wondered what it would mean if I could trade the successes I’ve had for the failures that mattered most. Would the world look different to me today if I had?

But life doesn’t offer replays. There is no turning around and choosing the other road.

The new year approaches whether we welcome it or not, and I step toward it with more apprehension than hope. The country I once believed in feels like it’s drifting toward something darker—something we fought wars to prevent. If the will existed to stop it, we would have seen it by now. Millions would already be standing up.

But I don’t see it.

So I move forward the only way I know how—through prayer and memory. I think about the people who fought before us, at home and abroad, so future generations would never have to face the kind of world I now fear may be coming.

I listen to the old music. I remember the old days. And I think of those already hurting, and those who may soon feel the weight of what lies ahead.

My hope is simple: that the people who can least afford to suffer somehow find the strength to endure.

Good luck in the year ahead.

Stay close to God. Speak to Him often.

And to the millions of patriots who must still be out there somewhere—may you find the will to act before it is too late.

Godspeed.

I'm Not The Only One - Christmas 2023

The silence has become heavy.

With age comes an awareness of how many people who once filled our lives are now gone. The quiet they leave behind settles in deeper each year, and lately I can feel it taking a toll. My health has begun to falter, and the memories that once made me smile now arrive with a sadness attached to them.

Time seems to be moving at a pace that no longer feels sustainable. The days pass quickly, yet the silence stretches long, often consuming what little peace I try to hold on to.

I know others feel this same weight. This time of year, many gather together, sharing pieces of their lives with family and friends. I choose something different. I remain alone, in a place where I can sit with what I feel without embarrassment or explanation.

Not everything in life is meant to be understood. Some things simply are.

What I do know is that I spent too many years believing there would always be more time. More time with the people I loved. More time to heal old wounds. More time to become the man my mother hoped her son would be.

But time waits for no one.

And wasting even a small portion of it, as I have, now feels like a sin.

So tonight I pray alone for those who may still care for me, as I care for them, even if we remain apart. The peace I failed to make with myself, I now pray others will find before their own time runs out.

Thank you, Father, for saving the wretch that I am. Forgive me for the many ways I have fallen short.

Lay your hands upon those who feel this same heaviness during this season, and bring peace where there is none.

Amen.

 

   

a message for the outcasts and the hermits on Thanksgiving 2023

Four years ago, an angel came for my mom, took her by the hand, and led her to heaven where she belonged.

Since then, the months between November and January have carried a different weight.

People who know me understand that I rarely take the internet seriously. But during the holidays, when strangers write about the people they’ve lost, I understand it. Loss recognizes loss.

My way of dealing with it has always been simple. I pull inward. I stay quiet. I sit alone and let the memories come.

Today I’m breaking my own rule and writing something serious in a place I usually ignore. Maybe one day someone will stumble across this after I’m gone and understand who I really was—rather than the version people imagined.

My best memories from this season all lead back to my grandmother’s house down the street. A massive old round table. Plates and bowls of food assembled by the women of the family like small works of art.

We devoured everything.

Then came Christmas, when we did it all again.

January meant Mom’s birthday.

Back then, I had no idea that those ordinary days would one day become priceless memories.

Mom is gone now. Gran too. Peggy, Ken, and Toots are gone. Linda is struggling with Alzheimer’s. Bobby is losing his memory while doing his best to care for both of them and hold on to what remains of life as it once was.

Time moves forward whether we are ready or not.

Grief becomes a companion you never invited. It sits quietly beside you, waiting for the moment when a memory catches you off guard.

These days, the feral cats outside my house seem to understand life better than most people. Their philosophy is simple: survive another day and find something to eat.

Raw. Honest. Uncomplicated.

I respect that.

A neighbor recently asked if I would look after her cat while her family travels for Thanksgiving. Of course, I said yes.

What she doesn’t realize is that caring for another living being during times like this is a gift to me. She believes I’m helping her. In truth, she’s helping me.

The cat’s name is Peanut. 

He probably doesn’t know it, but for a little while each day, he reminds me that life is still happening.

And that’s enough.

The holidays can be hard, but I still feel grateful. I read about families preparing big dinners and gathering around their tables, and the memories of when that was my reality come flooding back.

Memories hurt sometimes.

But they are also proof that something beautiful once existed.

I know I’m not truly alone. God walks beside me every step I take, and that has been enough to get me through another day.

Sometimes that’s all life really asks of us.

Just take the next step.

To everyone sitting around those big family tables this year—keep making those memories.

One day, they may be the most valuable things you have.

I miss you, Mom.

But God is here, and I’m still okay.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Someday Pile - 5am

There comes a point when the “someday” pile in your life stops making sense.

I didn’t sleep much last night. Old echoes kept wandering through my head—the kind that arrive in the quiet hours when the house is still and the past feels louder than the present. By morning, I had convinced myself that today would be the day I got moving again.

The day the piles start disappearing.

There will probably be several trips to Goodwill if I follow through.

My mornings begin the same way now. I sit here alone and write a few words, then check my phone to see if I missed a call or message. The habit remains even though most of the people I’d hope to hear from are gone now—some literally, others just by the slow drift of life.

Nothing there.

So I’ll have my morning conversation over coffee with a friend. Except I don’t drink coffee, and there isn’t a friend, so writing this will have to do.

Time moves differently once you realize there’s far less of it ahead than behind. Wasting time used to feel harmless. Now it feels expensive.

Which brings me back to the piles.

Do I keep this? Why am I keeping it?
Maybe someday I’ll need it again.

But the truth is, those somedays are mostly gone now.

Toss it.

Every time I’ve gotten rid of something, the regret I imagined never showed up. It turns out letting go is easier than thinking about letting go.

So today I’ll try to follow through on the plans that kept me awake last night. Clear the clutter. Make a little space.

Maybe feel a little lighter for doing it.

I’ve already fallen asleep twice while writing this.

That probably tells you everything.

      

The Sound of Silence

Sometimes I think about dying alone and no one noticing for a long time.

Living alone carries a peculiar fear. Not the fear of death itself, but the thought that I might die and no one would notice..

At my age, three things occupy my mind almost daily: my health, the reality of living completely alone, and the strange truth that—unsettling as that loneliness can be—I still have little to no desire to live with or even around anyone.

For decades, I’ve tried to understand that contradiction. I’ve read about people wired this way, hoping to uncover the source of  self-imposed solitude. The research never brings an answer.

Reaching out from time to time rarely helps either. Silence—or a quick reply that fades just as quickly—usually confirms what I already suspect: this quiet life inside my own thoughts may simply be how my story was meant to unfold.

I sometimes ask myself whether I was happier back when life included passions, work, and relationships.

There were moments—when a relationship was new—when life felt exciting, even joyful. But those moments never lasted forever. When they ended, the same question always returned: was the brief happiness worth the inevitable ending?

I’m not sure it was.

Logically, the fear of dying unnoticed shouldn’t matter. After all, I would already be gone.

But it matters anyway.

Perhaps because it would confirm the quiet truth of my life—that no one was checking the door, the phone, or wondering if I was still here.

It isn’t a legacy I’m proud of. In fact, it’s a little embarrassing.

How does someone live six decades and arrive at a place where no one would know if he disappeared?

Solitude may be a choice at first, but eventually it becomes a life.

Sometimes I wonder how many or even if, others are living this same quiet story.

Or am I the only one listening this closely to the sound of silence?

The Weight

My mother’s photograph was smiling at me from the table beside my chair.

The house was silent except for the slow ticking of the clock, and my mind was moving through one heavy thought after another—world problems I can’t fix, careless words that linger too long, things left undone, and things I’ve done that no longer seem to matter.

This is the only life I get. And the measure of what I’ve learned isn’t found in the easy days, but in moments like these—when the weight presses down and I have to decide whether the lessons of this life meant anything at all.

It was one of those nights when the quiet feels heavier than it should.

Then I looked again at her face in that photograph.

The storm in my head began to slow.

It happens like this sometimes. I get buried beneath my own thoughts, tangled in worries and noise from a world I can’t control. Too often I can’t get out of my own way long enough to simply be alive and feel some peace.

Let it go, my friend, I tell myself.
Just let it go.

Sitting there in that quiet room, something simple came back to me.

I’m not alone. I never have been.

The things my mother tried to instill in me are still there. They helped pull me out of that dark corner of thought. And God—He has always been there too, every time I felt like I was walking this road by myself.

So I said a prayer.

For those who are suffering.
For those who are sick.
For the ones carrying burdens they rarely speak about.
For the people who look fine on the outside but aren’t.

And for people like me—who sometimes feel the weight of the quiet more than they should.

I wrote this tonight as a reminder to myself.

The weight of life can get heavy, and there are moments when I feel too weak to carry it.

Some nights I forget that.

But the truth is simple.

I never have to carry it alone.

When the room finally grew quiet again, I looked once more at my mother’s smiling face beside me—and realized that even in the loneliest moments of this life, I have never truly walked it alone.

God bless.