We discussed a wide range of topics. Last night, while shopping, we’d discussed the design of intake systems for performance cars (the merits of hood scoops versus cold-air intakes). Today we talked of Facebook, parent-child relationships, and sexuality. In other words, just another typical conversation with one of my sons.

In the middle of his junior year of college and with his older brother married and living 90 miles East of us, you would think that I would be accustomed to my younger son being four hours-away. You would think that him being home for several weeks over the Christmas break wouldn’t create an intense sense of loss as I watched him drive away today. You would think I’d have seen this coming.

You would be wrong.

Mirror, mirror…

Both of my sons, for good or bad, look quite a bit like me. Just yesterday, when my younger son went to get his license renewed, someone who didn’t know him said, “Are you Tim’s son?” The family resemblance is strong enough that a friend of mine from high school, not having seen me for over twenty years, met my older son and immediately asked the same question. Both of my sons have heard “You look so much like your dad” that they’ve long since started to expect to hear it.

Today, as we sat and talked, I noticed that he was briefly distracted, watching someone intently as they walked from the drink dispenser back toward the counter. I turned to look. My son had been distracted by seeing a toddler step away from her mother at the drink dispenser, and wander off looking for her father.

I smiled to myself. The boys don’t just look like me.

“Pass the changing roles please…”

Several years ago, just prior to my father’s death, Dad came to live in our house. During those all-too-short months, some of the most remarkable experiences I had were our late-night conversations about theology. Dad, having been formally trained at a Southern Baptist Seminary, took great joy in wandering down lesser-travelled conversational paths in his search for the truth, and this became even more evident late at night when he would suddenly become unusually talkative.

During one of our more memorable conversations, we were discussing the Biblical story of Jesus and the woman caught in adultery (John 8:1-11). Dad looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Did you ever wonder what Jesus wrote on the ground?” He was speaking of verse 8, where Jesus writes something in the dirt with his finger, prompting the religious leaders that were about to stone the woman to drop the stones and walk away. Dad continued by saying, “I wonder if he wrote the name of a mistress of one of the men about to stone her, or maybe some other shameful secret that all of them knew.” We never came to any solid conclusions, but I loved having this kind of conversation with him.

Today, sitting across the table from my son, I asked him for his opinion of a project that I was considering. I asked because the project might be considered controversial to some of my theologically conservative friends, and I was concerned about the potential reflection it might have on our church, and who people perceive me to be.

He looked at me and said, “Well, I don’t remember Jesus worrying about spending too much time around prostitutes and tax collectors. It seems to me that he hung around with all sorts of people, and not just the religious ones.” The people in question aren’t prostitutes or tax collectors, but they’re definitely a group that most Christians spend little time on or with. As of now, I haven’t yet decided whether or not to take on the project, but I found my son’s comments thought-provoking, to say the least.

Life Shared vs Barter-dom

As I sat in my car, watching him drive away, I suddenly realized why my own father took such joy in such conversations. It wasn’t because he wanted to pass along some grand theological truth to me. In fact, I doubt that it mattered too much to Dad what it was we talked about.

Dad knew, as I’m beginning to understand, that being intimately connected to someone has little to do with the exchange of favors. We don’t create intimacy and love by saying “If you’ll do ____ for me, I’ll do _____ for you.” Sadly, many relationships are built on such bartering. I know of at least one couple that treats sex this way: “We can have sex if you’ll take out the garbage this week and help me get the house clean.”

Last weekend, my younger son turned 21, and I joked that now my parenting duties were complete. My friends reminded me that there were many more things left for me to take care of, not the least of which would be grandchildren. Even so, him reaching this age does mark an important milestone, and it caught me a bit off guard. He’s on a different road now.

Perhaps it’s my own feelings of mortality, but I was struck by wondering how many more of his birthdays would I be blessed to enjoy? How many more casual lunches would we have where we could pick and choose the topics randomly, completely unconcerned with the need to discuss a particular subject? How much more life would we share?

Road Scholar

Just before I backed out of the parking space and started to drive home, I posted on Facebook, “And just like that, he’s gone again.” I don’t know, as my son officially gets on this particular road, what lies ahead of him, but I feel quite confident of his ability to navigate it well.

As I made my turn and went the other way, I did so with caution, blinking hard. For some reason, my vision had just become quite blurry.

This particular morning was different though. This morning, for the first time in twenty years, there were three people in the house on Christmas morning, and not four. Now the old question goes: when your son gets married, are you losing a son, or gaining a daughter? As I sat in the stillness of Christmas morning, it didn’t seem like a rhetorical question.

Lost & Found

On Christmast Eve, as we exchanged gifts at my older son’s house, it seemed clear that I had gained a daughter. We had transparently added her to all of our traditions: we now had a stocking for her hanging from the mantle, we had shopped for presents for her with the same sense of joy that had filled us when shopping for the boys, and she now found herself the victim of the friendly razzing that goes on in a close-knit family.

However, the feeling on Christmas morning was more somber. With nobody else awake and stirring around, I was alone with my thoughts, and suddenly acutely aware of the change.

“This is how it begins, I suppose…” I mumbled to myself. Soon enough, everyone would be up, the traditional chocolate-chip pancakes would be cooking, and we would (since Christmas fell on a Sunday this year) get ready for church.

I stopped and thought about this. Since my older son wouldn’t be here to eat his share of the pancakes, there might be some extra for me. Rather than taking joy in this, I felt a twinge that accompanied the thought.

Christmas Passed

Thankfully, the melancholy didn’t last long. As I sat, I suddenly remembered a similar morning 28 years ago: my first Christmas morning away from Mom & Dad, celebrating it instead with my wife of (at that time) six months.

Suddenly, the melancholy was replaced with an onslaught of memories of the intervening years, and how traditions began in our house to replace and supplant the ones I’d shared with my parents. In a few years, my younger son would be following suit, celebrating Christmas in his home, and not mine.

Sooner than I’m probably prepared for, both of the boys may be blessed with children. If so, then the traditions they forge with their families will become something precious for them to enjoy, though for a shorter time than they expect, and then someday look back on as I do now.

If only they can be so lucky.

Merry Christmas!

What Kind of Love?

What kind of love did this man have, that he would go down to the end of the road, every day, and watch for the son who had scorned his love and provision? What kind of love compels someone to wait patiently, even when love isn’t reciprocated, on the outside chance that someday, they will return?

Depending on the day, the father probably started doubting himself. “What did I do?” he must have asked, or perhaps “What did I say that drove my son to leave me this way?”

Can you imagine how, with each passing day, he might have been more and more discouraged? Did he ask about his son in town, or pester his son’s friends about his whereabouts? Did he go roaming through the countryside, searching high and low? Was he endlessly chasing after his son, never truly letting him go? Perhaps the father had an even greater love than that.

What if the father loved the son so much, that he hoped for the son to find the desire of his heart, no matter what that might be? Is it possible that the father loved the son enough to say “goodbye,” knowing that the son’s pursuit of his dream might never lead him home? What if the son said, “I never want to hear from you, ever again.” Did he love his son enough to honor the desire of his son’s heart this way?

With no way to know if his son was alive or dead, the father did the only thing he knew to do: wait.

Prodigal People

It’s been my experience that most of us have “prodigal people” in our lives. Sometimes, they “go to a far country” without leaving our house. Sometimes, they spurn our affection and provision. Sometimes, they must say “goodbye” to us in some way, so they can pursue the desire of their heart.

How will you respond? Will you arrogantly and smugly give them up for dead? Will you hope for them to suffer, and come crawling back to your door? Will you sit and dwell on the many ways of saying “I told you so” or something similarly caustic, should they ever darken your door?

(By no means am I suggesting that we should martyr ourselves for those we love, and let them be abusive toward us. Those we love clearly must understand that words and actions have consequences, even in the midst of love. Those consequences, however, should not include witholding love.)

What then, from their perspective, would they expect to hear upon their return? Based on how you’ve behaved in the past, would they expect to be welcomed home, as the father welcomed his long, lost son? Or, will they expect to hear indignant, selfish words (however justified) of your pain?

Selfish or Selfless?

What if they are unsure? What if, as they approach the house (metaphorically speaking), they are too frightened to walk up to the front door and knock? Is it possible that the only way they will summon the courage to “come home” is if they see you, standing at the end of the road, waiting for them?

It’s true that if you do this, you may wait forever, and feel the emptiness of uncertainty. But then, who wants to be loved with a love that risks nothing? Who wants a love that costs nothing? Wouldn’t each of us, if we are wearing the Prodigal’s shoes, want to be loved with a love that waits patiently, forever? Wouldn’t each of us want to be loved with a love that selflessly sends us off to pursue what we desire, instead of selfishly holding onto us for themselves?

Stand. Watch. Wait.

Forever.

“I am thankful…”

Think about what these words mean, in and of themselves. If you say this to another person, you’re not just making the broad statement about something being good. You’re personalizing it.

“I”

We say impersonal, objective things, all the time, and then like to associate ourselves with them in abstract ways. “Be an agent of change” is an example, but there are many others. When we remove “I…” from something, we loosen the association with our goals, our passions, our lives. Perhaps we do this because we truly don’t want to claim it, but there are probably other reasons.

Consider though, how much more powerful it is when we begin with “I,” rather than just including it in a statement. For example, who in their right mind would say, “Love is something that I feel for you” instead of the simple and direct, “I love you”?

“am”

Maybe it’s just me, but I think “am” is a funny word. Try this: say “am” out loud (hopefully when nobody else is nearby), and listen to how it sounds. “Am.” By itself, the word communicates nothing but ambiguity and generates loads of questions. Am… what? Am hungry? Am tall? Am a geek? Am heading out to a fiesta?

The implied “I” is there, of course, unless you happen to say things like “Bobby am one of the best mechanics I know.” With or without the implied “I,” the word “am” is a simple statement of being.

What then, are we to make of this? Instead of looking at it that way, why not consider what we might use instead of “am.” Words and phrases like “are,” “is,” “was,” “will be,” “won’t be,” are all obvious examples. How do they differ? Grammatically, the replacements for “am” are either changes to plurality (“we are,” “they are,” etc.), objectivity (“Bobby is,” “SQL is,” etc.), or tense (past or future, versus present). “Am” suggests that at this moment, the subsequent modifiers in the sentence apply the the object, that the object is singular, and that the object is subjectively speaking.

“Am,” in the context then, becomes “the words that follow apply at this moment, without any other qualification, to the person making this statement.” This is very simple, and very direct.

“thankful”

In disassembling some words, I’m reminded of a favorite scene from the movie “Night Shift,” with Michael Keaton and Henry Winkler. It was a fantastic role for both actors, with Winkler portraying the anti-Fonzie, ultra-subdued parter of the insanely hyperactive Keaton, as the two of them decided to launch a prostitution ring that would operate out of a morgue. My favorite moment is when Keaton is having a first meeting with all of the employees, and decides to disassemble the word “prostitution.”

“‘Pros’… I think we can all agree who the pros are here. Let’s see… ‘tit’… or ‘tu’… two tits… I don’t think I need to elaborate on that part. OK… let’s see… ‘shun.’ Hmm… to say ‘no’ to something. OK, that really didn’t help as thas no application in this context.”

What if we apply this to “thankful”? In contrast to taking apart “prostitution,” taking apart “thankful” just yields something like “full of thanks.” Interesting. “Full” and not “partially filled” or “mildly affected.” For me, the word creates a picture of a bucket of slips of paper, all different colors, with “thank you” and “Fanks!” and “THANKS!” and all the other variations that we might hear. The bucket is so completely filled with these little messages that it overflows.

In context then, I have a picture of this bucket, with the speaker’s face and name printed on the side, overflowing with these little printed messages of gratitude. The picture says, “This bucket is me, and it’s filled with all the many ways that I want to say ‘thanks’ to you.”

“[that]“

“That” is another interesting word. Dictionary.com lists usage #6 as: “Used to introduce a subordinate clause stating a result, wish, purpose, reason, or cause.” In this case, the usage isn’t direct, but implied. (I originally included this, because every time I’ve read it, my brain has inserted “that” into the sentence. As I read it the next morning, I realized what I had done, but enough of “that.” – Tim)

What follows the implied “that” for us, is the reason… the cause behind the bucket being filled. The word tells us that the speaker isn’t just feeling gratitude in an abstract way. They aren’t just saying “I am thankful.” This may be a noble state of being, but when followed by the second half of the sentence, we find a very specific reason or cause for the gratitude of the speaker.

“…your path…”

This is a fantastic subclause to the sentence, but it’s easy to let its meaning slip by unnoticed. Don’t do that.

“your”

“Your,” frequently (and incorrectly) used in place of the contraction of “you are,” has a very clear, very direct meaning when used properly: The ____ belongs to you. There may be many ____ out there, but this one is one that the speaker associates with you, as in your t-shirt, your car, or your name.

“path”

Paths are funny things. If you’re prone to go walking in the woods or in some kind of wilderness, paths represent places where someone (maybe you, or maybe others) have walked before. You might be on a very familiar path, retracing steps that you’ve taken day after day, year after year. All of us have such familiar paths in our lives, but unless we still live in a crib (meaning, a baby crib, and not the more modern usage) and watch a mobile spinning above our heads all day, our path today will probably be different, at least slightly, than our path yesterday.

Carrying this further, even the familiar paths are sub-paths… part of larger paths, which are, by definition, our own. The speaker is now is saying to me: “Of all the paths, taken by everyone I know, I’m addressing the path, both the familiar subpaths and the unfamiliar larger path, unique to your life.”

Serendipity and Your Path

Before going any further, think about the various familiar paths in your life: the path you take to work; the path to the local Bo-Jangles for a breakfast biscuit; the path of going to class; the path of a typical day in the office; the path to the local Starbucks; the path to dinner with friends or family; the path to reading with a child; the path to falling in love; the path you take to walk for exercise; the path to saying goodbye; or the path of grief.

For many of us, the unique larger path of our life becomes a simple repetition of these familiar sub-paths. We go to work each day. We sit down at our desk. We check our email. We do our work. We eat lunch at our desk, or maybe go to lunch with the same set of friends or co-workers. Lather, rinse, repeat.

There is comfort that comes with familiarity. We know what to expect. In such a life, the uniqueness of our path comes, not from the sub-paths themselves, but from the way we combine such paths into the larger path. Imagine a world then, where each of us construct lives solely from these predictable, repetitive patterns.

Does it not seem that something is missing from such a life? To me, it does, and it’s not just the thrill of “different” or the love of adventure. What’s missing from such a life, to me, is wrapped up in one word: serendipity.

I was once told, “Thank you for [purposefully leaving] ample space for serendipity.” Ironically, given the word’s meaning, serendipity doesn’t just happen. Especially in a world where we tend to build lives from simply repeating familiar paths, serendipity only happens if we create space… margins in our lives in which serendipity can happen.

Because of what serendipity is, we can’t manufacture it, or cause it, but if we make no space in our lives for it, serendipity will never be present in our lives. That, my friends, is a tragic state of events.

“…crossed mine”

The last segment of this statement brings together elements of the previous ones. It does this, however, in an amazing way.

“crossed”

Working for a computer-newsletter company back in the 90′s, the editorial style was such that passive voice was forcibly driven out of my brain. (Ed Note: Yes, I intentially used passive voice to describe the process, because I wanted to keep secret the identity of those responsible for it. Get over it.) However, a fantastic side-effect of passive voice (in this case) is that it suggests the very serendipity I was alluding to above. There is no implication of “I chose to cross your path” or that someone else directed my path to an intersection with yours.

Instead, the passive voice construction suggests that either unseen or unknown forces (God?) or random chance of two individual’s choices created paths that ultimately created an intersection. This kind of intersection of life paths happens all the time, but how often do we even notice it, much less remark on it? Think of the friends and acquaintances you’ve made in your own life. Aren’t many of them the by-product of what appears to be coincidental intersection of life paths?

“mine”

Bringing the sentence full circle, the speaker clarifies the full intent. The speaker has a unique path that is theirs and theirs alone. You, likewise have a unique path that is yours and yours alone. The speaker isn’t thankful that your particular path intersected with any given path, but with the path that is uniquely theirs.

“I am, this very moment, full of gratitude that, without any apparent intent on your part or mine to create life paths that would cross one another, they did.”

or, more simply

“I am thankful your path crossed mine.”

I was thankful when I first saw this, still am this very day, and expect to be for the rest of my life. I hope you are too.

This is regardless of anything at all.

Having had a variety of relationships, both great and horrible, this breakup might not seem like the kind of thing that would impact me deeply. Hadn’t I, going from one relationship to another, and sometimes being in more than one at a time, become a “player”? Such types don’t get deeply or emotionally involved, but instead use their partners for selfish and self-serving motives, and tend to move on to greener pastures with little thought to those they leave in their dust.

Why then, has this been such an emotional thing for me? Why did I delay the last moments in this relationship, dragging them on for as long as possible? Why was I feeling so… defeated by this?

The “No Commitment” Relationship

The relationship began the way many do, as a by-product of a deep friendship. We have known each other, in many ways intimately, for several years. Over time, that knowledge led to each of us leaning on our friendship at one point or another, but never in a manipulative or hurtful way. Both of us had wondered, from time-to-time, if we might be taking advantage of this friendship, but it never felt that way.

As the relationship took a new turn, into something deeper than just casual communication, we were both unsure if it would work. After all, it was understood from the beginning that my time would not be focused 100% on her. I had, and was going to maintain, a previous relationship. This was an unspoken, but fairly obvious element of the trust we shared. The relationship, from the start, was rooted in division of my attention and… incompleteness.

Even so, I jumped in with both feet, at least while I was giving her my time. When moments came and my attention had to go to my previous relationship, I made sure she knew when it was going to happen. When the relationship had my attention, I was focused, intent, and determined to make it work.

And work, it did.

I blazed new trails, learned new things, and we engaged in a storybook, problem-free romance. In sharp contrast to almost any relationship I’d been in before, this one held healthy conflict, on those rare moments that conflict arose. We talked, openly, about everything under the sun. When problems came up, as they do, we addressed them directly. Every morning, I woke to the knowledge that, no matter what else might not be perfect in my life, the security (though unspoken and clearly not committed) was there. It was energizing and made every aspect of my life seem more successful.

Unfortunately, one of the sad aspects about commitment, is that it is a fickle and misleading thing. We all say that we want commitment from someone else, but at some level, a formal commitment from the other party can often be a way to let us off the hook. After all, if the other party is free to walk at any moment, we really need to “up our game” and make sure that we are attentive to their needs. If we “mail it in” on a regular basis, and don’t give it our best, there is the underlying knowledge that nothing is keeping them from severing the relationship.

Another word comes to mind here: Obligation. On a daily basis, we all create obligations, but what about when that feeling of obligation creates a situation that’s no longer healthy for one or the other? Is it good for her to stay in a relationship with me, even if it’s to her detriment? On the other hand, if we’ve made no obligations, but are both present, daily because we choose to be present, daily, doesn’t that paint a very different picture of waking up one day and that person is still there?

From the start, that caused me to see this relationship as something, higher, perhaps more pure, than any that I had experienced before. Here we were, voluntarily together, with no vows or ties to keep us that way. In the same way that I felt that I had to bring my best, every day, she felt the same way, and I received regular praise and compliments. I had a constant barrage of positive feedback.

This was working, somehow, for both of us. This was good, somehow, for both of us. In spite of everything we had both been taught, and thought we “knew,” this seemed to be working.

Somehow, this relationship, perhaps because of the lack of formal commitment, seemed to have  depth and satisfaction that I’d never found before. Had I inadvertently stumbled upon something better than what I had been taught was “right” all my life? Was this commitment thing dramatically overrated?

The Breakup

The day the breakup came, I felt something was up, from the very start. Everything about our communication that day seemed to be sparse and relatively meaningless conversation dominating the early part of the day. Late that day, when I heard “can we talk?”, somewhere inside of me, I knew what I was about to hear.

Now, the details of why we needed to end our relationship aren’t really pertinent. As I sat and listened, I nodded, added affirmation, and smiled as much as I could. It was difficult to smile, but I could look across and see the face breaking the bad news to me, and knew that my anxiety was much less. I knew that pain, because I had been the one to begin such a conversation before. I knew how it felt.

You see, I’ve ended relationships before, so I know how it feels to try to choose the right words. I know how it feels to be the bad guy… the bearer of bad news. I know how it feels to share what will be, no matter how we paint it, devastating news. Even when I’ve known it’s necessary, and beneficial to both of us to go our separate ways, it is soul-crushing and difficult to actually find the words.

Burning Bridges and Remaining Friends

Another friend of mine once told me about the end of a business relationship where he “burned the bridge to the ground, torched the sucker, and made sure every smoldering bit was gone.” To put it mildly, this has never been my style.

Yes, I have had my share of outbursts, and on more than one occasion, I’ve said and done things that have hurt others, sometimes deeply. Even so, I’ve tried to never completely sever a relationship, in spite of how difficult this can be to do. I’m happy to say that I have generally found a way to remain friends after relationships have ended, regardless of who ended it.

I wish I could say that I have always been successful at this, but I haven’t. Sometimes, things have ended with raw, hurt feelings, and no path to reconciliation. At least once, the hurt was completely my fault.

You see, part of the problem with staying friends is, there was an underlying reason that the relationship wasn’t working, or had issues that just couldn’t continue. No matter how hard you try, when the break-ee looks the break-er in the eye again, even if they are smiling and being friendly, the knowledge remains of the break-er being the one who chose to end things.

That choice is an initial blow to one’s self-esteem: “What is wrong with me? Why wasn’t I enough? What could I have done to have kept this from happening?”

If the breakup gets ugly, then things are even worse. Not only are bridges burned, but feelings are hurt and much is lost.

That day, I heard, without me asking, the answers: “There isn’t anything ‘wrong’ with you. On the contrary, you are an amazing guy. You’ve enriched things in my life in ways that I just can’t express. This isn’t about you. This isn’t personal. This is just one of those things where the circumstances won’t allow us to keep on this path.”

I heard the words, but was a bit numb at that point. It was sort of like watching a Charlie Brown special, where the teacher is speaking but all you hear is “wah waah wa wahh…” instead of actual words.

The Future of Two Boats

In my case, the circumstances couldn’t be denied, and we both agreed that we needed to bring things to an end. In the following days and weeks, we would have additional conversations about her life moving forward, and after we had those, that was that. There was no way to deny anything that was said. This was the right path to take… the best path to take, for her, and for me. I knew that my lack of focus on my previous relationship was putting it at risk, and had even verbalized this along the way. If I was going to make the previous relationship work, it was going to have to have my complete attention. It was going to have to fly or flop on its own merits, and not be kept artificially alive by me finding what I needed elsewhere.

I needed to focus.

Now, for good or bad, the breakup has forced me to focus. I have no safety net of this now-past relationship to keep me safe. Like a man who has been standing between adjacent boats, one foot in each and forcing them to run alongside. I need to let the boats go on different paths, but to do that (and not fall into the water and drown), I have to plant both feet firmly in the boat that I had chosen before.

The boats are now separate, and in standing here on the deck, I can look at and appreciate the vessel that has borne part of my weight for some time now. I can stand here, waving goodbye, and watching as she turns and charts a course, now unknown, by necessity, to me. It’s unlikely that she will be on a course that will be alongside mine in the future, and if not, that’s OK. She is seaworthy and sound, and is now headed to new places she needs to go, that I’ll not see.

I wish her well.

Epilogue

This past week, I came to the end of a long-term contract, working for a Fortune 100 company, and I was a contract employee–a “gun for hire” that does not have (or in my case, want) full-time (i.e. “committed”) status. Recently, a friend of mine compared the heartache and pain of job-loss with the breakup of a romantic relationship, and we discussed the nature of business today, and how employee-employer relationships are now taking on the same kind of short-term prospects that many marriages are. I don’t know if this is part of a larger social issue or not, but I found it an interesting paradigm to use. This entry was written with that parallel in mind, and many of my friends who have recently lost their jobs.

If you are, should you be the subject of envy, or pity?

A picture postcard, a folded stub
A program… from the play
File away… the photograph
From your holiday
But your mementos, will turn to dust
For that’s the price you pay
Every year, is a souvenir
That slowly fades… away

I’m a big fan of mementos and souvenirs, but not so much in the traditional sense. Yes, I buy t-shirts and hats when I visit a new place, and I tend to snap a picture here and there when I travel. My favorites though, remind me of people.

Memories…
Below are a handful of the mementos that I have on my shelves, in my desk drawers, and scattered around my office.

The top drawer of my dresser has even more. What is it about such things that compels me to keep them?

In the picture above, each item represents a person (or a couple of people) that have touched my life. They represent family and best friends. There are more things that I’ve kept, of course, representing other friends and family, and these aren’t necessarily the most important items I’ve kept as memories of someone.

…of Touch
For example, at my home, I have a wooden boat that my father hand-carved. It’s extremely simple, but looking carefully at it I’m reminded of his love for simple engineering, attention to detail, and his willingness to stay up all night, helping one of his sons with a “build a boat” project that was due for school the following morning. I have kept that boat as a reminder of the sacrifices that Dad made, as well as a reminder of sacrifices that I need to make as well.

I keep pictures of people, as we all do, but for me, it’s the things that people have touched and used that I want to keep. Things that were handed to me, in person, and things that were given to me as gifts. Things that, even now, as I pick them up, I know that the other person once held.

The boat that Dad carved, for instance, was in his hands for hours. I’ve often wondered if, in the intervening years, I have held it in admiration longer than he held it in creation.

Likewise, one of my favorite drink containers was a hospital-issue, insulated ice jug. Mom brought it home after one of her stays, and then continued to use for years after. I can’t pick it up or hold it without a flood of memories of her, and the various times and places where she held it.

The Touch Box
Jerry Seinfeld used to do a comedy bit about looking for the perfect box. All of us were looking for a box to hold this or hold that. When we die, maybe our coffin is that perfect box.

I noted, with a bit of amusement, that I have maintained a box of stuff as I’ve changed jobs over the years. Not content with keeping memorabilia around the house, I’ve now got a cardboard box full of stuff that reminds me, not of the places that I’ve worked, but of the people I’ve worked with.

Hopefully, each of you have a box, filled with tangible things you can put your hands on, each of which will remind you of someone who touched your life. I wouldn’t trade the items in this box for anything… except maybe a few more minutes with each of the people who touched the items before I did.