002 - This is Not My Beautiful House

May 2004

I’ve always enjoyed pulling meaning from unexpected places—applying quotes from movies or song lyrics in ways their creators probably never intended. Authors like J.R.R. Tolkien—one of my favorites—actually welcomed that kind of reader response.

There’s a scene in The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers that stuck with me. Gandalf, who was believed to be dead, returns—changed. He’s different in appearance, different in presence. He’s the same, but not. I think I get that now. I’ve passed through the death of my father, and I’m walking through the fire of grief. I’m the same… but not.

That’s how I came up with the title for this letter. It’s a nod to the Talking Heads song “Once in a Lifetime”—a song I used to laugh at back in high school. I remember hearing the line:

It always seemed absurd—like something you'd say if you stumbled into the wrong living room.

But now, all these years later, those words hit different. I never expected them to become meaningful, but here we are. Life has a way of catching up with you in ways you don't anticipate.

For anyone unfamiliar, “born again” is a term used in Christian faith to describe a spiritual rebirth—a moment when someone accepts Jesus as Savior and is, as Scripture says, made a new creation. Spiritually dead, now alive. Born of water, now born of spirit.

That moment happened for me in 1987. It wasn’t dramatic. No lights in the sky. No audible voice from God. But it was true. I was confronted by my past, and presented with a future radically different from it. I made a decision. And although I didn’t feel overly emotional, something in me knew it was right. Afterward, I may have looked the same, but I wasn’t the same. I had a new life. A new purpose. A “before and after” moment I could point to.

But in the 16 years that followed, life became linear. Predictable. Eventful at times, even hard—but not transformative. Things changed, but I didn’t. I had quietly lost the expectation that I’d ever wake up one day and say, “I’m different now.”

Then came December 3rd, 2003.

It took a few weeks to hit, but when it did, I shattered. Like a pane of glass.

For the first time since 1987, I felt hollow—just a shell. But strangely, not for long. Soon, I began to think, feel, and see differently. It was as if I were living inside someone else. That familiar feeling returned: I’m not the same anymore.

In the middle of tears and questions, I found myself quietly repeating:"How did I get here?"

And yet—here I am. No escaping it. And truthfully, nearly six months later, I’m starting to lean into it. I’m not trying to outrun grief anymore; I’m learning to live with it. To live through it. I’m beginning to understand what it means to dwell in the shadow of death—and still walk forward.

My dad taught me a lot of things—most of them without even knowing it. One of the most valuable was this: walk on. Keep moving, even through heartbreak. Keep going because there’s more beyond the pain. He lived that lesson out in ways I’m still trying to grasp. His quiet strength and devotion to our family remain one of the most powerful forces shaping who I am.

I’m not the same since he died. I don’t pretend to be. When he passed, a part of me went with him. That’s a cliché, but it’s true. Maybe it’s also part of the price we pay for loving someone well. We give them parts of ourselves—and when they leave, they take those parts with them. But maybe that’s the very evidence that we loved rightly.

This letter is my way of saying: I’m beginning to walk forward.

I’m learning that to say goodbye isn’t just letting go of someone—it’s letting go of what was, while still holding onto who they are. It means saying farewell to the physical presence… and growing into the legacy they left behind.

No, this may not be the beautiful life I once imagined—but it’s the life I’ve been given. And I would dishonor both the gift and the giver—my Father above and my father here—if I did anything but walk on.

So I will.

I hope it matters to him, wherever he is. I hope it bears witness to the life of a man who lived simply… but extraordinarily.

I am my father’s son. And I will walk on.

I love you, Dad.

(And yes—for the record—that beautiful woman at my front door is my wife. Thank God that hasn’t changed. Hot dog!)