Take the Trip

I've been meeting with a group of guys for a beer just about every Monday evening for the past several years. We meet, chat for a bit about nothing in particular, and then we all go our separate ways to tackle our respective weeks. There's a stretch of pavement that I pass by on my way to these meetings that brings me back to a particular Monday evening a couple of years ago. On this Monday, our group of guys were filing out of the brewery, and we were each headed back to our vehicles to call it a night. Several of the guys were parked south of the bar, my friend John and I were park in the north lot.

John was a bit of a miracle on this particular evening. He had beaten stomach cancer and was enjoying a second lease on life. We had spent a good deal of the evening talking about his recovery in fact, and we were all really happy to see him back in the mix and socializing with us again.

He had told us about a trip he took with his son, Fin; a motorcycle trip that sounded like a grand adventure. He had shared with us photos of the trip and told us of the fun they both had in each other's company. "Take the Trip" seemed to be the moto that emerged from the evening's conversation... a sentiment that John and Fin echoed to each other in the days and weeks that followed their father-son trek — the words made poignant in the wake of stomach cancer.

As John and I made our way to our prospective vehicles, the sentiment was echoed yet again, "Take the Trip". My heart was warmed by the sentiment. We conversed a bit and I was all too happy to share in the joy of my friend John, a grin forming on his face as he recollected the adventure he had just taken with his son.

John had been a person who had come along side me at a very turbulent time in my life. Several years prior to this conversation between us — in the wake of divorce and unemployment — John had provided a job for me as a construction worker. I didn't have a lot of skill in the field, but John gave me a shot and taught me everything I needed to know to be as much of a success as I could. Truth be told, John saved me in a lot of ways. At the time he gave me this job, I was very much face down in a ditch, metaphorically speaking. He picked me up and dusted me off.

I was the frailest of creatures back then. I recall days where my body would seem to stand limp with a heavy sorrow — as if a stiff breeze might topple me over. Had it not been for John I don't quite know what I would have done. John gave me a direction and a purpose. I remember getting dressed and showing up. In my experience, sometimes that's the best you can do. Upon my arrival each day, he and I would load up his truck with whatever tools we might need for that day's job, climb into the cab, coffee mug in hand, and head out. This was my place. This was where I was supposed to be. The job afforded me the opportunity to remain in Washington and be a present father for my daughter.

More than give me a job, John modelled for me a correct way of living. I recall one job where our team was painting a house that was nestled on the shore of a lake. When it came time for lunch, I remember John taking a seat on the deck out near the water. He took out his lunch box and began to eat his lunch. For whatever reason I, to this day, can draw up an image of my friend John sitting on this deck chair eating lunch with a backdrop of evergreen hills, blue skies and a calm lake. In that moment he seemed to represent for me the embodiment of relaxed contentment. He didn't hurry his lunch but seemed to be mindful about where he was and what he was doing. He took in both the food he was eating and the scene that was afforded him on that day out there on the water's edge.

How much of life is missed troubling ourselves with what happened in the past or what might happen in the future? My mind was stuck in the past quite a bit in those days, as I recall. Seeing John perched like a king on a deck chair admiring the kingdom that lay before him brought me back to the present for the briefest of moments and helped me appreciate the vast blessings I had to be thankful for each and every day.

Jumping back to the "Take the Trip" conversation... A few weeks after John and I had shared that short walk back to our respective cars, John's cancer returned with a vengeance. A few months later and John was frail and ready to depart this earth. The "miracle", it seemed, was the gift of a few extra months with friends and family... and a treasured trip shared between father and son.

On July 8, 2024, our Monday night cohort went to John's house to be with him and sit alongside him one last time. We sat in lawn chairs situated in a circle in his secluded front yard. I brought with me a framed photo of our group, taken from a few years prior, and gave it to John.

I also took the opportunity to tell him what a difference he had made in my life, and — as a lump formed in my throat — I told him that I loved him. I suppose this stated sentiment may seem a bit uncouth when offered from one man to another in the days and times we live in, but it was a statement ever person present that night was saying to John. I simply gave words to the sentiment.

We sat in silent, almost reverence, for a while. The evening was calm and cool. At one point John felt the need to be moved back inside. A few of the guys assisted him to a bed situated in the living room that overlooked the front yard. We then took turns going in one at a time to sit with John. I sat with him for a bit. I asked him about his kids, Fin and Molly, as I recall. He spoke a few words. Realizing how depleted he was, I spared him any follow-up questions and simply sat by his side.

The evening drew to a somber close. With goodbyes said, we all went our separate ways. We all knew John had weeks if not days left.

Early in the morning the next day, I boarded a plane with my daughter, Molly. Our destination was Colorado State University, where Molly was scheduled to go through freshman orientation. Upon landing in Denver, I switched my phone off of "airplane mode", and within a few moments I received the text: "John passed away last night." And so, in the midst of a flurry of passengers scurrying to locate their respective bags, only to stand and wait for the line of passengers in front of them to disembark, time stood still for me. A lump formed in my throat and my eyes welled with tears... my daughter by my side. Looking back at the moment, it seemed fitting somehow that I would now be on a trip with my daughter.

In the weeks, months and years since that blessed evening in July of 2024, I have taken many trips... some with family, some with friends, and some with the fellas I still rendezvous with on Monday nights.

On the Monday evenings when I return to visit with my friends for a beer, I will walk past the space of pavement where John and I shared a moment walking out to our cars. As I walk past, if I'm cognizant of the space I occupy, I will be taken back to that night. I hear the sentiment whisper in my mind: "Take the Trip". I will, John... as often as I can.