Can Sorrow Be Healed? Reflections on Aquinas

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Can sorrow or pain be remedied by pleasure, prayer, and weeping, the support of friends, meditation and contemplation, or sleep? This question was posed by Thomas Aquinas centuries ago (Hutchins, 1952, p. 786). Reflecting on this, I realize how the sources of pleasure in my life have changed over time. In the past, drinking alcohol and seeking sensual experiences provided a temporary escape. Now, I find enjoyment in weight training, exercise, and reading enriching literature. Prayer and meditation have become meaningful remedies for sorrow in my later years. As a young man, I coped with anxiety and allowed myself to grieve openly when faced with significant losses and struggles I felt were over my head—specifically, the loss of my father, the loss of a job, and the loss of a home—each a pillar of stability in my life as a husband and father striving to provide security for my family.

Following my spiritual conversion, my passion for meditation has deepened, fueling my desire to explore the deeper aspects of mind, soul, and spirit. This journey has brought me closer to understanding the truth of the world and strengthened my faith in a higher power—the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Sleep, too, offers relief from sorrow and pain, especially when I am exhausted from worrying about things beyond my control or when decisions impacting my livelihood are out of my hands. Often, a good night's sleep after a period of mourning brings much-needed relief and renewal.

Perhaps most significant is the role of friendship in alleviating sorrow and pain. In my experience, having a good friend has helped me through difficult times. Professionally, as a registered nurse, I have seen how being a friend to patients during their recovery can ease their pain and suffering, even if only a little. These personal and professional experiences affirm the importance of compassionate support in overcoming sorrow.

Reference:

Aquinas, T. (1952). The Summa Theologica of Saint Thomas Aquinas. In R. M. Hutchins The Great Books of the Western World (Vol. 19, pp. 786-790). Encyclopedia Britannica.

Learning Trust the Hard Way on Three Wheels

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Saul Bellow, as quoted in Writers (Crampton, 2005, p. 22), observes that many people harbor a deep and persistent feeling that their own experiences lack authenticity or grandeur—that their stories aren’t epic or meaningful. This sense of inconsequentiality, he suggests, runs deep and can be overwhelming; it is therefore because of the possibility of these feelings being true that we fight against the temptation to believe it so, and as such, we write to tell our stories, the stuff of life.

This question of whether our stories matter, whether our memories are worth telling, lingered with me for years. Yet, it is often in the ordinary details of our lives—moments that seem small or inconsequential—that we discover the most profound truths. My own story is not epic by any measure, but it is mine and honest.

With this in mind, I return to a memory from my childhood, one that shaped my understanding of trust, consequence, and growing up. Before they were outlawed in the seventies and eighties, televisions were filled with commercials advertising the thrill of wilderness adventures, especially through all-terrain vehicles (ATVs)—targeting outdoor enthusiasts and Texas deer hunters alike. Honda and other manufacturers sold millions of the infamous three-wheeler ATVs. My grandfather had one, and so did my dad. I was no older than ten or eleven when my father brought ours home. He was, understandably, very protective of it, and would only let me ride after much begging and with my mother urging him to give me a chance—always insisting I stay right next to the empty city fields near our home in Texas City.

Of course, I would push the boundaries, riding up and down the back alley behind our house, kicking up dirt and tossing rocks, revving the engine when I thought I was out of earshot. My dad was usually in the garage, tinkering with his rifles, hunting deer feeders, turning a wrench on the old army jeep he was refurbishing, or welding up a piece of angle iron or pipe for a friend or work buddy. Looking back, and admittedly foolishly, we never wore safety gear or helmets. I’m thankful I escaped harm, as those ATVs—with their single front tire and narrow turning radius—were notorious for rollovers and serious injuries, which is why they were eventually replaced by the safer four-wheeled models.

One Saturday afternoon, after completing my chores, mowing the lawn, finishing my homework, and cleaning my room, I wandered out to the garage. Dad was there, sweeping up debris and dust, tending to his “man cave.” I came in, feigning boredom, searching for something—anything—that wasn’t another chore. I wandered over to the three-wheeler, climbed on, gripped the handlebars, and hunched forward like I was ready to ride. “Dad, when was the last time we started this thing up?” I asked, hoping to pique his interest. “You think we should warm her up?”

He abandoned his garage tasks, in a better mood than usual, and replied, “Yeah, let’s take her out a bit, but you stay close.” My heart raced with excitement—a moment I’ll never forget. I pushed the beast beyond the driveway and tried to get her started. I had to stand atop the footpegs, straddling the seat, and pull the black Honda cord with all my strength to start the 4-stroke engine. This model didn’t have an electric start like my grandpa’s, the one we called Big Red.

Once I got the three-wheeler running, I’d peer over the front deer rifle rack that my father had welded onto it, and roll out smoothly. I’d carve figure-eights in the field next to our home, always within sight and earshot so Dad could keep tabs on me—especially if I was going too fast. He could tell by the engine’s pitch, and with his sharp, signature whistle—a sound I now use with my own family—he’d pierce the air to get my attention. I’d slow down, though I always tested the limits.

This day, though, is really the heart of this story. Anyone who’s ever lost trust knows what it’s like—and maybe that’s what qualifies someone to write about trust in the first place. I always knew the rules: stay in the fields, never cross city streets, keep to the alley behind our street, don’t speed, and absolutely never give another person a ride. Period.

It was the perfect Saturday afternoon for a kid: chores done, the sun shining, and me riding our ATV, my hair blowing back as I did mini-donuts in the field beside our house. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted one of my neighbors—a girl from across the street—standing at the edge of the field, watching me. She was about my age, and her curiosity got the better of her; she crossed the street to see what I was up to.

In true pre-teen fashion, I sped up when I passed her, imagining myself as a Supercross racer, zooming past with a grin, hoping to impress her. I’d glance over my shoulder, feeling especially cool and self-assured. I can’t even remember her name now; her family lived on our block for only a short while, but that’s beside the point.

After a few laps, I finally pulled up next to her, grabbing the handbrake to stop. The ATV idled in a low rumble—loud enough to talk over, but not so loud that my dad, about two houses away, could hear us. Dad’s ear was always tuned to the normal hum of the ATV circling the field, but what I didn’t realize then (and do now) is that he could sense when something changed—like when I stopped.

I said hello and asked what she was up to. “Just watching you,” she answered. Wanting to be generous (and maybe a little taken by her smile), I asked, “Want to go for a ride?” Without hesitation, she walked right up—curious and brave—and said, “Yes.”

I scooted forward to make space, and she climbed on behind me. Before I could even say, “Hold on,” she’d already wrapped her arms around my waist. We puttered around the field—one and a half easy laps, not fast, just enough to feel the wind. In that moment, I had a fleeting sense of what it must be like to feel grown up, even though I hadn’t even hit puberty yet. For a second, I felt like the real deal.

And then I heard it—the sound I dreaded: Dad’s whistle. I’d been conditioned since I was a toddler to respond instantly, like a dog to its owner. I looked over to our backyard—past the neighbor’s fence, over the wild honeysuckle vines—and there he was: sunglasses beneath his trucker hat, arms crossed, wearing a face of disappointment.

I knew I’d committed a cardinal sin. I rolled the ATV to a stop and told the girl, “Sorry, I have to go home now—that’s my dad whistling.” She hopped off, unconcerned, and said, “Thanks for the ride. I hope you’re not in trouble.” I thought, You have no idea—but deep down, it was worth it.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I rode slowly back to the garage. I hit the kill switch, let the engine sputter out, and climbed off to face my dad, who was waiting for me.

He simply asked, “What did I tell you about giving rides on that thing?”

Intimidated with my head down, “No one is supposed to ride with me,” I answered fearfully.

“So why did you do it?” he pressed with intensity.

I told him the truth: the neighbor girl had never been on one, so I gave her a ride. I think he understood, at least a little, that his boy was trying to grow up, to feel responsible, to enjoy the rush of having a pretty girl ride along. But he said, “You’ve got to be safe. If she’d gotten hurt, then what?”

Ignorantly, I disclosed, “I didn’t think about that.”

“That’s the problem,” as he shook his head from side to side, he replied. “You never think.”

My punishment was clear: no more ATV riding for a long time, until I could earn back his trust. That lesson about trust has stayed with me ever since.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Reference:

Nancy, C. (2005). Writers. The Quantuck Lane Press. https://archive.org/details/writers0000cram

No Hall of Fame: Finding Water in a Thirsty World

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Imagine the Texas hill country—rolling hills, mesquite trees, and white-tailed deer in the background, a hunter’s dream during deer season. I used to visit a place like this with my dad: a log cabin tucked between two mountain ridges, reached by a rocky road that only a horse or jeep could navigate. Below the cabin, a converted mobile home housed hunters who leased it each season, all hoping for a successful hunt. The property, a mile or two from the main farm roads, relied on water from a spring at the base of the mountain. The water was siphoned off a dripping spring of the side of the mountain into a round stock tank, filtered, and then piped into the cabin and mobile home—clear, fresh, and abundant, just as nature intended. I remember showering and the challenge of making soapy bubbles with my wash rag because of the hard water. But what if that spring ran dry? No water, no showers, nothing. So, when our springs run dry in life, what do we do? Keep searching for a new spring and a source of strength.

Sometimes I think about where others get their strength. How do they muster the will to face daily challenges, bills, work, family, health, and the unpredictable world around them? I grapple with these questions myself, especially as I grow older. I’m grateful for my faith, which helps steady my mind and heart, even as life becomes more complicated. Yet, I wonder how those without faith cope. On the surface, many seem to manage well, but as a disciple striving to follow my path, I still struggle. My faith sustains me, but as Johnson (1971, p. 8) notes in his commentary on Job, no one is immune to pain, no one is vaccinated against experiencing adversity and hurt. So how do we deal with what hurts us?

I’m not talking about everyday mishaps like hitting your thumb with a hammer, twisting your ankle on a run, or stubbing your toe on the edge of your couch. Instead, I’m asking: how do we handle the deeper hurts that simply come with being human? Hurt is part of our existence, so how do we truly deal with it? If experience qualifies us to speak about pain, then everyone is an expert. We have all faced hurt and adversity; none of us is immune. I certainly don’t claim special wisdom; I wrestle with it like anyone else, but find solace in writing about it.

As a clinician, I am conversant, acquainted with, and no stranger to pain. Pain is always subjective; it depends on each person’s life situation, perception, and health (Emanuel, 2018, p. 52). For example, patients with terminal illnesses like cancer report both physical and psychological pain. Physical symptoms can include indigestion, nausea, and vomiting. Emotional pain may involve anxiety about their condition and depressive thoughts about living with illness. We see this with patients at times who have heart conditions as well.

Reflecting on this, I remember times in my life when I was overwhelmed by personal challenges—losing a parent, facing home foreclosure, navigating career changes, and managing complex family dynamics, along with the everyday realities of marriage and parenting. While these struggles may not compare to the severity of a life-threatening illness or heart attack, they still create real, painful experiences both physically and emotionally. Life’s adversity affects us all, even beyond major medical crises. My faith and conscious efforts to focus on gratitude help me find moments of peace and resilience.  From another perspective, Rathmell & Fields (2018, p. 65) clarify that pain is both a physical feeling and a behavioral response. We all know this to be true, no matter our personal experiences.

We can all relate to Job. I don’t believe God has called me to be what Morris A. Inch (1979, p. 29) describes in his commentary on Job as a “spiritually significant” person of influence—someone whose life is recorded alongside the great fathers of faith or whose name appears in a spiritual “hall of fame.” I won’t be remembered like Thomas Aquinas or C.S. Lewis, or as someone who led multitudes to faith. But I’m convinced there are countless Christians like me—living quietly, mostly unknown to others, but deeply known by God. Our relationship with Him is built through prayer, scripture, daily connection, our communities of faith, and our associations with our individual FBOs (faith-based organizations). Each of us carries His Spirit and is used by Him in the ordinary rhythms of life, telling our story not only through words but through how we live—imperfectly, but sincerely.

Drawing from Inch’s insights, I believe spiritual character is forged in the most challenging, bitter, and severe circumstances of life. Inch (1979, p. 29) insists it makes little sense to discuss persons of spiritual significance without first acknowledging the situations and experiences that shape and refine them. As he notes, God could have simply created a perfect, spiritually significant person. Yet, even Jesus—whose spiritual significance is beyond compare—chose not to take advantage of his divine rights, but instead became human and subjected himself to the same adversity, pain, and growth we all experience.

Ultimately, the call is not to avoid hardship, but to embrace it—trusting that adversity can shape us into people of deeper faith, resilience, and compassion. Like Job and Jesus, we are invited to rely more fully on God through our own trials, knowing that such growth is often found in the very midst of life’s challenges.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

Emanuel, E. J. (2018). Palliative and End-of-Life Care.  In J. Larry Jameson & Anthony S. Fauci & Dennis L. Kasper & Stephen L. Hauser & Dan L. Longo & Joseph Loscalzo (20th Eds.,Vol. 1), Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine (pp. 47-63). McGraw-Hill Education.

Inch, M. A. (1979). My servant job: A discussion guide on the wisdom of job. Baker Book House. https://archive.org/details/myservantjobdisc0000morr/page/28/mode/2up

Johnson, L. D. (1971). Out of the whirlwind: The major message of job. Broadman Press. https://archive.org/details/outofwhirlwindma0000john/page/8/mode/2up

Rathmell, J. P., & Fields, H. L. (2018). Pain: Pathophysiology and Management.  In J. Larry Jameson & Anthony S. Fauci & Dennis L. Kasper & Stephen L. Hauser & Dan L. Longo & Joseph Loscalzo (20th Eds.,Vol. 1), Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine (pp. 65-73). McGraw-Hill Education. 

Contracts, College Kids, and Chronic Coughs: A Faithful Life on Uneven Terrain

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If I could step outside myself and tell my story, it might go like this: The year 2026 began with bumps in the road, calling for a "four-wheel-drive" spirit to navigate the terrain. I find myself facing professional hurdles—labor negotiations, contract disputes, staff issues, and the never-ending work of managing patients and resources. Every day feels like a balancing act, from staff evaluations to vacation requests, all while trying to steer a department toward excellence alongside my leadership team. Even though the atmosphere is mostly positive, I’m still learning, still pushing to meet high standards and deliver the care our patients deserve.

Meanwhile, my story at home is just as complex. I’m trying to be a good partner to my wife as she manages her health and navigates the changes of perimenopause—both of us growing older together. Parenting isn’t simple, either. One of our children continues to test the boundaries, and I often question if I’m getting it right. I want to keep a faith-centered home, but there are days when even that feels like a struggle.

On top of everything, I write this while fighting off a stubborn sinus infection. My energy is nowhere to be found, and the confident, go-getter version of myself feels distant. Normally, I’d charge into these battles, but lately, I feel the wear and tear of life’s demands. What helps is talking with my wife, spending time in scripture and reflection, and journaling to keep my thoughts clear. I remind myself that I don’t need to numb these feelings with alcohol—faith and honest self-reflection are what get me through.

So I tell myself this story, not just to remember the details, but to make peace with what I cannot control. People will act in ways I don’t expect. Negotiations at work will move at their own pace. My health, my daughter’s choices at university, some work challenges—these are all beyond my reach. The only thing I can do is model respect, kindness, and professionalism, and be patient where it matters. When anxiety rises and frustration threatens my mental well-being, I return to my journal and remind myself: acceptance is the key. This story isn’t about fixing everything; it’s about learning to live with the unknown and finding strength in faith.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

When Strength Fades and Outcomes Disappoint: Learning to Lean on The Healer

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Do not become intoxicated by professional success, nor let setbacks drain you emotionally. Strive for balance, even though it is difficult to achieve. Do your best not to tie your actions or emotional well-being solely to outcomes. Integrity and commitment to your work matter far more than perfect results. Guard yourself against the lure of ambition, and resist the despair that insists your mistakes define you. On days when you are unwell or weighed down by illness—whether a fever, respiratory trouble, or simply feeling overwhelmed by the demands of work—remember: you are human and prone to fallibility. When you feel ill-equipped for your responsibilities, take a moment to reflect. If you feel too weak to continue, remember that it is when God often provides strength in unexpected ways, as you rely upon Him.

Recall that those who depended most upon God wrote, meditated, and prayed for guidance. They rarely relied on the strength of others, but leaned on the power of the Almighty Healer. When you consider all that you receive from hard work, remember that good comes with bad, joy with sadness, victory with loss. These experiences are meant to mold your character, teaching you to rely less on yourself and more on God. At times, it may feel as if the words from the great teacher are real to you: “All things are wearisome; more than one can say.” Especially in moments when words fail to soothe, be gentle with yourself; take the sorrow out of your mind, leave the pain of your muscles, bones, and skin behind, because you are getting older now, and those hindrances do not support you.

Hold onto this guiding thought during your studies and pursuits, especially when your mind races, your heart pounds, and your hands and feet fidget. No matter how much you strive to understand everything happening under the sun, or in the shadows of the moon and stars, some things will always remain beyond your sight. Whatever you set out to do, give it your best—allow yourself to strive for excellence, yet accept that your best will be imperfect. In the race of life, business, society, and community, the strongest do not always prevail, nor do the smartest or most prepared. Money and success are not reserved only for those who are best trained; as statistical analysis teaches, chance always plays a role.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Drinks, Deception, and Dependability: How Homer’s Nobody Reinforces Purpose in Life

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Stories have a unique way of resonating with us—at least, they do with me—because we can see ourselves reflected in them. One ancient work that everyone should experience, if they haven't already, is Homer's great poem, The Odyssey. The legendary Odysseus is an inspiring figure, and we can relate to his struggles or imagine our own lives as echoing those mythological adventures. One of the most memorable stories from The Odyssey is his encounter with the Cyclops.

As the tale unfolds, Odysseus and his men, after mooring their ships and exploring the island, are trapped in a cave by the fearsome Polyphemus (Butler & Dirda, 2013, pp. 527-539). The Cyclops begins to devour Odysseus’s men, eating them for breakfast and dinner. Imprisoned by a massive stone blocking the cave entrance, the men are desperate to escape. In a tense exchange of wits, Odysseus offers Polyphemus wine in hopes of gaining his favor. The Cyclops, growing drunk, promises Odysseus a "gift" if he reveals his name. Demonstrating his street smarts, Odysseus says, “My name is Nobody.”

Later, while Polyphemus is unconscious from the wine, Odysseus and his men sharpen a wooden stake and drive it into the Cyclops’s eye, blinding him. Polyphemus cries out for help to the other Cyclops, but when they ask who is hurting him, he yells, “Nobody is trying to kill me!” Perplexed, they assume he is ill and leave, laughing at his alcoholic buzz.

In the end, Odysseus and his squad break free by camouflaging themselves in sheep's wool under the bellies of Polyphemus’s sheep as they silently bid farewell. Once at a safe distance, Odysseus—ignoring his crew’s warnings—reveals his inner ego, shouting, " If anyone asks who blinded you, tell them it was Odysseus, the greatest man-at-arms.”

This story reminds us of our own search for identity and purpose. Odysseus’s use of cloak-and-dagger tactics was a smart way to outwit his kidnapper, employing a twist of espionage to secure his release. His prideful self-revelation symbolizes that while we may sometimes feel like “nobody,” each of us is, in fact, someone with a unique purpose and story. We can thank Homer for his long-lasting mythological epic poem on purposeful living, and we can appreciate contemporary scholars today.

Having a sense of purpose in life is vital to our well-being and even our survival. One key aspect of finding that purpose is our connection with others—a point that relationship experts consistently emphasize. Pogosyan (2026) explains that other people matter more than we often realize, echoing insights from positive psychology researchers like Christopher Peterson. She reminds us that the way we show up in the world and the quality of our interactions often matter as much to others as they do to ourselves. Meaningful relationships and engagement with others take precedence over simply spending time together.

Medical research has also highlighted the health benefits of having a sense of purpose. Dr. Jordan Grumet (2026), a palliative care physician, shares lessons from patients at the end of life, emphasizing the wisdom and clarity that can emerge in a person’s final days. Also, in a study of retirees aged 50 and above—the Health and Retirement Study—researchers found that a low sense of purpose was associated with higher mortality (Alimujiang et al., 2019). Purposeful living, in turn, is associated with greater happiness and lower levels of depression (Ryff & Keyes, 1995).

These researchers note that happiness is not simply about the absence of hardship. Instead, it emerges from a balance of life’s positive and negative experiences. Factors like work, relationships, finances, and where we live all contribute to our sense of well-being. Ultimately, while happiness is important, having a sense of purpose is a fundamental element of positive functioning, helping us navigate life’s challenges and find meaning—even when circumstances are difficult.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

Alimujiang, A., Wiensch, A., Boss, J., Fleischer, N. L., Mondul, A. M., McLean, K., Mukherjee, B., & Pearce, C. L. (2019). Association between life purpose and mortality among US adults older than 50 years. JAMA Network Open, 2(5). https://doi.org/10.1001/jamanetworkopen.2019.4270

Butler, S., & Dirda, M. (2013). The Iliad and the Odyssey: Homer. Barnes and Noble.

Grumet, J. (2026). The Paradox of Purpose: The idea that purpose must be grand leads to stress and feelings of inadequacy. Psychology Today, 26–27.

Pogosyan, M. (2026). The How of Human Connection: Why do other people matter so much when it comes to finding joy and purpose in life? Psychology Today, 30–31.

Ryff, C. D., & Keyes, C. L. (1995). The structure of psychological well-being revisited. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 69(4), 719–727. https://doi.org/10.1037//0022-3514.69.4.719

Frozen in the Truck Bed: Dad's Nighttime Rescue

 

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“Get up, boy,” came the weary voice of my father, his patience worn thin after countless tests. The night—whether Friday or Saturday hardly matters—was a typical Texas winter, when Arctic cold fronts sweep down and blast the state with frigid air. The combination of cold air and Texas humidity makes the chill feel even sharper. I remember how, on nights like these, we’d have to wrap the outdoor pipes, and Dad would keep the kitchen faucet running—faster than a drip, but slower than a stream—to prevent freezing. He’d do the same in the bathroom, especially during the holidays and those early January nights when the mercury dipped into the 30s.

My senior year of high school was a blur of parties and late-night drinking sprees. Even after working the late shift on Friday nights—unloading pallets from a grocery semi truck and clocking out at 9 p.m.—there was always time to find a kegger, down a few beers, then make a run to Taco Bell. Back then, it stayed open all night, so I’d grab a large Coke, nachos, and a fart-producing BRC, or bean, rice, and cheese burrito, wolf them down, race home, and crash to sleep off the beer buzz. Looking back with some embarrassment, this was the life of a Texas high school football player who was headed for the Marines—feeling invincible, arrogant, and immature, constantly testing both my parents’ patience. Would I graduate high school or end up stuck in the refinery town, working as a shipping and receiving clerk? Some thought my future looked dim, but I saw it as bright. Some doubted me; others believed.

One night, I found myself at someone’s house in town—one of those places where the parents were away, liquor was easy to come by, and the crowd included former high school graduates in their early twenties who could legally buy alcohol. They often had younger siblings my age, and back then, I didn’t fully appreciate the mischief that came from having older brothers and sisters around. The drinks flowed: Long Island iced teas, MGD Lite, and Coronas stuffed with lime wedges. Someone inevitably brought a party-ball—a mini beer keg—or set up the familiar Rubbermaid trash can, cleaned out and packed with six to ten pounds of ice, cradling a silver keg of unknown booze. Someone would work the tap, give it a few pumps, and golden beer would spill into red Solo cups. We’d tilt the cup at just the right angle for a perfect pour, no foam, just a small head. One cup, then another—who was counting? I’d mingle with friends, check out the opposite sex, all locals, of course. Sometimes another high school would crash the party, or a group of clashing cliques would show up, and things might get tense, but I never stuck around for fights. I was there to have a good time and drink with friends, but this night would be different, for my story circles back to the truck bed.

Miraculously—and I admit this with some shame—I made it back home from a friend’s house in Texas City. I navigated the parallel streets and back avenues, hypervigilant for stop signs and deliberately avoiding street lights and the main road into the city, Palmer Highway. The local police definitely patrolled the main strip, so I stuck to the quieter routes I knew well, especially late at night. Looking back, I’m convinced God sent angels to watch over me during those reckless high school years.

Normally, I parked in the driveway, but that night I pulled up alongside the street in front of our home, parallel to the house. The left tires of my truck rested on the street, while the right-side tires hugged the curb. The streets in Texas City are narrow, and if you park on the street, you often have to nudge your vehicle partially onto the curb so it doesn't block traffic. Some streets were barely wide enough for a single car or truck to pass—there were no dividing lines, since it wasn’t a two-way street. In my impaired state, I parked with most of the right side of my truck well up on the curb, so the majority of it was resting in our yard, straddling the boundary between street and grass. Our house sat slightly higher than the street on a raised lot, designed so rainwater would run off and prevent flooding. As a result, my truck ended up tilted at nearly a 30- to 45-degree angle along its length.

I hopped out of the cab and hustled toward the house, close to midnight. As usual, I tried to be as quiet and sneaky as possible—cracking the screen door slowly and jamming the house key into the lock with practiced stealth. Peering through the glass window of the front door, I noticed something unusual: every light in the house was on. Normally, only the living room would be lit, with an old, yellow, dim lamp, while the kitchen and dining room stayed dark. But tonight, the house blazed as brightly as Las Vegas, and a chill ran down my intoxicated spine. Just beyond the entryway, at the intersection of the living room and kitchen, stood the man of the house himself—my father. My heart fluttered, then pounded. And as is often the case when under the influence, my mouth spoke before my brain could intervene. I blurted out, “What are you doing up?”

The conversation that followed was anything but cordial—tense, hostile, and without room for negotiation. When my father asked if I’d been drinking, I dodged the question. Fueled by drunken bravado and the swagger of being eighteen, I shot back, “I’m joining the Marines. I’m out of here.” That declaration seemed to awaken something in my father I’d never seen before. He didn’t hesitate—he moved toward me with a sudden, almost primal protectiveness, as if I were an intruder rather than his flesh and blood. In that moment, I felt like a stranger in my own home, and for a split second, I worried he might actually throw me out to protect his family. As he advanced, I bolted—barely making it out the still-open front door. I stumbled down the steps, staggered to my truck, and climbed clumsily onto the rear bumper. Throwing one leg over the tailgate and then the other, I collapsed in the bed of the truck, wedging myself next to the left wheel well for support, and passed out cold.

Moments later—I’m not sure how much time had passed—I heard, “Get up, boy, you’re gonna freeze to death.” I looked up to see my dad reaching in to nudge me awake on the right side of the truck bed. I’d been out there long enough for him to get dressed, pulling on pants and a jacket over the boxers he’d worn when we’d last met at the front door. Again, he grabbed my right shoulder and urged, “Come on, get inside. You can’t sleep out here.”

At the time, I just wanted to keep sleeping—really, I had blacked out, not just resting. But my dad knew better than to leave me there. Reluctantly, dizzy and confused, I got to my feet and tried to stand in the slanted bed of my truck. Because of how it was parked, I quickly lost my balance and began to topple backward, headfirst toward the pavement—sure to land on my neck with nothing to break my fall. In that split second, my father caught me with remarkable strength, stopping my fall and holding me in a fireman’s drag, dragging my legs and feet after me.

He managed to sling my right arm around his neck and wrap his left arm around my back, hauling me inside the house. That act was pure love and concern—a father’s instinct. The last thing I remember from that night was waking up in the kitchen the next morning, where my dad looked at me with understanding and said, “Let’s not do that again, okay?” And that was it—the end of a moment where my father quite literally saved my life and changed my path. I could have suffered a concussion, fractured my neck, or broken bones—not realizing how important it was to make it safely to the day I’d be shipped out six months later. It was a lesson learned.

Together in the struggle,

Brian