Dear Tiger

 It was a special thing—seeing my dad with a cat. He was an animal lover. My dad had a great deal of respect and admiration for all animals, plants, and even insects. He had a very Zen-like way of looking at the world, even though he may not have been familiar with that term.

Shortly after my dad retired from Dobbins Air Reserve Base, he took up several projects in his tiny house. I think he would have called it his shop, but it was—and is—much more like a small cottage than a shop. He had a radio and a small TV out there. He also had his favorite rocker. It was the same rocker his mother rocked him in in 1928, when he was a baby boy, living out on Lowery Road in Rockmart, Georgia.

Daddy had acquired an old iron stove from somewhere—likely a teardown—and he would keep a fire going throughout the winter. If you were fortunate enough to know him well, you could step into his shop and have something like a religious experience. On the radio, Música Mexicana would fill the room. That was his favorite music, even though he rarely understood the words. It was the way it made him feel. Only when he spoke of his choice in music did it occur to me that one could “feel” a certain way in response to expression as it was intended. When I joined him in his shop, I could feel it too.

Adding to the ambiance, the stove would be going, with the slightest hiss and the most delightful wooden fragrance you can imagine. He’d rock in his chair occasionally, always with his right leg over his left knee. He would have a book, a letter, or a news article in his hands, and he would be happy to share the details with a great deal of passion.

Perhaps more unique than his choice of music or his interests in poetry and paintings was his deep love for all sentient life. I don’t think I could ever fully convey his respect for life the way I witnessed it. Without giving you all the details, I will tell you one story I have never forgotten—and included here, I think it will make sense when I introduce my protagonist:

We had rabbits. They were the most interesting creatures we had growing up. They were soft and cuddly, and they were always a big part of our little family. Daddy built really nice cages for them. They had rooms for living, rooms for sleeping, rooms for eating, and so on. It was as if he had designed a rabbit hotel, with a rabbit as his architect. Their comfort was his main concern, while we made pets of them.

The story I recall now concerns an expectant mother rabbit. Without warning, she passed just prior to giving birth to her brood. With the precision you might expect from a fine surgeon, I watched my dad attempt to save the unborn litter. It was too late. Daddy was quiet for a few days afterward. It was my first memory of seeing him deeply saddened.

Many years later, when it was time to retire, as I have mentioned, Daddy settled into his tiny house. At that time, he had no dog, and our rabbit family was but a memory. There were still some chickens on the old farm, but the remaining roosters were going blind and slowly losing their battle with time and coyotes. The last rooster was completely blind, except for the ability to see bright light. He would find a reflection and go to it and stare for hours.

One cool spring day, when all the animals were gone and all the children had moved into homes of their own, my dad noticed movement in the woods near his shop. It was a small yellow creature—a cat. The cat stood near the edge of the woods, looking at my dad with matching curiosity. Day by day, the yellow cat would inch closer to the man who was, by then, leaving treats near the spot where he had first seen him.

Over several weeks, the yellow tiger (as Daddy called the cat) came closer and closer. Daddy had too much respect for the tiger to call it a pet. He somehow knew the cat preferred to think of himself as the Great Tiger of the Woods, so while that may not have been his name, my dad honored him with that title: Tiger Woods.

Tiger and my dad were inseparable. Never a pet in any traditional sense, the cat enjoyed his time around the shop, inside and out. They ruled together. They walked in the woods together. It was the deepest love between an animal and a human that I have ever witnessed. It was perfectly mutual. Tiger was a reflection of my father. He shared the same respect for the woods, for privacy, and for the beautiful music playing on the radio.

My dad passed in 2009. Tiger had passed about two years prior. The old shop is still standing, almost exactly as my dad left it. The rocker is still there, having now survived for 100 years. The radio is still playing. It is on right now and has always been on. The stove is cool, but ready for a fire.

This morning, I woke up thinking about my dad. I was thinking about the many Easters when we were all together. I can still see Tiger there in the middle of the celebration, walking near my dad, still ruling with him as usual.

It will be a day for hiding eggs—at least once more. And it will be a day when people think about Easter and the resurrection it represents. Some people will even think about rabbits and their role in modern celebrations.

I looked outside, with these thoughts flooding over me, filling my head and heart with wonderful memories.

There, where Peter Rabbit will be placing eggs later today, stood a perfect replica of Tiger Woods. In the background, my neighbors were playing their lovely Música Mexicana. In the seventeen years since my dad’s departure, I have never felt more assured of his presence than in that moment.

Happy Easter.

The Wish Book

 

Well, let me take you all the way back. Way, way back. I was a tiny little boy, and I had The Wish Book. There were certain items I still actually want. There was a Red Ryder BB gun, a blue dune buggy, Dingo boots, a sleeping bag, and a lantern.

As little people do, I had it all figured out. Daddy worked for Dobbins and came home with C-rations sometimes. I can still taste that doughy bread that held the shape of the can it was in until it was consumed. There was some seriously strong instant coffee, two pieces of chewing gum, three cigarettes, some pot roast or something akin to it. There were even mashed potatoes. All in all, it was not terrible. I think there was even canned cake.

When Daddy would bring rations home, I took them out and pretended to be a survivalist. I might not be hungry, but I’d eat a bite of that bread anyway. It was survival. I even lit a cigarette or two. I drank that coffee like a grown soldier.

Mom got me a BB gun and a little, plastic, red lantern. Another year I got the Dingo boots and the sleeping bag. Those were not toys to me; they were gear. Daddy built me a dune-buggy-like go-cart, complete with big, deep-lug tires. That thing was a beast. Why there are no pictures of that prized machine, I shall never know. He gave it away after I moved out and got married. I wish I had it today.

The frame was made out of an old cast-iron bed frame. Uncle Fletcher cut those rails and welded them together in the shape of my buggy. Fletcher also welded a platform on the back; that’s where Daddy bolted the engine. The seat had a crude metal frame made of angle iron and bolted to the bed rails. But plywood boards, foam, and vinyl worked for upholstery.

The steering wheel was exactly half of a steering wheel from an old car. It had an actual transmission, too—off an older mower. It did have a clutch, but the shifter was only for engaging the clutch or freeing it. The transmission was connected to the engine via a drive belt. It was wonderful. It had only one forward gear and no reverse.

Can you imagine? There I was, on my powerful, all-terrain machine, carrying a gun, rations, a lantern, and a sleeping bag. I thought I could probably get as far as California. I usually made it down to the creek and camped there until it got dark. I’d turn on my lantern, and then I would hear a noise coming from just beyond its range. That’s when I’d start packing it all in.

 I was escaping.

Back inside the house, my mom and dad would be fighting. That was something I never got used to. It was not at all lost on me that we had plenty of food and comfortable beds, but I dreamed of sleeping on pine straw instead. I was glad the old gas heaters kept us warm, but I would have gladly traded that warmth for a night of shivering under the stars.

 Above all of the creature comforts combined, I wanted peace and calm at any cost.

 As I grew older, the desire for peace and calm only got stronger. By the time I got to high school, I was discovering several ways to accomplish this goal. I got a job at a grocery store, I bought a truck, and got a girlfriend—in that order. The grocery store was not a job to me; it was an escape. Buying gas for my truck was an escape. Hanging out with my girlfriend, or calling her on the phone, was an escape too.

Some of my methods were not very effective. School felt like another version of home life. I had no desire to sit in a chair and study for hours. That felt like punishment, so I started looking for ways to escape that as well. I looked for, and found, many ways to skip school. Everyone would suppose I was studying, and I would be up at Lake Acworth, sitting beside it, listening to the ripples as they crested near me. Once I experienced that, I could see no reason to buckle down the way everyone was suggesting.

Then my girlfriend had ideas about us being together and having our own home life. I tried it. But there were bills to pay and groceries to buy. I was supposed to make sure her car ran. I had to make sure my truck ran. And I needed to make more money because my wife wanted more than what we had. I did not like the arrangement from the very beginning.

 The rest has been summarized in many ways. But the truth is, I did not do the necessary things. I kept looking for, and finding, ways to escape anything that did not bring me joy.

 Of course, as I got older, I wanted a house, and I had to work for it. I finally buckled down. I wanted a truck. I worked hard for that too. I wanted guitars, and those cost money as well. So I’ve been doing my time for several years. My parents died, and I had to be even more responsible to help them transition.

 But now there is real talk of parole. Some people call it retirement. I’ve got about seven years left, and I am hoping I might be pardoned—or perhaps released on good behavior.

 I got a new wife ten years ago, and I learned that if you will be responsible for the sort of home life those creatures want, you can keep a wife indefinitely. This one is very adventurous, and she knew more about escaping than I did. In fact, she showed me how you can actually get to California.

 I’ve done more escaping since marrying this second wife than I ever did before.

 Mom died in November, and since then things have been dramatically different. Most of all, I’ve discovered that I am not needed as often as I once was. I find myself resuming the direction of a survivalist. I’ve been looking for lanterns, sleeping bags, rations, guns, and fire starters. To me, my four-wheel-drive Tacoma is exactly what I circled in that Sears Wish Book over half a century ago. It is not a dune buggy—no, it’s much better than a dune buggy. It has reverse.

 I am gearing up to escape.

What will I be escaping now? There is tremendous calm in my home. It is a safe, sweet, comfortable place. There is nothing there I want to escape.

 My job is literally at a park, and that is exactly what it feels like every day.

I am just now learning that I am not trying to escape at all. I am trying to hold forever in the palm of my hand, and to see eternity in a grain of sand.

Spots

 Mom seems somewhat comfortable. She begs for constant attention at Ross, but honestly, Mom has literally always needed that kind of attention. This has been the hardest part of raising her. I cannot really point to where this behavior may have developed. She lost her dad when she was quite young. That may be a part of it. But her mom was clingy and needy as well. I love and miss Grandma Hillhouse, but it would be an incomplete record to only mention her laughter and her love of flowery prints. Grandma H was a big problem for a lot of people in her day.

She somehow found that the housing authority could provide her with apartment living. The people who made that commitment were nearly sorry when they met Myrtle Hillhouse. She was a good tenant in that she would keep a place clean, and she was very quiet. But she was literally never happy with any of the details. I could write a book about her dissatisfaction and how she would squeak until the proper grease was applied, but suffice it to say that Grandma H was literally never satisfied.

Without telling that entire story here and now, I will say that it must have been the work of a gene. It must have been pork in a bill that somehow got passed. It was an epigenetic tag that went right into the formation of the egg that held the embryo that would become my mom.

And, without telling you the whole story all over again, I will admit that I inherited that very gene, and it was turned on at birth. I have, however, been giving everything I’ve got to tripping that breaker for 61 years so far.

Dissatisfaction is a disease. By its very definition, the word disease means something less than ideal.

Very early in my story, examples of this disease include my dissatisfaction when my dad brought home a model airplane he’d been working on for days. He had hinted at the project without giving me many details. As a little boy, my imagination ran away, and I assumed my dad was building me an airplane I could actually board and fly. I can still remember the day he brought the RC-sized airplane home, complete with two carved pilots who perpetually stared straight ahead. Looking back, I cannot believe I was disappointed in what is now one of my most cherished possessions. The yellow NC47 hangs from the ceiling, over the fridge in our basement kitchenette. Every time I see it, I am reminded of the way I reacted to that priceless gift when I received it. I am ashamed of myself, and I have asked my dad’s ghost to forgive me a thousand times.

Fast forward to 1986, when I was researching the best cars on the road on behalf of my mom. I wanted her to be in the most dependable car in the world. I wanted it to be safe and comfortable too. At that time, I found this kind of quality in the Toyota Camry. I thought I had finally scored the best car in the whole world for only $6,500. I even bought it with my own money, but I had to put that right back in the bank—it was all I had. After getting the Camry all cleaned up, oil changed, and new tires, I finally drove it out to Mom’s to show her what I had been working on. I was so excited. This was my best purchase so far. It was a fine car.

Mom walked out and saw it from the porch at first. “It’s nice,” she said, but I noticed some caution, and I was not sure it was sincere. She went down the steps and to the driveway and walked around it. And then, Mom got in the car of my dreams—perhaps not hers.

“What is on the windshield?” she asked.

Barely noticeable, and only in the right light, you could see some effects of acid rain on the windshield. I noticed them too, but I’d hired a company to buff them with compound, and the glass was just about perfectly clear—perhaps even 97% clear.

“I see spots,” said Mom. “I don’t want it if it’s got spots on the windshield.”

I was in a predicament. I had miscalculated her response, and I was out my life’s savings. I will never forget the panic I felt. If Mom did not repay me for this effort, I was going to be in big trouble. I had no choice but to make a totally different case.

“Can you loan me the money I’ve got in it until I can sell it?” I pleaded.

“We’ll see,” she said.

With that, I drove that nearly perfect Camry back to K&W Auto Sales, where everyone seemed as surprised as I was. I called the windshield buffing company back and had them buff the glass again. This time, it was just about impossible to see any acid rain anywhere. After that, I drove back to Mom’s and miraculously passed this second inspection just in the nick of time. My mortgage payment and my car payment would not be late.

Mom was never cured of this lifelong disease. Yesterday, it was Bill who tried to calm her when her lunch was not salted to taste. Of course, there are medical reasons for this imperfection, but Mom’s policy is to demand what you want regardless.

Comcast found this out the hard way. They were very excited when we called to disconnect her cable. Until very recently, the folks at Comcast would get a call from a very angry customer whenever she was dissatisfied with any of their many services—and this was nearly every day. And Mom had a superpower she would use: “I’ll hold,” she would say. It was not unusual for Mom to be on the phone with Comcast for over an hour, just so she could finally talk to someone who could make the necessary adjustments. I actually felt sorry for the company. They tried. Whenever you enjoy your Comcast services today, my Mom had a lot to do with most of the advances they had to make.

I hate the fact that Mom will never be satisfied. She spent many of her last years in an electric recliner that did a lot of the hard work of getting up and sitting down. Of course, the La-Z-Boy Corporation has associates assigned to Mom as well. Market watchers who have considered the volatility of La-Z-Boy stocks (NYSE: LZB) will eventually discover that the company’s misses on earnings are a direct result of my mom’s dissatisfaction with a recliner they foolishly guaranteed for life.

While Mom never had a mortgage or a car payment, she found ownership just as troublesome. Tucked behind a pine forest, laden with homegrown azaleas, Mom became obsessed instead with the distant travelers on the highway and the sidewalk at the end of her estate-like gardens.

“I look out and I can only see trees,” she would say.

We finally had to hire a tree service to dispatch the private forest so that Mom could see the road instead. Turns out, the actual location of the paid-for home was the real problem. She seemed to want the house to be closer to the road so that she could tell more about the travelers as they passed. I know—it sounds ridiculous, but this was one of the complaints we never quite dealt with. But I am sure that at least one of us, her four children, has looked into the costs associated with moving a house.

We did learn to read her reactions and categorize them based on what we knew about her displeasure. We learned that if something was wonderful, her reaction would be, “It’s alright.” If we rented a cabin on a mountain in Estes Park, Colorado, we knew we’d hit the jackpot if she said, “It’s okay.” Luxury and extravagance were never enough to get Mom beyond, “It’s fine.”

Now, as she begins her final ascent on Earth, I worry about the mansions Jesus promised. I know He has had a couple thousand years to get things ready, but I know Mom. Can’t you just see the look on Jesus’ face when He learns that His job is that of the typical HGTV real estate agent when it comes to Mom?

“And here, we have the golden street you will be living on,” says Jesus.

“Oh no,” says Mom. “I never cared for gold.”

“Oh, okay,” says Jesus. “Well, your family will be living on this same street, and they all have new bodies and are in perfect health.”

“Where’s the Dollar Tree?” Mom will ask.

Mrs. Furr's Pond

 This is a story about a very long walk around a really small lake—but one of tremendous personal value to me.

The year was 1990, and I was a used car salesman. I was 27 years old, married, with two dogs and a small ranch house. My then-wife was already a career person and on her way up in her company. I thought I would probably sell cars for the rest of my life. The car business, however, is where the term “feast or famine” must have originated.

Still being trained by some of the more seasoned salespeople, I found myself at a tiny dealership on Austell Powder Springs Road, between Austell and Powder Springs. Across the street lived Mrs. Furr. She had a nice little house under some massive oaks, and behind it, a small lake—maybe two or three acres of water. It was a pretty lake; very serene and private.

Mrs. Furr would hire people to do various tasks around her little oasis, and on Saturdays, some of the workers would show up to fish as one of the perks.

I’ll never forget one such Saturday. I was already hard at work—making calls and trying to get a couple of deals closed—when a jalopy of an old station wagon pulled into Mrs. Furr’s driveway. All four doors opened at once, and four young men got out. They went to the back of the car, reached in through the open tailgate, and pulled out a cooler, several fishing poles, and a few small tackle boxes. Two grabbed the cooler, the other two grabbed the poles, and they headed down to the lake.

And I watched them—from a window across the street.

Staring out the window and doing absolutely nothing else, I caught the attention of my boss and trainer at the time.
“Look at them fools,” he said, breaking my focus. “There they are, on a nice Saturday, driving that hundred-dollar car and fishing, when they could be out making money so they could drive a nice car.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t pull myself away from the scene.

In fact, that moment was life-changing for me. I’ve never forgotten it, and I’ve written about it often. That moment was like being offered the red pill or the blue pill, and I chose the red pill. I completely understood the appeal of living in the blissful simulation, but I wanted to know what was real. And I believed those fishermen knew something I didn’t.

Thirty-four years later, I found myself wrapping up a career filled with retail sales. I had good years and bad years, but I always kept that lesson in mind—and I tried to “go fishing” often.

Even within the past two years, I found myself in another retail position. In that time, I was called to the office three different times and offered three new positions—all with higher pay. But in the last of those roles, I found myself completely sold out to the job again, and Mrs. Furr’s pond felt further and further away.

That’s when Joey walked into the store. Ironically, I was also writing a book about joy, but found myself blocked—struggling to maintain it.

After several conversations over a few days, Joey said,
“You should apply at Jim R. Miller Park.”

I did.

That’s another story—but I got the job.

Yesterday, several people in various maintenance roles were working to get Miller Park back in order. We’d had our International Festival over the weekend, and the fair was coming soon, so it was all hands on deck—including me.

One of the jobs was to take down a big prop in the front lobby. We’d had a world map on a massive box and invited visitors to stick a pin wherever they’d been in life. The canvas came down first, then I disassembled the big box, leaving us with eight large panels to store for another day and another project.

I helped someone load the panels onto a trailer, and he said,
“Thanks for helping me load them, but I don’t know how I’ll unload them.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said.

We jumped into the big county truck and headed out. Left on Powder Springs Road, then another left onto Austell Powder Springs Road—I knew every mile. But I didn’t know where we were going.

Finally, we turned right on Oglesby Road. And just a few feet in, on the left, was a little paved path with a locked gate. We pulled in, unlocked the gate, and the next thing I knew—we were parking beside Mrs. Furr’s pond.

There was a metal building there, and Zack opened the doors.

I just stood there for a moment. I was there—by the pond—after all these years. That’s when it hit me: I had never even been there before. I had only seen it from across the street.

Now, standing beside the water, I looked up at the very window I had looked out of 34 years ago. The tiny car lot is still there.

And that’s when I realized—it was a homecoming.

The recent choices I’ve made in my career have brought me more in line with the dynamic I witnessed that Saturday, when four young men got out of a “hundred-dollar car” and fished.

What joy.

Tom Always Remembered

 Eighty years ago today, the body of a young American soldier was loaded onto a Jeep in Saint-Lô, France. A few of his belongings were placed in an envelope and shipped to Powder Springs, Georgia.

Two servicemen pulled up alongside Macedonia Road, got out, and walked into the field where the young soldier’s parents were working. There, they delivered the news: their son had been killed in battle. His mother fell to her knees in disbelief. Her heart was irreparably broken.

Across the field, two of the soldier’s younger brothers watched as the news was delivered. They saw their mother fall to her knees. They were young, but they knew exactly what had happened. They understood the message the servicemen had brought.

The elder of the two boys wanted to put on a uniform right then and there. He was only 16. But within two years, he, too, was off to war. His life’s goal became avenging his brother’s death.

This young soldier advanced rapidly and continued to work in military intelligence even after victory had been declared. While he was away, his father succumbed to grief and died of a broken heart. His mother, back home in Powder Springs, was left to cope with the loss of her son, her husband, and her father—all within a short span of time.

The young soldier returned home in 1949, a return that soon became permanent. He was working with W. R. Tapp when he heard about a farm near town. On the farm stood an old house—still in decent shape, though unpainted. Somehow, she managed to buy it.

When she wasn’t working the fields, the now-widowed mother would sit in a particular window, staring out until it was clear she had drifted to a very sad place. A single tear would often roll down her cheek.

The young soldier spent the next 24 years of his life trying to help his mother cope with the pain.

I happened to be born almost in the middle of that period. I was born into the reality of war.

The 16-year-old in this story was my dad. I live on this farm. I love my country. I’ve never worn a uniform. I have tremendous respect for our military, but I am not a fan of war.

I will be praying for peace.

War doesn’t end well—even when it ends well.

The Cabin

 

Have you ever heard the windshield wipers on a 1958 Chevrolet? Of course, I am referring to the lower setting. I am talking about the sound they make when you are driving on a country road during a shower and not a storm. There is no other sound like it. It almost has a breathing, vocal quality to it.

I have.

I know what this is like. We had a 1958 Chevrolet when I was a little boy. However, it was not until we sold it to my uncle that I finally appreciated the sound of the wipers. Uncle Howard and his wife Thelma, took Bill and I am to their cabin one morning. We hung around a while and even tried to fish in the little pond below the house, but a cool, spring shower ran us back to the shelter. It was an escape-day. Somehow, Bill and I were allowed to leave the chaos of our home-life for a day.

Back at the crude, little cabin, we sat out the rain a while. The roof was tin and there was no insulation or ceiling below the tin. So the sound of the rain was wonderful.

Finally, it was time to think about lunch and there was a new burger place in Dallas. We all ran to the Chevy and headed down Everett Mountain. The road was gravel in places where it wasn’t washed out to muddy ruts, but it was not terrible; it just meant that we’d need to go slow. I will never forget the way it felt, coming down that big hill. The rain was steady and Howard was careful to avoid the bigger ruts. The wipers kept up their swish-swash, but the sound of the electric motor was also coming through and into the car’s cabin. It had a pleasant, lady’s voice and it sounded like it was singing, “Love you. Love you. Love you.”

You could put your own words with it, but that’s what I made it out to be.

To this very day, over half a century later, I still love that kind of afternoon. I love a spring shower. To have a ’58 Chevy or a tin roof is as good as life ever gets.

Why do I mention this here? Why today? Why am I talking about this when I need to be getting ready for work?

Because I have escaped before. I have escaped an emotional prison that was far more fortified than I find myself confined to on this day. As a young boy, growing up in a dysfunctional home, escapes were all I had. From there, I learned how to skip school and I found out that a car could transport me to the lake in Acworth. I felt like I had found the holy grail when I would skip school and go sit out on the banks of Altoona. There, I would feel that feeling again. I would escape.

Today, I am afraid I must escape somehow. There are times when it does not really matter if you are ranked highest in the district; it means more to me to be ranked among those who know what the wipers on a 1958 Chevrolet sound like.

 

 

 

Joe Part II

Joe came to our family as a rescued stray, wandering down the middle of a road. He was scruffy, had fleas, a broken tail, a missing foot, and was blind in one eye. But Bill has never expressed a deeper love for anyone. Is it really love? Did Bill hold back this kind of affection from all other creatures and people, only to pour it all into such an unlikely animal? Does that even make sense?

Bill has always strived to be a good example, no matter the challenge. He’s always been keenly aware of trends. He wanted to be the best student in school—and he always was. He was the first to buy property in up-and-coming neighborhoods, turning neglected homes into vibrant spaces. In my opinion, Bill is singlehandedly responsible for revitalizing communities, being the first to invest in a house and spark change.

But I can also attest to Bill’s high expectations when it comes to the people he spends time with. If you’re unkind, bigoted, or neglect your role in keeping the community intact, Bill won’t waste his time. He’ll move on.

Bill wants a clean house, a clean car, and will drive an hour for the perfect haircut. But somehow, this scruffy little animal, who can barely see and struggles to chew, has captured the majority of Bill’s affection.

Having had dogs of my own, I get it. But Joe, somehow, takes the prize. Why? I could list reasons why Joe should be miserable. In fact, his hardships should have erased any trace of joy by now. But Joe is filled with joy. Despite being old, broken, and recently losing his remaining good eye, Joe remains as playful as the most spoiled puppy on earth. With his bad eye, he may see some light if it's bright enough—but let's face it, Joe is legally as blind as a bat. And still, within days of losing his sight, Joe was ready to play. He wagged that crooked tail, flashed those three good teeth, and barked.

No human could endure what Joe has been through, and even if they did, they’d never want to play again. Think about it: Joe hasn’t seen his family in years. He has no idea what happened to them. He was either abandoned or escaped. Consider the injuries he’s had to overcome. If Joe kept a record of his life, he’d be bitter by now. So what does this say about Joe? To me, it says his superpower is forgiveness.

What does Bill see in Joe? He sees the one being he’s ever known who can endure anything life throws at him without losing his joy.

Joe isn’t just a collection of misfortune. He embodies the ideal human spirit. As Joe often says: “I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.” That comes directly from The King James Bible—a book we read, but seldom follow.

Of course, it’s love. An unbreakable bond that will remain in Bill’s heart for the rest of his life. A few years with Joe will always hold deeper meaning for Bill than decades with the rest of us.