Good morning, everyone. It’s been a while. I’m not going to get into why I vanished. Instead, I’ll move on and hopefully be better.

What I need to talk about today is probably the most serious subject I can imagine, and one I usually try to avoid, at least in relation to myself: death.

My dad died suddenly at the age of fifty-four. Out of the blue, with no warning, he simply fell over lifeless.

I remember Mom screaming for me, me running into the living room, and Dad lying on the floor, unmoving. I don’t remember if I told her to call 911 or if she was already doing it, but I do remember her on the phone while I ran to Dad.

I was panicking, I’ll admit it. I was CPR certified and had been trained to evaluate patients and perform first aid in the Army, but at that moment I was terrified. I didn’t freeze, though.

I checked his eyes for dilated pupils, his fingernails for blood-flow response, and his chest and mouth for breath. Across the board, I got nothing. I relayed this to Mom, who was still on the phone with emergency services. That sounds calm when I type it, but I was scared, practically yelling my responses.

Mom told me they wanted me to start CPR, and I balked. My mind couldn’t process that Dad’s body was lifeless. I said that if I was wrong, I could kill him.

Whoever was on the phone relayed that I needed to start immediately. I argued a bit more, but I knew they were right.

I went into automatic. I set his chin, breathed into his mouth, and started compressions. I don’t know how long I did this before EMS arrived, but I remember his lips were blue and his skin was turning gray.

When they arrived, I stepped back with Mom, wrapping my arm around her as she gripped me tight. I remember her jerking each time they shocked him.

Eventually, they got his heart started again, but he wasn’t stable. The short version is that we spent most of that day at the hospital. He never regained consciousness, and eventually, they were unable to revive him.

The next few months were a blur. Mom had shut down. I took on the job of settling Dad’s affairs and trying to get Mom stable before the summer ended. I was supposed to return to college that fall.

As life does, it went on. I returned to school, got married, started my own family, and eventually rejoined the military. Mom survived and, for a time, even thrived, eventually remarrying.

Christina and I had two sons, and I spent another eighteen years in the military. I retired from active duty five years ago.

My sons are in their twenties now. My oldest has been on his own for four years, and my youngest still lives at home. After decades in military housing or rentals, we finally bought a house that’s truly become our home.

These past few years, we’ve been learning about life outside the military and figuring out who we want to be.

Two months ago, I turned fifty, a significant milestone in this thing we call life. But it also brought back harsh memories of when Dad died.

Now that I’m in the same decade he was in, those memories hit differently. It’s not just about missing him anymore. It’s about seeing the things he missed, how his death disrupted our family, and viewing those reflections through the lens of my own life.

I get pain sometimes, chest pain or pain in my left arm. I’ve had them checked out, and they’ve always been harmless. Still, when they coincide, my fear spikes.

It starts with the selfish thought, I don’t want to die, but quickly shifts to why. I want to see where my sons’ lives take them, who they become, and if they have families of their own. Those are all the things my dad missed.

Then I think of Christina and the boys, how it would affect them if I were suddenly gone. I remember the trauma, the sudden void that swallowed everything around it. I don’t want them to face that.

People sometimes talk, in that morbid curiosity we all share, about how we’d like to die. Most agree we’d want it to be quick and painless.

But looking back on what happened to Dad, I’ve changed my mind. Not that I want a long, painful decline, but I would want my family to have some warning, time to prepare themselves for what’s coming.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to die at all. But physics isn’t on my side. At some point, this mortal body will fail. My hope is to live as long as I can and still be me.

Selfishly, there’s more I want to do, see, study, learn, and enjoy. More importantly, I want to share those things with the people I love.

To live a long life is a reasonable dream, and though I haven’t been a great steward of this vessel, I want to do better. Maybe this milestone is a jump point to the next chapter.

A few years ago, my doctor told me, “My job is to keep you alive to a hundred. Your job is to do what I tell you so I can get you there.”

I’m not reckless enough to sabotage my health, but I can admit I haven’t done as much as I should. I’ve had many false starts trying to improve my health, the main problem being motivation.

I know what I should do but lack the drive to follow through. That’s the crux of why I’m writing this, I think.

This morning I prayed and asked God to help me. Whether the pain was serious or not, I prayed for healing. I asked that if something was wrong, it would be fixed, and if it wasn’t serious, that the pain would ease to quiet my fear.

I can’t say for sure it was the Lord speaking to my heart, but that’s what it felt like. I felt He said He would, but that He was asking something in return: “You are a writer. I need you to write.”

To clarify, and borrowing the words of Mark Lowry: “God doesn’t speak to me audibly… I couldn’t handle it. But He spoke to my heart.”

I suddenly felt that this was something I needed to do.

I picked up my laptop and started. The words flowed. The pain didn’t vanish, but it faded, and so did the anxiety.

I know not everyone reading this believes in God, and some may chalk it up to my subconscious guiding me to a coping mechanism. That’s fine. I’m simply describing what I felt. You can interpret it however you choose.

What matters is that I’m taking a step. Writing has always been important to me, and I hope this step propels me forward.

There’s a path ahead, a way to get closer to where I want to be. I may not post every day, but I’ll try to write something each day.

A new journey begins as I send this out, and my hope is that it will be a long and fruitful one.

Until we meet again.