The Empty Space

It's amazing how cavernous a space seems to be when it is empty. Even tiny spaces seemingly swell to great proportions when the contents disappear. The cavern may be real, or only a figment of our imagination. In a few cases; it is both.

There's an empty space tucked into the woods at the top of our driveway. For nearly two decades, that space has been filled with an amazing little fourteen foot aluminum fishing boat on a simple trailer. It had always been my dream to own a little fishing boat, but we weren't in a position to really do it. That all changed when we got a small inheritance after Nana died. We decided that we would take that money and buy the fishing boat I had always wanted.

I searched the newspapers diligently until I found a 1965 Lone aluminum boat. She had been painted in a rough camo pattern that had long ago faded into subtle shades of gray. She sat on a rather decrepit old homemade trailer.

She was beautiful.

I still remember the day we hooked her up to the back of the car and took her home.

We christened her, "That's Nice," because it was something Nana commonly said. Whether you told her about your day or you shared your thoughts and dreams, her standard reply was, "That's nice." Nana never said a bad word about anyone. Her response to things she wasn't all that excited about was typically her standard, "That's Nice."

We all agreed that naming our boat That's Nice was an appropriate way to remember and honor Nana.

That's Nice was so much more than a simple fishing boat. It was a memory making machine.

I bought an old, small outboard and our family began making deposits in the bank of memories. We'd fish and we'd ride around in our beautiful little boat. The boys were ecstatic when we'd buzz across the lake and I'd suddenly spin in a tight circle to pop us back over our own wake and make the boat rock and jump. It doesn't take much to make a 14 foot aluminum boat rock and jump.

Sometimes, we would tie a rope onto the back of the boys' life jackets and they would jump (or be thrown) overboard and swim around until it came time to drag them back inside and head for shore.

Through the years, we upgraded the outboard and trailer and equipped her with a locator and other accessories. No matter what we did with everything around the boat, though, the old aluminum hull was a constant.

The boys interests changed as they grew older. Joseph would go fishing with me once or twice a season. He was only happy when we put the boat over a large school of tiny panfish that would immediately bite on virtually anything he threw out there. He would catch dozens of fish in a short time. While Joseph did some fishing, our time in the boat was mostly spent just talking. Once the bite tapered off, it was time to go home.

Matthew, on the other hand, would spend hours in the boat; casting and retrieving with the hope and expectation that the next cast would catch the big one. We drifted down rivers and motored around lakes in pursuit of bass, walleye, northerns or perch. It didn't really matter if the fish were biting or not; we were in the boat and we were together.

I hoped that those days would last forever.

I knew, of course, that they couldn't and they wouldn't.

The boys grew up. Their lives moved on and they moved away.

I would look at That's Nice as I came up the drive; thinking I should get her out again, but there were always other things that needed my time and attention.

So she sat.

I knew I should just sell her since I wasn't using her, but I couldn't bring myself to let her go. There were just too many memories piled up in that old aluminum hull. Too many hours of laughter and joy.

Last week, my seemingly rational thoughts took over and I listed her on Craigslist and the Facebook Marketplace. I had several inquiries almost immediately, but they wanted to split her up and buy the outboard only.

Then came THE EMAIL.

Hello,

I saw your boat posted on Craigslist. I am interested in seeing it. I am in Mukwonago and can stop by before noon today (5/16), before 10am tomorrow (5/17) or Friday morning.

Please let me know if any of those times work for you.

Thank you.

Andy

That started a string of emails that led to me taking the boat to the launch at Phantom Lake so he could see her running. 

He told me about his family, and how his kids were so excited to get a fishing boat. He told me he'd been looking for about a year but couldn't find one in their price range with an engine nearly as new and nice as hers.

He made an offer.

We shook hands and agreed to meet Friday afternoon at the bank to complete the transaction.

Part of me regretted it right away, but I honored our deal.

I got all of the paperwork together and marked up some lake maps for some of our favorite fishing spots.

I fought back tears as I hooked her up to the back of my truck for one last time and headed to the bank. We went over everything and I unhooked her and drove away.

A new family is making memories with her now.

So now there is an empty spot tucked into the woods at the top of our driveway and a cavernous hole in my heart.

Beyond Explanation

Every once in a great while, we get to experience something that defies explanation.

Something so unexpected that we have a hard time believing it.

Something so "out there" that we catch ourselves waiting for someone to call and say it was all a joke and we come crashing back to reality.

Something with no real human explanation.

Perhaps you can't understand it until you've lived through it.

Last Spring (we still haven't gotten to a "this Spring" in Wisconsin this year, but that's a different story entirely), I went to National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Maryland to participate in a familial midgut Carcinoid study. They found a couple of suspicious spots when running a special PET/CT that is not available in many places. That lead to them running more tests which came back inconclusive. They requested that I submit to a capsule camera study for definitive answers to what showed up on the scan.

I went through all of the prep (no fun at all) and swallowed the capsule on the morning of the test. I went about my day with a special harness that allowed me to peek at what the camera was seeing. I, of course, had no real idea of what I was looking at, but it was pretty cool nonetheless for a geek like me to watch my innards.

Upon completion of the study, they collected the harness and downloaded the data for review. One of the research fellows was suspicious of several areas, so the study was sent out to be read by an outside expert. Due to some circumstances that I still don't completely understand, the outside expert failed to read the study and the two weeks stretched out to just shy of nine months. I got "the call" from the lead researcher one morning last December. He told me the results were finally in and the study showed five definite Carcinoid tumors and four suspicious spots. I was scheduled to head back to NIH in March of this year for some more scans and surgery to remove the affected areas of my small intestine. I was told to expect to stay in the hospital for up to two weeks.

Diane and I made all of the arrangements for her Mom and our critters and made our way to NIH one Sunday in March. I checked into the hospital bright and early Monday morning and started through the gauntlet of tests and exams. My first major test was a repeat of the special PET/CT that had started this whole journey.

The entire research team makes their way into the room each evening to discuss the results of the day's tests and prepare for the next day. Diane and I waited patiently in the room for them to appear during rounds. The team walked in, shook hands and then the lead doctor suggested that Diane and I sit down. That was a bit surprising since I already knew I had cancer and couldn't imagine that they could really hit me with much worse.

We sat down and the lead doctor said, "We have some good news for you." The team proceeded to tell me that my scan was completely clear. Had that been my first scan, they would have said it was negative and I would not have been brought back on the one year protocol.

To say I was shocked would be putting it mildly.

We asked about the previous scans.

We asked about the camera study.

The doc said that it could have just been an artifact or anomaly on the initial scan. He was harder pressed to deal with the camera study, though. He suggested that maybe they saw a fold in the intestine and thought it was a tumor. When pressed on that being possible with one or two spots, but virtually impossible with five confirmed and four suspicious spots, he admitted that he really didn't know. All they knew was that I don't have cancer now. They were going to go forward with one more scan the next morning, but if that was clear (as they expected), I would be free to go home.

They cancelled the remaining tests, pre-anesthesia meetings and surgery. Just one more CT and then I could go home.

Wow.

Just wow.

People may offer up any number of explanations for such an amazing result, but they just can't explain that an expert in the field would make nine mistakes on one study. The only explanation that makes sense to me is that God answered the prayers of so many of His people who lifted Diane and me up before him as we headed to NIH.

I still have a hard time believing it. In fact, I still kind of pause to catch my breath every time I get a notification that something new has been added to my electronic health record; half expecting that it's going to be the wake up call from this dream.

I don't claim to know why God chooses to heal some people and not others, but He does. For some reason that I am not likely to comprehend this side of eternity, He chose to remove the cancer from my body.

Bare Spots

We had several pretty beat up sections of lawn as the boys grew up. They served as the pitcher's mound and home plate for Wiffle® Ball home run derbies, or as the bases for pickle games. Time waits for no man and the boys eventually grew up, left for college and began their adult lives. It took quite a few years, but the bare spots in the side yard were slowly reclaimed. It was always a little sad to see the grassy patches and listen to the deafening silence where little boys had grown into men.

That all changed this weekend, though. For the first time in nearly three years, the whole family was together and healthy for a any length of time. It took Joseph and Matthew no time at all to dig through the old toy barrel in the garage to find some old Wiffle® Balls and a bat. They were old and cracked, so they made the trek to Walmart to buy new ones. We also ordered a bag of balls from Amazon for Saturday delivery so they would have enough to play.

The home run derbies began again in earnest; only now it included their wives, too! We spent hours over the five days we were all together creating new, stressed areas in the lawn for the pitcher's mound and home plate. Our yard was, once again, filled with the sounds of the whack of plastic bat on plastic ball and the joyous laughter that went along with it. There were cheers for the hits that went all the way across the street and jeers for the swings and misses or ground balls.

The kids headed off their separate ways yesterday, but the sounds of our little boys at play still echoes in my mind.

The Measure Of A Man

If one measured a man only by the number of people who call him friend, then Ron Kilkenny was an amazing man. When measuring by the number of people who call him their best friend, he exceeds measure.

Ron was taken from us far too soon. His sudden and untimely death has left many who called him best friend shaken. Facebook quickly filled with tributes to Ron as word spread of his death; many of the writers telling their story of why Ron was their best friend.

That is a remarkable man, indeed.

I, too, called Ron my best friend for 43 years. He changed my life and his passing will forever leave a hole in my heart.

We met as twelve year olds. Neither of us had a brother, so we became brothers from different mothers. From his consoling me just a few weeks after we met as I mourned the sudden death of my dad, to his loving concern for my son as he fought Lymphoma - twice, Ron was someone who cared. He was never afraid to demonstrate his love for others.

Ron was the first person to ever share the Gospel with me, and his example of Christian love was instrumental in my ultimate decision to commit my life and eternity to Jesus Christ.

We fought plenty through the earlier years; as brothers tend to do. We also got into a fair amount of trouble together. I'm sure his dad would have been horrified if he had known how Ron and I used to wander through the campground convincing people that I was Deaf and used that to garner sympathy - and snacks - from the other campers. Whether it was getting caught jumping off the garage roof or racing our go-karts down the hill on Ranch Drive when we weren't supposed to be out there or playing in the flooded creek, Ron and I were in it together.

Even distance couldn't destroy the special bond we had. Although we weren't able to get together often, it was as if we saw each other every day whenever we were together.

Our talks in recent years changed to talking a lot about our kids. Ron was immensely proud of Andrew, Ellen and Ryan - and for good reason. I could almost hear his chest swelling with pride over the phone as he told me about their lives.

Ron was a man of great character, and will be missed as the best friend of many of us.

Recently, Ron and I began ending our calls or messaging by saying, "I love you," to each other. I don't remember exactly when it started, or who said it first, but it became a regular thing for us.

I wasn't always the friend I should have been, but Ron was always there, ready to forgive and move on. I take some tiny measure of comfort in knowing that he knew I loved him, and I know that he loved me. I take great comfort in knowing that Ron now sits in the presence of his Savior, and that I will see him again.

Back to a Simpler Time...

Saturday was one of those days that made me think back to a simpler time. Not an easier time or even, necessarily, a happier time.

Just a simpler time.

Diane and I decided to head down to the Gurnee Mills Outlet Mall Saturday. We've been there quite a few times, but not for quite a while. We've always parked by the entrance to the Bass Pro Shop and Diane and Joseph or, in later years, Diane would head out into the mall while Matthew and I perused Bass Pro Shop's offerings. We were diligent about meticulously going through the boating, marine, fishing, fly shop, guns, hunting, knife and camping departments. We'd spend hours talking about the goodies we saw - and wishing we could buy them all.

This time was different, though. Joseph and Anna live in Florida and Matthew and Shelley live in Pennsylvania. This time, it was just Diane and me.

Diane wanted to look through Bass Pro's clothing department, so I wandered off to my normal routine only, this time, it wasn't normal at all. I constantly caught myself looking at some new (or old) thing and thinking, "Matthew would love this," or, "Matthew would get a kick out of this," or, "Matthew would laugh at this."

Diane and I wandered around the mall a bit after she finished checking out at Bass Pro. I found myself looking at the sports memorabilia stores and thinking how much Joseph would have enjoyed poking around in there as a boy.

It was all kind of hard, and it made me think back to those simpler times.

Those times before Cancer.

Those times before the boys were called to other parts of the country.

Those times before...

I'm not saying I want to go back to those times; although, it would be great if we could skip over the Cancer parts. But going back would also mean we would miss some of the most wonderful times of our lives...

Times like college graduations.

Times like getting to know the wonderful young ladies God brought into the boys' lives.

Times like their weddings.

Times when we laughed and times when we cried.

It's just all part of life moving on. I suppose I tend to look back through rose-colored glasses.

Maybe those days weren't really simpler at all, just different.

Not quite like any other day...

It was easy to become a father. It took a lot more to become a dad.

I wasn't always a very good dad. In fact, I often (and truthfully) proclaim that Joseph and Matthew turned out so well in spite of me at least as much as because of me. Joseph and Matthew got their best traits from their Father. Not their weak earthly father; no they have blossomed under the blessings of their Heavenly Father. It is a joy to look at them today and see the men they have become. The husbands they are learning to be. 

I know God used me in their lives, but the biggest impact I ever had on their lives was that I started praying for them before they were even born. I prayed constantly for them and for their future spouses; whomever they may be.

I prayed; and I cried.

I cried tears of joy when each of the boys were born.

I cried tears that were a mixture of joy and sorrow when we left each of them at college for the first time.

I cried tears that were a mixture of joy and pride as I watched them walk across the platform at Bob Jones University to accept their hard-earned degrees.

I cried tears of joy as I watched each of them commit themselves in marriage to our wonderful daughters-in-law.

I cried tears of fear as I came to grips with the doctor's words that Matthew had cancer.

I cried tears of relief as I watched Matthew respond to the treatment.

I cried tears of joy and pride as I witnessed Joseph being ordained.

Somewhere, sometime, in the midst of all of those tears I became a dad.

Father's Day this year will not be a day when I look for accolades or gifts. 

Father's Day is so much more. 

It's the day for me to look back on all that went into becoming a dad instead of just a father.

Some Day...

Just when is Some Day, anyway? I keep looking for it and never seem to find it.

I saw a Facebook post recently that listed the seven easy steps to improve your attitude. They were simple steps:

1. Stand Up
2. Stretch
3. Take a Walk
4. Keep Walking
5. Board a Plane
6. Fly to Alaska
7. Never Return

That looked like pretty good advice to me. In fact, I even added a comment saying, "I've been telling my wife, Diane Brader, this for years!"

Diane replied, "Some day!!!"

Not, "I wish," or "It would be great if we could do that."

No, she said, "Some day."

People say that a lot.

Maybe some day this.

Or maybe some day that.

Some day.

There are so many things we talk about doing Some Day. Some of them are all in fun; others, are dreams we would love to see fulfilled. Life seems to intervene, though, and make Some Day seem farther and farther off. Something else consumes the time or forces us to rethink our budget.

I imagine I'll run out of days long before Some Day ever comes.