Just For Today For 11 Straight Years

It’s Monday October 8, 2018. There are about 5 minutes left in the day that marks yet another 24 hours that I focused on just the 24 in front of me. I woke up with just this day, and I’ll soon go to sleep with just this day. God willing, I’ll do it again tomorrow.


I’ve been doing this — living one day at a time — for 11 years. Yep, today I celebrate 11 years of sobriety.


When I woke up early in the morning October 8, 2007 I literally felt like the world, or at least my part in it, was ending. I was lost. Anxious. Afraid. I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t smell. Couldn’t taste. Mostly, I couldn’t feel any of the bliss that we’re all born with that I somehow had lost. I didn’t realize it, but years of consuming alcohol had taken its toll on my mind, my body and my soul. Something had to give. So I did.


I surrendered on that day 11 years ago. I was finished running. I was finished fighting. Finished hiding. And I was willing to do whatever it took to get well. So I embarked on a journey unlike any other I had taken to that point. I got sober. In the first year the days seemed to take months. I often simply tried to  focus on just making it from one hour to the next. Sometimes one minute to the next.


I wish I could tell you this 11th year has been a cakewalk. It hasn’t. It, much like year one, has come with some serious ups-and-downs. Highs-and-lows. Life on life’s terms, as they say in recovery rooms. But through it all, through the first year and the years in between and through this 11th year, I’ve managed to stay afloat and to continue down a path of faith. Faith that I am OK. That things are OK. And that my God has it all under control. The surrender I make today has much more understanding behind it than the surrender I made 11 years ago. I've grown. It’s called Hope.


My journey has taught me to appreciate all that life offers every day. The smiles of my children, the bumblebees in the flowers, the drops of dew on the end of a pine needle. It might sound hokey, but it’s true. Awareness is an amazing thing. Simple and profound.


This journey taught me to laugh more freely. Not just a token laugh. This is heartfelt laughter. Laughter that sounds like gratitude and feels like heaven. And, my journey has taught me how to cry more freely. I never realized that all emotions shape us. Sure, we all love to laugh. But, are we also willing to be sad? Before I got sober, I ran from my sadness. It didn’t feel normal to be sad. It didn’t seem right. But it is right. It’s pure. And it’s necessary. Feeling it can and does promote healing.

Resist, and it persists.


My sobriety really isn’t about drinking or not drinking. Sure, I can’t — and honestly have no desire — to drink. The juice quit working its magic long ago for me. The obsession to drink was removed from me the day I stopped, and I’m beyond grateful for that. What this is about is vulnerability. A re-entry into life. An end to the emotional hideout. A step toward the unfamiliar. A gigantic leap.


In recovery, we often discuss “surrender” and “letting go.” That doesn’t mean I throw my hands up in the air and give up. To the contrary, it means I throw my hands up in the air and ask my higher power, my God, to point me in the right direction. Vulnerability. It means I throw my hands up toward the sky and ask my God to fill that void in my heart. Vulnerability. It means I’m willing to give up my power in return for a greater power granted to me by my God. Vulnerability. There’s real strength in vulnerability. Give it a shot sometime.

I recently attended Recoveryfest 2018, an all-day concert event where nearly 10,000 people gathered to enjoy music, friendship, hope and recovery. The popular rapper Macklemore performed, as did the fast-rising group Fitz and the Tantrums. Macklemore spoke repeatedly and passionately about recovery being the most beautiful element of his life. Michael Fitzpatrick, lead singer of Fitz and the Tantrums, actually broke down and cried on stage while he was talking about his 17 years of sobriety. He was overcome with gratitude.

These were goose-bump moments for me. These men, these musicians have “made it.” They have money, fame, prestige … so much of what mainstream society seems to cherish. But, both of these sober men let themselves be completely vulnerable on stage in front of the massive crowd on a beautiful night in Rhode Island. They wore their emotions on their sleeves ... and on their hearts, proclaiming sobriety as the most beautiful gift they’ve received.


You see, the disease of alcoholism is chronic, progressive, and fatal if you don’t treat it. If you don’t treat it, it will kill you. I celebrate my 11 years today with gratitude and cheer. But I also celebrate it with a heart that is heavy in the loss of three friends who died from this disease this past year. These were good humans just trying to be, and for one reason or another that just wasn’t possible for them. The disease reached the fatal stage for Don, Melissa and David, all gone far too soon.


The Spirituality of Imperfection, a book written by Ernest Kurtz and Katherine Ketchum, reminds me of my limitations as a human trying to be, and as a person in recovery. It reminds me that I’m not absolute. I don’t have all the answers. I am fallible. It is these such things that point to my imperfections. And it is those imperfections that provided me with a glimpse of my spirituality.

Remember my comments above about vulnerability and how there is great strength in it? When I become vulnerable I become open to a spirituality that cannot be defined, explained, or captured in a bottle. It can only be experienced. That spirituality is the cornerstone of my life. And it is so strong. It has great strength.


The Spirituality of Imperfection explains addiction as an anxious determination to take control, to be in charge. That in itself reveals the failure of spirituality. I tried to fix what I thought was wrong with me. I tried to take control of the hole in my heart. I tried to find some magic in a bottle. And the hole in my heart remained an open wound.


But there never was anything wrong with me. I simply had a  void in my life, and that void was spirituality. When I stopped drinking, when I let go, when I became vulnerable, the hole in my heart filled. My God would have it no other way.


This is my journey. This is my pilgrimage. It’s not a straight shot from one place to the other. There aren’t many clear roads void of obstacles. There aren’t any flat soft paths covered with rose petals. A pilgrimage isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be. The discomfort is burned into it. Therein lie the stories.

And it is through storytelling, and story listening, that we really begin to find ourselves. We find our souls. We find that lost bliss. We belong to each other.


I could have simply told you that today I celebrated 11 years of sobriety. But, that doesn’t do justice to the pilgrimage that was, is and always will be for me. Where's the adventure? I need to tell my story to you. I need to hear your stories, too. For it is then and only then that we can at last burst from the seams of our souls, exhale and shout, “This is who I am!”


If only for one day. One effin’ day at a time, baby.

Love Is ... Being a Father

For Ben. For Luke. For Max. And for all the children of the world.

Father's Day. I really do love it. It's 24 hours in which I'm always absolutely certain of my purpose here on earth.

As a child, Father's Day for me was ... well, just another cruel reminder of missed opportunities. Unfortunately, I had no positive father/son experiences growing up. I've never had goosebumps fondly recalling a Hallmark moment with a dad. But there's no point in rehashing the turmoil and pain of my obstacle-filled childhood. If you've read some of my past blogs, you know the story.

I found out many years afterward that I was avoiding and running from the feelings associated with the lack of love, bonding, and companionship with a father. I thought I'd let it all go as I matured, but it was actually festering in and eating at my soul, and the realization smacked me firmly in the face as an adult. So I addressed it, looked it right in the face, and I continue to do so. Shining light on the darkness takes away its power. I've grown from going into the shadows, and every time I venture there I grow a little more. The suffering, that ache, and the resulting understanding that came from dealing with it has given me an uncanny ability to empathize with and love others like I never thought possible. That initial weakness is now a strength.

So here I sit today as a father with three wonderful sons of my own. Ben is 21. Luke is 18. And Max is 8. The heart-building father/son experiences I have with my boys are too numerous to count. That -- is awesome. There's nothing I wouldn't do for them. They know my love is unending and sincere. They're experiencing a literal complete flip from what I saw in my own childhood.

I was present for the birth of all three of the boys. I cried when they first squinted at me with their sweet eyes, and I was amazed at their screams when their tiny lungs first filled with air. It was electric, all three times. God was there, too. Know it! He changed me in those moments. Those whispered first breaths of air were God's whispers to me, three times, gently telling me "This. Is love. This ... is Fatherhood. This is healing."

I currently coach a baseball team comprising boys ages 7 and 8. Max is on the team. I also coached Ben's and Luke's teams when they were that age. Doing so has presented me with many more opportunities to be a positive male/father role model for not only my sons, but for other boys on our team, and other boys and girls throughout the league. I cherish the relationships I forge with these kids, every one of them.

When I'm out and about, I also make time to speak to boys and girls in public. At the grocery store. On an airplane. At the swimming pool. I laugh and joke with them. I kneel down and look directly into their eyes. My soul is safe. I want them to know that. My gift is love. I want them to feel that. These are still more opportunities to spread fatherly love, to provide a young boy or girl with a glimpse at what a father acts like. To show them that fathers care. That I care.

The deep love I have for my three sons overwhelms me with joy. The love I share with other children adds to that bliss. We're all connected anyway. I'm connected to every young person I speak to. I know it. They might not understand, but I certainly do. We're all one. We breathe the same air. We smell the same flowers. We adore the same moon. We give and want to receive the same love.

I'm also still connected to my father and my stepfather, both of whom are now deceased. I believe both of them are receiving and giving love in a place where they finally found the father/son love they missed out on in their time here on the planet. My missed opportunities were very much theirs, too. I feel sorrow for them, because I now get to experience every day what they missed out on.

I will undoubtedly always be connected to my three sons. They have my blue eyes. They have my sense of humor. They have my heart. I know they'll find their souls, just like I found mine, as they walk along a much more gentle path than the one I took.

When I caress Max's face while he sleeps, when I talk to Luke about his upcoming venture into college, when I watch Ben sink a birdie putt ... I feel the father/son love I missed out on as a kid. It heals me as an adult. It's fatherhood. I wouldn't trade those moments for anything.

The moments. That's where it's at. They don't have to be complex to be spectacular. Every moment has a miracle in it when you're aware. And the painful growth I felt as a young boy, especially on Father's Day, has helped me learn how to be aware, to see the miracles, especially those involving my own and other children. There's much more to come, too. The potential is infinite, and I can assure you I will fully participate in and be aware of it all.

Being a father. It's spectacular. I'm sure I'm not a perfect dad. But, I am sure that the love I'm blessed with when giving and receiving as a father is perfect. It's God-given. I accept it. And I'll never let go of it.

To Ben. To Luke. To Max. To anyone who needs some fatherly love. I am all in on this dad thing.

Forever. And ever.

My name is Todd, and I'm ...

My name is Todd. And I'm an alcoholic.

There, I said it. Out loud. Publicly. For everyone to hear. All of you. I've been waiting nine years to do that. It feels great!

Some of you already knew, because we've talked about it. Others know, but we've never discussed it. Many more of you didn't know. Now you do.

I'm tired of keeping it hidden. I'm done being anonymous. And I'm sick of the stigma of shame that, for too long, has prevented people who need help from seeking it. That stigma is as deadly as the disease itself. I can't sit and watch those things kill people while I’m silent about my own recovery for fear of what others might think of me.

That stigma. To hell with it! I hear the whispers. I see the stares. I feel the abandonment.

Many people can’t even begin to comprehend alcoholism and addiction. They can't quite grasp what it does to a person. They don’t understand how it happens. Why it happens. So, I can see why they're uncomfortable dealing with it. But that's the stigma. Right there! They don't know, and they're mostly uneasy about discussing it. So they don’t.

I'm not afraid to talk about it. And from now on, I will. This disease. The stigma. The contrived shame. They're not going to beat me. And I’ll do what I can to help others overcome. I’m not going to apologize for saving my life. I'm no longer going to recover quietly.

I used alcohol inappropriately. I didn’t realize it, but I was running from demons deep inside me. Over time, alcohol simply quit working for me the way I needed it to. In fact, it tried to kill me. It began to use me the same way I used it. It was destroying my body, mind, and most especially my soul.

I fought. I fought hard.

Today I have no desire whatsoever to drink. I don't need it. For fun. Or to escape. I won't waste one miraculous moment trying to dodge the reality that is my wonderful life. The good. The bad. All of it. I need it all. It all shapes me. I willingly accept it. I am fully aware. Fully me.

Addiction killed one of my best friends. It's also taken some of my family members from this earth. I've seen the wreckage. I've seen people try to battle, and fail, and die. I've hugged people in recovery meetings one day, and grieved them at their funeral the next week. I've also seen people win. They thrive in ways they never dreamed of.

Don't feel sorry for me because I'm an alcoholic. Don't you dare! Don't shy away from approaching me and asking me about my alcoholism, either. Bring it. I'm happy to tell my story. I'd be thrilled to tell you how I saved my life. I'm certain you'll be surprised to hear why I'm so much happier today in recovery than I ever was when I drank.

That's right. I'm happy. Really full of joy. I've found my soul. And I love it.

I recently committed to running the Columbus Marathon. In doing so, I'm raising money for The Herren Project, a group of selfless people who bring assistance programs to those suffering from substance abuse and mental health issues. I've trained my tail off for the past four months. I've gained a new appreciation for runners, and I've found a great love for the sport. This is my first Marathon. Tomorrow is the big day. It could be my only race. We'll see.

I’ll run in memory of my dear friend, Patrick Plant. Addiction killed Patrick. I wish I could have saved him. My God, I wish. But I was fighting my own demons at the time and wasn't capable of helping him. So tomorrow I will honor his life and I'll run for him. I love you, my brother. I miss you.

I'll also run for another friend, Bob Flajnik, whose life ended far too soon for reasons that will remain a mystery to us. Bob was an avid runner. A world-class Marathoner. I'm sure he'll be watching over me as I take on the 26.2 miles that he tackled so many times. Give me a push, Bob.

Lastly, I'll run for myself. If I didn’t fight and seek treatment for this ugly disease, I'd be dead today. I have no doubt. It’s chronic, progressive, and often fatal. So I'll celebrate my life and my nine years of sobriety by running this Marathon. I'll run and I will crush the stigma – one step at a time. For The Herren Project. For Patrick. For Bob. For me.

I’m a winner. I won’t forget it. Don’t you, either.

If you see me running, either tomorrow in the Marathon or any other day, think about what I've explained here. Think about those who suffer from substance abuse. Think about addicts and alcoholics. Be aware of the devastation that addiction causes. Be aware of the stigma we battle.

Then, think about my recovery. Notice my smile. Feel my peace. Celebrate my victory with me. See for yourself how free I am. Ask me about it. I'd love to tell you.

My name is Todd. Yes, I'm an alcoholic.

But I'm much so more ...

One Last Bedtime Story for My College-Bound Baby Boy

My oldest son, Ben, goes off to college tomorrow morning and I cannot believe it. To say I'm overwhelmed is a vast understatement. Today I need to write about it in an attempt to release some of these overwhelming and electrical emotions that have flowed through me these past few weeks. So, I'll sit here now and write the bedtime story that Ben and I created together when he was just about two years old.

Ben would snuggle up to me on my lap on the rocking chair in his bedroom. The room was lit only with the miniature sky-blue nightlight, and the air was always filled with the soothing baby-lotion scent that all parents know very well. We'd look out his window and see the moon, which is where the story begins. 

Ben would snuggle even closer and look up at me and smile, reassuring me that he was as in love with me as I am with him. My goodness, the love. That look.

I would then tell him our bedtime story, which went something like this:

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Ben, who loved the moon. Ben would look at the moon at night and tell his father, "I'm going to go visit the moon."

Ben's father would say, "But we'll miss you so much if you go to the moon." And Ben would say, "But I'll come back."

So, Ben loaded up his spaceship and counted down to blast off. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one ... up to the moon!

The spaceship went up, up and away, up to the stars, and Ben's parents watched and waved, and Ben waved back from the window of the spaceship.

Once on the moon, Ben jumped from the ship and walked around. He picked up moon rocks and lots of other very cool things he found on the moon and he put them in a box. When he was finished, he got back into the spaceship and counted down again. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one ... blast off back to earth!

From the spaceship, Ben could see his parents waiting as the spaceship got closer to earth. He waved and smiled. They waved and smiled back. When the ship landed, Ben jumped out and ran up to his parents and hugged them tightly.

Ben showed his parents all the cool things he found on the moon. His parents were so happy that he had found so many fun things and had a really great adventure. And, they were very happy Ben came home and brought those things with him to share with them.

Ben hugged his parents again and told them, "I love you Mommy and Daddy. I told you I'd come back."

That made his parents very happy. They hugged him back and said, "We're glad you came back, and we love you very, very much, Ben."

And they all lived happily ever after.

That was the story I told Ben way back then, and it's the story I write for him on the eve of his larger-than-life and very real adventure. 

Son, go now and open your heart and your mind and enjoy the upcoming fantastic voyage. Go to the moon and fill your box with magical experiences and more!

We know you'll come back, Ben. We'll definitely be waiting to hear all about it upon your return. 

And we're sure we will all live happily ever after.

God's Letter to Me, Before I was Born

I speak of God occasionally, but have never dedicated an entire blog piece to my Higher Power. I can't explain my God, and I don't need to. That's something the Ego wants me to attempt, and the Ego's actions always lead to frustration. I only need to feel and have faith that someone beyond explanation is watching over me. 

I recently imagined what my God might say to me about my life. That thought led to the letter below, written by my God to me, prior to my birth. It's obviously in my words, but these words come from the soul, where I'm sure my God resides.

If the idea of a God offends you, that's fine. If the idea of a God appeals to you, that's fine. Either way, perhaps this letter will touch another in some small way and inspire him or her to find peaceful bliss.

Dear Todd:

I'd like to explain a few things about your upcoming life that I think you should know. You might wonder how—and especially why—certain events are going to happen, but please try not to fret over this. I know it’s going to be a challenge not to worry, but I do have a plan for you. Trust me.

You’re going to be brought into this world facing some serious difficulties. Your mother will be the first person you love. Your stepfather will be the first person you fear. I'll be there in both instances, to help you recognize and appreciate the love and to offset the overwhelming pain your stepfather will cause to not only you, but to your entire family. It might not seem like it at times, Todd, but I'll be with you throughout it all. Don’t ever forget that. Trust me.

You'll grow up with some significant insecurities and emotional wounds, but you’ll eventually heal. You'll hurt in a way you could never expect, but you will heal in a way you could never imagine. You'll run from the pain and occasionally mistakenly think that you've gotten past it, but the wounds will still be open. It's just part of the grand process—the aforementioned plan I have for you—in my time. Please know that I'd never let you remain wounded forever. I'll care for those wounds like they're my own. I know a few things about pain and suffering, and I won’t let yours last ... the same way my father didn’t let mine last. Trust me.

It won't all be painful, Todd. You'll have lots of beautiful experiences and you'll meet some wonderful souls throughout your life—souls who will love and nourish you and make you laugh and smile—especially when you need smiles the most. One of those souls will be your grandmother. I'll keep you two very close, connected from the start and for eternity. I've already spoken to her about you, and she joyously awaits your arrival. She knows her task and she'll perform it with love unlike any other mortal possibly could. She'll carry you because I will carry her. Trust me.

When you’re ready and it’s time, I'm also going to bless you with a patient and loving wife and three beautiful soul-filled sons. The most profound love you will ever feel will be that which you give to and receive from those boys. Nurture them like they're me. Because, Todd, they are me. And I am them. Trust me.

Yes, Todd, it's going to be quite the adventure. And, it will culminate—and don't let this startle you—when you crash into me and crumble into a million pieces. The crumbling really is the only way, for as you break so will all that past conditioning and long-held-onto pain. Todd, the gift I want for you is hidden inside all the assembled pieces, beyond what you’ve seen. So I’m going to shake it up. For you. For me. Trust me.

You’ll see a light resting among the shattered ruins -- a light so bright you’ll barely be able to look at it. That light is your soul, Todd. And, when you find it, you’ll have found that wonderful gift. You’ll have found me, because that’s where I reside ... in your soul. Once that happens, you’ll begin to understand the plan I have for you. The plan for you to enjoy a peace the world can neither give nor take away. It's bliss. It's your birthright. And you will find it. Trust me.

Basically, Todd, your life will evolve in three stages:

1) The will of others for you.

2) Your will.

3) My Will for you.

As you will learn, My Will is by far the best of these three. Hang on, my beloved Todd. While the ride might seem unbearable at times through the first two stages, the final enlightening stage is the stuff that dreams are made of—the stuff that I’m made of. When you find this bliss, please share it with others because they also need to know that it’s attainable. Give them hope so they can find their souls, their bliss. You can show them how. You can inspire them. Trust me.

From there, I simply want you to Be Still, Todd. All will be well. There are miracles in every moment that awaits. Trust me.

Every Parent Knows This Feeling

If you're a parent ... you've felt it.

Remember that heart-piercing that struck you as your small child walked into his or her very first day of school? You couldn't quite tell if you were happy or sad or if you would laugh or cry. It's beyond words, isn't it?

As a parent, you've been there.

And now we're here -- at least I am. I've been fast-forwarded 13 years from that first day of school to the rapidly-approaching day when Benjamin, my first-born and no-longer-small child, will walk out of his school building after his very last day of school. Benjamin is now Ben, a mature, kind-hearted young man who will soon be 18 and donning his graduation cap. He's a good person. And I couldn't be a prouder poppa.

As Ben's high-school senior year wraps up I've been reflecting on its many moments. I've enjoyed watching it all, even though the aforementioned heart-piercing accompanied many of those moments.

There was the final time drumming with the band on the football field.

We loved the golf season during which we shared many post-round stories about birdies and the dreaded double-bogey.

Oh yes, I have to mention the great basketball season in which Ben, often times the smallest kid on the court, demonstrated a will and desire for the game that I've admired since he started playing.

And, most recently, the final basketball game after which Ben and his six senior teammates shared hugs and tears on the court. Those were hugs and tears that spilled out into the stands among parents.

I think that's when it really hit me. It hit me so hard later that night after the final basketball game. My Benjamin -- I mean, Ben -- is all grown up and he'll soon be forging his own life path. I'm both happy and sad. I'm laughing, and I'm definitely crying.

I decided to write this blog because I knew it would help me sort through my own thoughts and emotions about all of this. Writing always does that for me. But, these words also enable me to let Ben know just how much I've cared about his life and how much I will always care. So here I sit writing, remembering, laughing ... and crying.

Indeed, I'm proud of my son and all that he's accomplished. I'm also excited for him because of all the the wonderful experiences that await him. College is on the doorstep. New friends will appear. Growth is inevitable, as are the occasional hard-knock life lessons.

In another 13 years I'm sure I'll sit down and write another blog about Ben and his life and our lives and so many things that will happen. I dare not try to project what will occur in the coming years because I learned long ago to try to stay in every moment. For the most part, I've been able to do that throughout Ben's life. I didn't want to miss a thing. I didn't, and I'm oh so grateful for that. Truly, it's been a wonderful ride.

I'll close sharing a cherished memory from long ago when Ben was about 3 years old. I left for work early while he was still sleeping. As I backed out of the driveway in my car I looked toward the front door and saw Ben standing in the window crying very hard and waving at me. He had awakened and wanted to hug me goodbye, and he thought he had missed the opportunity. I quickly stopped and ran back into the house for that hug. It made my day. It made my life.

Today, I stand many times watching from my window as Ben pulls out of the driveway. I sometimes shed a tear and wish he'd see me and stop ... and come running back in to give me one more hug before he goes.

Forgive. Love. Live.

My stepfather died last Friday night. I haven’t seen him in 35 years, and I talked to him on the telephone just once in the past 20 years. That awkward and difficult conversation took place a couple of weeks ago when I found out he was very sick and near death. When I heard his days on earth were limited, I knew right away that I would call him. But, this was not an easy call to make.

You see, my stepfather was very cruel to me as a kid – emotionally and physically. He battled alcoholism, and his struggles turned into my (and my family’s) struggles. His pain turned into my pain. I could list many examples of the cruelty, but what’s the point? I don’t think he deserves that and it would serve no purpose. Quite honestly, I don’t think I can bear to even write it here.

I will, however, point out that the pain was absolutely unbearable at times. One of the first emotions I recall having as a very young boy was that of fear. I was afraid of him. Mostly, I was afraid I would never feel a father’s love. It was absolutely unbearable for a very long time.

I didn’t see it back then, but the fear and pain caused me to run away from my emotions. It led to me, many years later as an adult, nearly losing my soul. Love is at the core of the soul. No one should ever lose that. And, I almost did. I was THIS close.

So after more than 40 years I stopped running. I got back to my soul, to the love that was present in my earliest days on this planet. We’re all born with it. I had it. But in a flash it was gone, and I lived with that for a long time. On the surface, things were absolutely fine. Inside, though, my soul cried every night.  And just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, a power greater than all of us grabbed me, held me, and whispered to me, “It’s time to stop running. Get back to your soul.” The attempted escape was finally over.

I don’t have words to describe the power behind that love. But, that love definitely surfaced when with trembling hands I dialed the phone number to my stepfather’s hospital room. That love sparkled when he answered and I was able to talk to him. That love shined when I told him I didn’t hate him. That love glowed when I told him about my three wonderful sons. And for a brief instant, only one instant, I think his love peeked at me when he said he was really happy I called. It was nothing more than a glimpse into his soul, but I know I felt love that I had so desperately wanted as a child. It was love I so badly want and need even as an adult.

We talked a bit more, and I wished him well. I told him I’d pray for him. I told him I hoped he prayed to a higher power, to God. When we ended the call I cried like I was five years old again. And when I first heard he died last Friday, I collapsed to my knees and cried even harder. I felt a powerful wave rush through me. I believe it was God washing away my pain, finally and forever. I believe it was God washing away his pain, finally and forever.

Sting wrote a song entitled, “Why Should I Cry for You?” He wrote it for his father after he passed away. I have listened to that song many times in the days since my stepfather died. I’ve also answered some of the questions that the lyrics pose. It’s helped me come to grips with my past, and my present.

Sometimes I see your face.

The stars seem to lose their place.

Why must I think of you?

Why must I?

Why should I?

Why should I cry for you?

I cry for you because I forgive you. I cry for you because I believe your soul is also full of love. I cry for you because I honestly believe your soul is now free and its love will surface, sparkle, shine and glow.

Underneath it all you were a human being. That’s why I think of you. That’s why I cry for you. That’s why I love you.