:: The Explanation ::

My oldest daughter’s father-in-law is a crazy man.  When he was young, he stepped out of his life, joined the LDS church (alone of all his family), jumped on a motorcycle and took himself to Utah.  There, he went to school, worked, supported himself on a mission, met a Woman Among Women and got married.  Then, being a software maven, he created a “killer app” that has supported an entire industry for decades.

The man loves to collect guitars and adventures (how many people do you know who think taking a hiking vacation in Iceland during a volcano eruption sounds like fun? Or jumping out of airplanes?  Or snorkeling in the Caribbean – well, okay.  That does sound fun.). A restless, brilliant mind – he’s traveled the world, gone back to school, most recently with a PhD in mind.

Eventually, he became an LDS bishop, which means that he has taken care of a lot of people in his time.  It doesn’t necessarily mean that he has eaten healthily, but certainly raises the probability of this.  He hits the gym hard, and he plays in a geriatric (HA) garage band with the guys.  He and he great wife have taught their kids to work. And to play.  And to serve.  And the kids know the value of a dollar.

In the last month, he tried to race his youngest son up the side of a mountain.

But he faltered.  Couldn’t get his breath.  And that was strange.

Friday, he was checked into the hospital for some exploratory surgery; he had liquid in his lungs, and they didn’t know why.  By Friday night, they had a pretty good idea: they’d found cancer – in the lung, in his hip, in his lymphatic system.

You know how they talk about things knocking you on your keester?  Yeah.  That’s what happened to all of us.  Left us silent and blinking.  And then chilling with the implications.

And so we have learned a lesson in the uses of death.  Immediately, my daughter and her family were making an unscheduled trip home.  And my good friend, Gin’s mother-in-law, was given Murphy’s old room.  A houseful of love.  A difficult and frightening time, and in the middle of it, all this love.

It has been a long six days.  We waited for the tests to be read.  And the news is not great.  Short of a miracle, not great.  On the other hand, this man has a great gift: he knows his future, and he has some time to write the end of his own story.  He has time to look every child in the face and tell them what there is to be told, to write letters, to play the guitar – we don’t know how this thing will play out.

He’s happy.  He explained to his children that he has lived a good and interesting life.  His faith allows him an almost eager comfort. His affairs are in order, his family protected and provided for.  And there are tons of crummy that’s-just-life things he’s totally free now to ignore.

And as for us, Gin and I, left staring at each other across the living room, we have come up hard against the realities that life really does end.  It happens to everybody, even when they have work left to do, even when they aren’t ready.  Which means that you always have to be ready.  To say the things that need saying, to take the time to step out of the business of living so that you feel the wind of it on your face.  Children need to be held.  Dogs need balls thrown for them.  People need to be cherished.  Good needs doing.  Now.  Not later.

The world itself will wind down some day.  It will.  With a bang or a whimper, it will.  And what comes next will start.  I want to be eager about that.

Still, it’s all so surreal.

Our friend left the hospital today to go home.  First he will sleep.  Then he will plan the rest of his life.