What matters most.

Dear friend,

Remember Dad’s retirement party? You spoke and gave a lovely toast, or maybe I went first. Or maybe you went first, then I spoke, then you gave a lovely toast to cover for my mess. What matters is that we were up there together. You must have spoken first, because I distinctly remember taking the mic from you and then grabbing onto your shoulder for dear life as you started moving back to our table.

I sobbed and embarrassed myself in front of a hundred people. I clung to your shoulder the whole time. Land amidst the wild seas! And that’s okay. I was saying goodbye to a defining part of Dad. He worked. He provided. And while others there must have understood what that meant and were there to celebrate and congratulate… I was there to mourn. Dad was crossing a defining boundary. One I didn’t want to confront that he was crossing. As he approaches another defining boundary, I can cut myself slack for that discomfort.

That’s all to say that I know, firsthand, that emotions are overwhelming. Big speaking moments don’t come all that often so we don’t get much practice. At my wedding, you bawled. And I left you alone up there.

I was recently at another friend’s wedding. The groom’s mother stood to give a toast. She unfolded her paper, started shaking, said one word, and completely lost it. Our friend walked to her, hugged her, and asked her if he should read the toast alongside her. It was sweet, compassionate. The toast still hit.

If I could do my wedding over again, better supporting you for your toast is the one thing I’d do differently. Immediately afterwards, you came and apologized and said something along the lines of “I just couldn’t do it.” I know what that’s like. There are a lot of things in life that I just can’t seem to get right.

In the moment, I gave you the standard platitudes. It’s fine. It was very us. Of course you love me and support me. And of course you’re rooting for me. Thanks for being up there. All true. All real. That’s still how I feel about it. Later on, I asked you to write down what you wish you would have said. You wrote a note that I’ll cherish until the end of my days.

If I could time travel, I’d have walked to the front of the room while you were losing it. I’d have stood there with you and let you hang on to me for dear life. If you hadn’t pulled it together, and I’d have been really, really, on top of my shit, I would have rattled off a quick story about me being deadly serious. Then I would have rattled off another one about my prized naivete. The final story would have been about silliness and laughter. We would have hugged and then nothing about the rest of the night would have been any different.

I’m glad time travel isn’t possible. I’m glad we can learn, and get better, and that each moment can only be had once. I’m glad that my brother was on stage as my best man and that he “just couldn’t do it.” Being overcome with love and not knowing where to put it is nothing to be ashamed of. Thank you for being out there for that big moment. Thank you, in advance, for being out there for my next big moment. And for being there whenever I call on you. Thank you for being up there with me all those years ago when I wept in front of a crowd myself.

I’m glad we have the relationship we do. And… what matters most is what we do next. I plan to keep learning how to be a supportive force in your life. I love you, friend.

Yours,

JT

P.S. – We always laugh; we sometimes cry. Do or do not; fuck it.

P.P.S – I think the serious story would have been about a time after grandpa died. We were playing what is now the 5th hole at the home course. You made some comment about grandpa. I must have turned sheet white, or… something. Because you started treating me like a downed chick. I think the naivete story would have been about jumping into a roommate situation in a loft downtown. Sleeping on an air mattress in a studio, riding the bus to work, with property strewn all over the country, and still thinking… Huh, this will probably all work out just fine. The real payoff for that story would have been when people found out later that you were the roommate, and landlord. If one who is paying zero rent can be said to have a landlord. The silliness and laughter story… that one would have been easy. Thank you, one final time in this letter, for helping me to leave such a treasure trove of laughter and joy in our wake.