My friend and I were talking and she mentioned having a “divorce album.”

It occurred to me that I've had this song on repeat these past few months.

It speaks to the reality of chapters closing, but that the story is still worth having.

Third-generation family-owned, with a history and legacy that stretches well beyond my time there.

A couple times a year, everyone at work gets together to celebrate what went right and where we want to head next.

One thing they challenge us on is getting five-star Google reviews.

Bonus points for personal shout-outs.

Somehow I have a knack for this.

They ask me how it is that after an interaction with me someone would feel so compelled as to whip out their phone, write a meaningful review about their experience, and then on top of it all actually remember who helped them.

I don't know.

I am just me?

Sorry that isn't more helpful.

Whatever it is, a couple of quarters ago at our get-together, I found out that I accounted for something like a third of the total company reviews.

With five retail stores and darn near 100 employees, it felt kinda big.

As a reward, I got to talk to the group about my pearls of wisdom, they gave me a bonus, and I received an accompanying goat award.

THE G.O.A.T.

The next quarter, I won again and Jeremy fashioned a crown for the goat in his workshop using some old metal scraps.

Later, a small duck friend we found in a dusty broken instrument case joined.

We joked that each time I won, we should just keep adding to the display.

I suggested a royal mantle be added next.

Maria was understated and professional.

Quiet and caring.

We do a lot of our social media and content creation in-store. Maria always had ideas and was a whiz with video editing software.

On top of that, she was our party planner.

Any time there was a celebration worth having, or when it was time to celebrate one of us moving on to a position closer to our calling, she would head that up.

She was also our artist.

Slowly developing smirks the product of a thoughtful tangle of pen.

Early on, she made this one:

Eventually I needed to ask her to make a new one.

The T-shirt I was wearing hurt too much.

She drew a new one. Notice the pedalboard. She captured me so accurately.

I ❤️ MY BAND felt right.

Recently Maria moved on from her position to take one that would fit her stage of life.

We aren't particularly good at taking breaks.

We tend to stay on the floor all day, so when we do need a minute, we wander over to our coworkers.

Maria makes her way over to our side of the store.

I miss the hot goss. I miss the break she unintentionally gave me from work.

Whether they wanted to or not, they were here for all of my grief.

They didn't shy away.

A few weeks after Maria left, buried beneath a pile of invoices and customer phone numbers, I found a tiny Post-it note.

YOU'RE ALWAYS THE GOAT 2 ME

There is a bag of ties.

Truth be told...I was one more wedding, funeral, or divorce away from having to take all of these to the dry cleaners.

This day was already inconvenient enough.

I ruminated on what to wear on this day, ten months in the making.

Would it be viewed as too petty to wear the salmon-colored beauty I got married in to usher me out?

At least then I would feel like I got my money's worth.

I opted against.

Salmon will be retired indefinitely.

I laid out my suit the week before.

I had a divorce checklist:

GRAB IPAD + CHARGER ✔️

GRAB ATH 50 HEADPHONES ✔️

GRAB KEYBOARD BOX ✔️

CAR TITLE ✔️

TITLE TRANSFER FORM ✔️

All things I needed to hand over to her.

Where were my dress shoes again?

Oh, right.

Stuffed inside an old Vans shoe box...somewhere smart where I would surely remember it.

I slept terrible.

I woke up at 4:55am.

Fuck it.

Let's start this day.

Electrolytes, shower, coffee, and an hour and a half before I had to be anywhere.

That sounds like a Tuesday to me.

But this Tuesday my marriage was ending.

I loaded my car.

“Oooh, it looks foggy out here.”

I started my car and drove away.

I had eight feet of visibility, much worse than I thought.

Ahead of me, a solid gray cloud with a faintly illuminated large orb trying to poke through.

It failed.

All of the landmarks I usually look for were missing.

“It is okay, sky. I don't recognize this place I am living in either.”

No Luke songs.

Today felt like an apathetic 75bpm dream-pop kind of day.

Blink and I am there.

A little too early.

Sitting in a small, unpopulated parking lot with absolutely no parking lines.

There is a sole minivan parked 12 feet away.

“I will park here. People can park around me.”

I headed in through the metal detector.

My lawyer was waiting for me.

Always interesting meeting people you have only Zoom-called with in person.

She was filled with positive, upbeat energy.

“Today is the day! Now you can start fresh and put all of this behind you!”

Haha.

It can't be that easy, can it?

I love the optimism though.

We convened in a tiny conference room while we waited to go in.

A little chit-chat.

A little signing of papers.

My time was up.

I turned the corner.

She was there.

She was sitting there with her laptop.

My lawyer sat next to her, between the two of us, and said hello.

I quickly echoed the greeting.

My lawyer explained some logistics and passed several pieces of paper between us to acknowledge.

She didn't look at me.

The commissioner came in.

I had no idea how many questions they make you answer to wrap this thing up.

Over fifty each.

My lawyer had walked me through all of the questions earlier that week.

Somehow it was all new to me in that place.

The commissioner read the questions to her.

My lawyer, the questions to me.

“What is your name?”

“What is your address?”

“Do you believe your marriage is irretrievably broken?”

“Do you feel this arrangement is fair?”

“Are you pregnant?”

Oooooh...

You are talking about her.

Thank God.

“No,” she said.

Oh Thank God.

Seventeen minutes later, I wasn't married anymore.

In the spirit of maximum solidarity, my friends had been lobbying for a divorce party.

I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about having a divorce party.

Later that day, I had a divorce party.

I arrived first.

Because of course I did.

I found us some seats in a room off to the right and texted everybody:

《《I got us seats: in the room to the right of the enterence!》》

And then I waited.

A man started addressing the people around me.

“Alright guys....ROTATE! TIME TO SWITCH TABLES!”

Oh.

I had unknowingly chosen the room being used for speed dating.

So there I sat.

The loser over at Table 12.

On my phone.

Watching people speed date.

On my tenth hour of singledom.

Fantastic.

Eventually my actual dates arrived.

Christopher and Lindsay and their little guy.

Aiden.

Maria.

Jeremy.

Jude.

Everybody wanted to know what had happened earlier that day.

I started telling the story.

Then someone else arrived.

So I started over.

Then someone else arrived.

I think I told the beginning of the story three or four times.

Typical party of eight.

At some point Christopher and Lindsay's little dude picked up a cheese curd and the cheese just kept stretching.

And stretching.

And stretching.

Later, holding up a french fry:

“THE LONGEST FRY I HAVE EVER EATEN.”

EPIC.

After we ate, I felt like I needed to say something.

I cleared my throat.

“Hey guys.”

Immediately it felt like I was about to lead everyone in prayer before dinner.

Son of a pastor.

I guess it comes out in me sometimes.

“I just wanted to thank you.”

“You took on all of this with me whether you knew it or not....and you have been supportive of me during the hardest year of my life.”

“I just wanted to say thank you, that I love you, and that you really have made my job worth coming to.”

“Cheers!”

My first drink was a nice IPA.

Three Floyds Zombie Dust.

We had Three Floyds at our wedding reception.

Huh.

Just remembered that.

Unbeknownst to me, at some point my drink choice was subconsciously becoming intentional...if that is a thing.

My second drink was a gin and tonic.

Bombay Sapphire.

The same gin from when I proposed.

Around me, everyone was talking and laughing.

If there was a dial for my incoming audio, it was being turned down in stepped increments to -85 decibels.

I raised my glass silently.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for the 11 years.

Then came Mystery Shots.

Blue.

Green.

Something.

They reminded me that the first bottle of alcohol I legally bought when I turned 21 was UV Blue.

Seriously, don't judge me.

We were all 21 once and had no taste or experience.

AAAAAAAAAAND.....

I'm a lightweight and a cheap—

SORRY......

FRUGAL.

—date.

After that, water seemed like a pretty good idea.

For most of us, it was a “school night.”

We slowly peeled off to get a decent night's sleep before attending to our responsibilities the next morning.

Wouldn't want to turn into a pumpkin.

I contemplated what the day after would be like after the day I had.

It was a 50/50 shot on whether it would be more beneficial for me to:

A) Go to work, stay busy, and be unfocused on the reality of this new life.

B) Stay home, take a mental health day, and come to some powerful and enlightening conclusion that Luke was now freed up to pursue his divine calling.

When I got back to the car, the dream pop resumed.

The taste of my blue-green something lingered.

Love You.

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The first song that came to mind when I thought about being alone in this apartment, surrounded by all of these old things.

The V for Vendetta soundtrack sure did have some bangers.

We bought all of the crap they tell married couples to buy.

A vegetable spiralizer.

Separate cutting boards for meat and produce.

A turkey baster.

When the fuck am I going to make turkey?

At least we resisted purchasing the bread machine.

I am getting Steve Martin sitting in an armchair giving holiday wish vibes:

If I could give one piece of advice this wedding season to all couples in love out there, it would be: look each other in the eyes every morning as if it were the first day you met and embrace each other with the love of a thousand years.

If I could give two pieces of advice this wedding season, the first would be to look each other in the eyes and hug, and the second would be to get a prenup.

If I could give just three pieces of advice this wedding season, the first would be the crap about the hugging, the second would be putting all the legal stuff on paper, and the third would be to buy exactly the things you want to buy instead of the things that “Big Marriage” tells you you need.

...And of course the fourth piece of advice would be to get all of the children of the world to join hands and sing in a spirit of harmony and peace.

We finally bought something useful!

The Nespresso Creatista Plus.

The best thing, all covered in chrome.

We had like 50-something Bed Bath & Beyond coupons they let us stack.

I think they owed us money after we bought our Nespresso.

It was originally built for speed.

Sleepily you put in a little disposable pod and seconds later, you wring out a cortado. Move on with your morning.

It has been used most days for seven years and six months.

At some point I decided to be “more green” and use reusable pods.

High-Five Luke.

I have successfully managed to make the Nespresso less convenient.

Now I grind my own espresso by hand and pack it into pods like I am packing my own gun shells.

The toaster made it too.

Probably not for much longer.

Each piece of bread now comes out a little more charred than the last at the same relative setting.

The microwave remains standard issue.

Just the thing I need to nuke a meal I prepped days earlier, shoveling in food after work at 8:45 p.m.

Glasses.

Plates.

Bowls.

All the same.

The silverware did not survive.

When we separated, she wanted to swap the silverware we had purchased together—the set I had—with the new silverware she had purchased. I obliged.

Only days later, I realized I despise the set.

The big spoons are not much bigger than the little spoons.

The big forks are not much bigger than the little forks.

It makes it almost impossible to correctly put away the silverware without really looking.

And 100% of the time I look at the silverware tray and know I was wrong.

Not everything made it.

My sweet, sweet pour-over.

Why did you have to leave me?

I surround it with flowers like Rue and give it the three-finger salute.

The dining room table made it.

We bought it with the matching benches in California.

It was a big expenditure for us compared to any furniture we had owned before.

Funny enough, I think I remember eating there about four times, including the most elaborate “To-Go” anniversary steak dinner during the more isolated COVID times.

The rest of the time it became a computer desk, a pedalboard-building station, or just for show.

Now it has been shrunken down into its smallest square-like size.

A round glass coffee table sits to the right of the sofa.

That was her side.

We often ate while hanging out there.

In the mornings, on days she worked from home, I kissed her goodbye and told her I would be home by 6:30.

I made sure she had proper snuggly blanket coverage and a fresh cup of cold brew.

The coffee table has since been abandoned because I have no need to go over to the right side of the sofa.

A rectangular coffee table looked amazing when we had room for it in Illinois and California.

Now it is collapsed in several pieces in the closet.

The bathroom was gutted.

Organizers, pictures, etc.

A fresh sandbox to play in.

Let’s make this thing manly.

Mirrors.

Chrome.

My own barbershop.

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The bed didn’t make it.

It was something she wanted, so I found a new one.

My dresser stayed.

I gave away the nightstand.

There is also a little silvery decorative...thing?

I don’t know. I like it.

It used to sit around looking shiny and stuff.

Now it holds my keys and important mail I need to deal with.

Two Lakland basses made it.

The first, “Ramona,” came into my life in 2012.

The second, “Leeloo,” I commissioned my friend Carl Pedigo to build. It became available shortly after we started dating.

And then there is an old iPad case that originally held the first generation of iPad Air.

I bought it while I was still a single man, hanging out in a Starbucks wondering where my life would go.

I really bought the iPad to draw with, but mostly I used its Bluetooth wizardry to control all of my effects pedals while I was playing out live.

It is exciting to make chaotic swooshing noises to an audience of people with one finger pass of your Apple portable.

In California, the case stopped being used as an iPad case and became more like a man-purse or a satchel if I’m not being self-deprecating.

It carried food, medications, and other essentials when we were working.

It has seen bathrooms, hospitals, parks, coffee shops, and rec rooms.

It brought us into California and ushered us out.

Now it is empty.

It sits on a hook in the closet.

When all is said and done, most of these things are probably made in China.

Made at scale.

Maybe even some of them produced unethically.

Or filled with microplastics...

And certainly slapped with a California cancer and reproductive harm warning.

And they out-paced us.

I’m not sure how to reconcile that.

Love You.

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One repeating piano phrase. Life became something new that day. Four minutes and forty-nine seconds in, listen for the changes.

I have one remaining piece, a hung picture left in my apartment, which ultimately I had to take down.

It sits on a bench we purchased long ago.

It used to reside in our bedroom, by our subtly figured matching wood dressers and nightstand.

A virtual sacred altar to our wedding day.

Flowers.

Wedding veil.

The exact empty bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin I used the day I proposed to her.

Standing beside it, a canvas her sister had made for us of the most sacrosanct and intimate picture we have ever taken together.

My bride.

The most beautiful I had ever seen her.

Half an hour before that picture was taken, I stood there with my best men.

Friends who helped me make it to that day and a pastor who reassured me of who I was and that someday I would find a woman exactly like her.

I was nervous.

Doing all of this hub-bub in front of every person I ever knew.

It sorta would've been nice to elope.

Weird thought to have while you are standing there sweating in front of a hundred and something of all your people.

I am particular about music, as you might have guessed.

Okay, well...

I did have some beer preferences for the reception.

You know, the kind of IPAs that will peel paint, and perhaps something also a bit darker and more akin to motor oil.

But the music was important.

I know there are old romantic comedy tropes of brides planning their special day when they were young.

To say I had an entire playlist planned out for that day might be overshooting it.

I definitely had ideas.

One was Icelandic post-rock band Sigur Rós—a band my friend Scott introduced me to and that stayed with me through all of my formative years.

We could have gone in any music direction for the ceremony and/or reception.

But I knew her.

She loved me and she trusted me to make this call.

So we opted out of "Canon in D" and into something a little more...

Us?

An accomplished pianist herself, I chose a six-minute, thirty-three-second slow burn.

A piano-driven lesson in restraint and simplicity.

One phrase, repeated for over five minutes of the total runtime.

In my head, this is her soundtrack.

This is who I love.

I almost thought it was too long.

Almost long enough to make the bride side and groom side wonder if everything is okay.

Four minutes and forty-nine seconds in, my life changed forever.

The phrase stayed the same but the piano moved up the octave.

She appeared.

Empty holes.

Each one a screaming reminder that she is gone, mission failed, assignment misunderstood.

All of these used to be filled with small blue steel nails with a gold head.

30 Lb. safe working load is what Target's website said.

They used to hold pictures of us, our engagement photo, other family photos, other small decorative canvases.

Written in gold and white:

"Love is all around you"

Those pictures are gone.

They are with her now.

I've seen them.

On new walls.

Using new nails.

With new arrangements.

"Love is all around you" found another wall.

But this one still remains.

It sits in my care, the most precious picture of us ever taken.

And I have a choice.

It is approximately Twenty-Two Feet to my bedroom closet and approximately Five Feet away from my trash can.

Well.

I can't decide.

Perhaps my homie Harvey Cox said it best:

"Not to decide is to decide."

Phew.

I think we all knew I couldn't go through with it.

Fine.

The garbage can is out.

Like Cameron sitting in his car trying to decide whether he will go gallivanting in his father's 1961 Ferrari 250 GT California Spyder, I sit deciding.

"He'll keep calling me, he'll keep calling me until I come over. He'll make me feel guilty. This is uh... This is ridiculous, ok I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go. What - I'LL GO. Shit."

This canvas has lived everywhere in my apartment.

It once had a home, now a vagabond.

Bedroom. Prominent. Eye Level. Glorious.

Sitting on an old bench. Face up. Living Room.

Sitting on an old bench. Face down. Living Room.

Behind the bedroom door. Backwards. Bedroom.

Even the walls could not handle the grandeur and tragedy.

Milquetoast.

You got off too fucking easy.

That is where it has stayed and that is where it needs to leave.

This was not a mistake.

She was never a mistake.

For right now, she and I sit on a shelf in the closet, beside our travel companions.

My baggage sits with my baggage.

I hold it with me safe.

Love You.

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Light can't be hidden behind a paywall.

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I'm just happy you're here.

This was the song we left the church to, victoriously, having been freshly announced man and wife.

WARNING: The official soundtrack of Luke’s Coffee Chronicles is about to go dark for a little while.

Perhaps not dark.

Okay, dark is a little dramatic.

It’s almost like I can hear Sir Anthony Hopkins doing a table read for a C.S. Lewis book...

Almost as if there was actually a 1993 film based on that exact thing.

“The tortures of the separation are the measure of the happiness and value of the union. It is a part of the deal, so to speak—though not a deal we would have made if we had been given a free choice.”

My Reticular Activating System has kicked into overdrive.

Suddenly, she is everywhere.

She is with me as I drive past all of the places I cannot go.

There is a stretch on Road P around here.

(Yes, I am still getting used to naming roads after the alphabet too.)

For quite a while, we shared one vehicle.

I have a 28-minute trip to work.

It is sometimes amusing to hear people who live in the city exclaim:

“Geez, 28-minute drive to work? That is so long!”

Honestly, I don’t mind it!

Does this sound so bad?

A consistent 55 mph, passing nature and farms on rolling, curvy roads.

The only time this sucks is when the farmland is encased in snow and ice.

That crap is scary.

It certainly beats the Illinois suburbia experience:

49-minute drive.

22 stoplights.

2 Costcos.

Eleven Red Robins.

Traveling 19 miles in total.

After 9 hours of work, you turn the car around.

Every day we passed a goat.

We took quite a liking to him.

My memory is a little hazy on exactly how we came to name him.

Every time we passed him, his name got longer.

I think he started out as “Billy Goat.”

And then he was “Billy Goat Scruffleton.”

Things escalated quickly after that.

A goat of his majesty deserved a little fricken prestige, after all.

“SIR Billy Goat Scruffleton”

“SIR Billy Goat Scruffleton the 3rd”

“SIR Billy Goat Scruffleton the 3rd, Esquire”

“SIR Billy Goat Scruffleton the 3rd, Esquire, Ph.D.”

Each day she had one hand on the wheel and one hand on mine as we imagined the elaborate life this silly goat must be living.

One day the goat stopped being there.

And one day we stopped holding hands on the way to work.

With a fuel-efficient midsize SUV, gassing up once a week was just about right.

We had a system.

I was the navigator.

She was the driver.

Once a week, we would head to the gas station, and I, wanting to be a good steward of our only operating vehicle, would fuel us up with the best 89-octane gas money can buy.

I liked clear windows, and there are a lot of smashed bug guts here in the outer limits of the U.S. Corn Belt.

I aimed to remedy that situation.

I would slowly work my way around the vehicle, squeegee in hand, starting at the back, heading around to the passenger side, past the front.

The 15-foot circular trek would land me directly in front of the driver’s-side window.

I would get that side extra clean.

When I was done making squeaky cleaning noises, it was dealer’s choice.

Sometimes I was greeted with a goofy face.

Sometimes with a freshly steamed window, a heart drawn on it.

And sometimes, silently mouthed:

“I love you.”

One day there stopped being a heart in the window.

And one day I drove to the gas station alone.

I am cheap.

Some in my family may say “frugal” in jest, like my father before me.

Every month, it was time for a haircut.

I did it myself.

Nothing fancy.

Maybe a #1 guard all the way around, tapered down to 1/16”, finally to skin around my neckline.

But my father was a barber, so...

How bad can this go?

Actually, not bad at all.

Doesn’t mean I can’t benefit from a second set of pretty eyes.

When I was wrapped up, I would say:

“Babe, can you come check my head?”

She would do a thorough pass through with the clippers, occasionally flicking them on to take care of a narrow patch gone rogue.

She would rub her hands all over my head, making sure any loose debris fell off and that I indeed looked as fresh as I felt.

I had a completely unfounded fear of lobbing off my eyebrows in a great buzzer malfunction.

As a final act of kindness, she would get out the fancy scissors and the little brush.

With grace and accuracy, she would take the Eugene Levy out of my face, eyebrows so svelte they would make Derek Zoolander jealous.

There in our 5’ × 9’ bathroom, she smiled, kissed me on the nose, and left.

One day the bathroom was empty.

One day my second set of eyes was replaced with a five-way mirror from Amazon.

Huh.

The places I cannot go.

Except they are on my route to work.

And in my car.

And in my home.

No.

I am in it.

We have this pizza place near us.

We would play with the Scrabble tiles the servers left on the table while we waited for a gluten-free slice.

The goal was always to out-triple-word-score the other one.

A little plastic jar holds little tiles right next to the parmesan and red pepper flakes.

They spell:

I have not had the strength to go back there.

Btw: 74 points for the win.

In an effort to make one vehicle doable for us, one of us would kill time before work, the other after.

I spent two hours pre-work at this little hodgepodge, Icki Sticki...

Kisses inside the car.

Kisses outside the car window.

"I love yous" on the phone mere seconds after ordering a coffee.

One part coffee shop.

One part ice cream parlor.

One part popcorn shop.

Can you imagine the smell of all three colliding at once?

I still can.

Silence in the car.

Apologies from inside the gift shop.

I cannot quite bring myself to go back.

And then something happened.

My Aunt Cara and Uncle Tom asked me to go hiking with them.

Honestly, I thought we were done doing that.

Cara and Tom had been coming up here twice a year since before we even moved to Wisconsin.

They rent the same Airbnb, go out to dinner, and spend the weekend hiking around Devil's Lake.

For some reason, I'm not even sure why, I assumed that because my marriage was over, the double-date weekend in nature would be too, with one of us reduced to a third wheel.

Like clockwork, my uncle texted me:

"Hey, do you want to come with us this weekend?"

What is the word for when you are honored and fearful all at the same time?

Fonored.

I was fonored.

I was afraid because I knew another weekend exactly like this, but minus the love of my life, would feel wrong.

On that walk.

Taking pictures of that bird.

Sitting with us at the brewery we always go to.

Inside that Airbnb.

But I couldn't say no.

I had to go.

Our trip always starts with dinner.

I mean, it is probably best to start your weekend of physical expenditure in nature with beer and burgers, no?

I got there first.

"Table for three, please."

"Oh yeah, outside seating if it's available—we have a dog."

There it is.

Table for three.

I am obviously surrounded by humans, so when there is a little brown-and-tan mutt with floppy ears, enormous dark eyes, and is straight-up just a ball of cuteness, it is hard to not catch my attention.

"LAANA!"

I know that voice.

It's my Aunt Cara!

Oooh! I found my uncle!

I gave them a strong embrace.

Lana wanted in on the action.

I gave her pets.

For us, cheese curds and beer immediately.

Dinner to follow.

We spent the evening catching up and enjoying the slowly darkening sky.

Wrapping up, I tailed them in the car to their remote Airbnb.

Again, a first.

I, always the navigator.

She, the driver.

I didn't have to worry about it this time, though.

Don't take that to mean that I have a keen sense of direction.

I had lights to follow.

How I see myself while driving using one of my favorite quotes from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade:

“He's got a two day head start on you, which is more than he needs. Brody's got friends in every town and village from here to the Sudan... With any luck, he's got the grail already.”

How I really am in real life while driving using another of my favorite quotes from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade:

“Are you kidding? I made that up. You know, Marcus he once got lost in his own museum.”

The sky now dark, there is one sole light on at a stranger’s house that shouldn’t feel this familiar.

We pulled all of our things out of the two cars, let Lana find something fresh to pee on, and went inside.

We always reserve the same Airbnb.

With every visit, we slept in that one guest room.

This time, I condensed the two pillows together toward the center—a battle I seem to have with myself.

At home, I had mostly solved this problem by falling asleep on the sofa.

When I did finally migrate to bed, I moved into her space so there wouldn’t be an empty side anymore.

New tactic.

Time to stretch out.

In the morning, it moves slow and sweet.

As sweet as my “vacation cereal”—keto versions of my childhood favorites.

Healthy?

No.

25% less crappy ingredients while bringing me back to a time when I would separate my marshmallows and little sweetened corn things in a bowl of pinkish-gray milk?

Yes.

I needed that.

Coffee while listening to Tom play one of his guitars.

This time, the slight metallic ping of his vintage resonator guitar.

It doesn’t take more than 30 seconds of listening to Tom to know how many years of experience are in those hands.

Everybody is ready, and it is time to leave.

We head to Devil’s Lake.

It is my favorite spot, I think, in all of Wisconsin.

I like to think of it in little microclimates.

First level: open grassy fields.

Then some incline.

Then wooded forest.

Then rocky steps.

Then straight-up climbing on boulders.

We had to stop a lot.

I mean, it certainly wasn’t because I have a desk job where I walk an accumulated 2,000 steps in a day.

No, no.

We needed to keep Lana hydrated.

Tom and Cara are always thoughtful and bring along the really fancy meat sticks for our breaks.

Like, they are made of real buffalo and duck, so you know they’re good.

We’re a few climates higher now.

We see bald eagles surveilling the region.

No, guys, I’m not food.

Move on.

At the top, we take one of those really deep breaths.

Not an “I’m tired and need a minute” breath.

One of those full-body, “holy crap” kinda breaths.

Can you believe the parking lot disappeared miles ago, and at 1,467 feet above sea level, the air can feel this fresh?

Can you believe you only live half an hour away from this?

Can you believe she is not here to kiss you at the top of the mountain?

I expected the top of that hill to hurt.

I felt nothing.

Until the way down.

The next day, it was time to say goodbye.

I think I got through the weekend relatively emotionally unscathed and scot-free...

Until I went to hug my aunt and uncle.

I wept uncontrollably.

My wife would hug me and tell me it was okay to cry. To keep crying.

Lana’s keen canine senses on high alert.

She showed real concern now with a little whimper.

I tried to do the man thing.

Put my focus on the dog to get the focus off of emotions I was not supposed to be having.

Yeah, that did not work.

“You are going to make it through the other side of this.”

I gave Lana pets.

And I went home.

I went.

And maybe for right now, that’s good enough.

Love you.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

Grandma Mary chose the soundtrack herself. There were simply too many memories to fit inside one song.

Ten Years Later ---

A Saturday morning in early November.

It felt normal.

Lying in bed.

We made it to the weekend.

I thought we were going to Starbucks for cold brew coffee and some egg bites.

"Luke, you are my best friend...but I need to divorce you."

I know there are stereotypes about men not being relationally aware enough to see certain things coming.

But I knew we loved each other.

But I knew she was going to be the only woman in my life.

And I knew that whatever struggles we were having could be worked out.

But there was a push and a pull between the directions our lives were going.

Different goals.

One wanted kids. The other wasn't quite sure how that would fit into our lives.

I would say an overall difference in ethos of life.

For one, it was: work hard, be a good human to all people, and it shall all be given to you.

For one, it was: rest, be a good human to all people, and whatever good that is supposed to find you will.

So that was November...

By December, she was mostly moved out.

And while the life inside my little apartment in Wisconsin was coming apart, two thousand miles away, something else entirely was happening to my family in California.

My dad was losing his mom.

And he was losing his little brother.

My grandma was 98 years old and struggling.

Sometimes I wish I had found a way to make it west more often to see her.

My family had been so faithful to their sweet mom, kind Mary.

And then, almost immediately after losing their mom, they were losing their brother Richard.

It just feels so wrong.

Grandma was 98.

Rich was 56.

And right after her.

Right after her.

Loss reverberated through our family on repeat.

I don't know that I can fully tell you who Rich was.

I can tell you how I saw him.

Always vibrant.

Energetic.

And always so willing to connect with me.

I saw the love he had for the family he built with his wife, Michelle, and their kids—my cousins, Toni and Aaron.

Three people I find myself wishing I knew better, too.

Distance sucks.

Especially when you love your family and have this feeling that, if you all just lived down the block from each other, you'd probably be close friends.

But we didn't live down the block from each other.

We lived two thousand miles apart.

Well, at least for a week, that distance was going to close a little...

Actually, by a lot.

I sold my last guitar of the week at work.

I jumped in my car.

Drove three hours home.

"Home" for me is still the house I grew up in.

I haven't yet been able to establish that here in Wisconsin, so my heart becomes a little more alive at the prospect of a little road trip.

It is always the same:

Go to work having fully gassed up and packed.

Leave after work.

Cram a sandwich in my face from Jersey Mike's.

Drive to Rockford.

Potty.

Sip on a Trenta-sized iced coffee for the remainder of the trip.

Different vibes this trip.

Weightier.

Less joyous Luke songs.

I had spent much of the last few weeks spontaneously bursting into tears like silverware sitting pensively in a microwave.

It felt like the entire cutlery set that was my life had been crammed into that darn thing.

Pensive...

That is a word.

I arrived at a quiet house with several ounces each of pulled pork and brisket, and Sharko's signature spinach casserole.

I gave my mom a big hug.

Hugs have taken on an entirely new meaning in my life.

When you're no longer with a partner and find yourself in near isolation, you start thinking about physical touch like it's some sort of confessional.

"Bless me, Father, for it has been 63 days since my last hug."

Dinner and the rest of the evening were exactly what they needed to be for us...

A way to not be alone with all of the thickness in the air.

In the morning, church!

We knocked that out real quick and then headed out to rendezvous with my 'lil sis.

She had gotten to spend some time with friends, and they drove her to a Starbucks for us to meet up.

I got a cold brew and some egg bites.

Finally.

We ate dinner at home and went to bed.

Monday came.

Travels were had.

Oooh! I found my uncle!

He met us at the airport in Chicago.

Several hours later, we were in Northern California.

My dad came and we all got to give him a big hug..

Again with the hugs.

Not to be taken lightly.

How hard can you squeeze someone when you're trying to take away the ache in their heart?

I wish it worked that way.

The automatic doors slid open.

I found myself transported to a time when I almost called myself a Californian.

I maintain that 78° Fahrenheit feels completely different depending on what state—or country—you are experiencing it in.

In a double-blind study, 10 out of 10 Lukes agree: California's 78°F is unlike any other place in the world.

I felt my body release.

I don't know if it was because I had just come out of the Arctic Midwest or because I'm old now and my bones hurt, but breathing in that California air was the ultimate power-up.

My body felt peaceful and revived while simultaneously carrying the weight of what we were actually there to do

I felt like a little puppy.

I cracked the car window open as far as I could get it and stuck my head out, trying to soak in every single beam of California sunlight.

It's so odd.

Coming to the West Coast as a family was such a normal, albeit special, occasion.

But it occurred to me that at the exact moment the family I had built as an adult was coming apart, I somehow found myself back inside the first family I had ever belonged to.

I don't think we had taken a trip together—just the four of us—in over twenty years.

Sans significant others.

Sans children.

Sans responsibilities.

Sans all that life had brought in over those twenty years.

Our nights there, as they always did, filled up with dinners with family.

Reminiscing over times past.

Meeting family I had never known through stories told around the table.

It was sacred.

Always.

My Grandma always had an honest relationship with death.

Not morbid.

Honest.

We all die.

That is an eventuality.

At the end of every meal we shared with her, she would whip out her credit card and try to pay.

Her children would protest.

"Seriously, Mom. You shouldn't do that. You need that money."

"Oh, it's okay, kids. It'll just be a little less for your inheritance."

She would smile.

Bless you, Mary.

Of course, coffee was here too.

So many fantastic coffee places.

We stopped at Verve Coffee several times—probably one of my top three coffee shops visited.

EVER.

You can see I stocked up while I was there, packing half an empty duffel bag with several kilos of my drug of choice.

I did wonder if I would be flagged on the return flight.

That never happened.

So many of my favorite moments on this trip were simply getting time with one or two people, away from everyone else.

A rare gift.

One day my sister said we should take a trip to the hot tub.

I mean, she wasn't wrong.

Things were bubbling, the furious motor going in the background.

But I didn't hear any of that.

For the first time in a long time, I heard my sister.

No cute kiddo trying to climb onto her lap.

Just her and me.

We talked about good things and the gravity of life both.

We spoke about our family.

About loss.

For me, all of my loss was in that hot tub with me.

An eleven-year relationship.

Family members.

The life I thought I knew.

I didn't know where to go.

I didn't know what to do.

I don't know that we were able to fix everything in the hot tub.

Our room sat right next to the pool.

At some point, my mom looked out and caught her two kids resting.

At some point in the middle of a deeply meaningful conversation between a brother and sister, I looked over my shoulder to find an extremely specific municipal warning about diarrhea.

Tears in our eyes, we laughed.

After ten years, I made it back to the ocean.

This time without my wife.

The ocean can change a lot in ten years.

Strike that.

That sounds stupid.

The ocean doesn't change.

But what I pulled out of it had.

Being completely surrounded by the family that had been with me my entire life, I didn't feel the same sense of bold exploration and adventure I once did here.

I felt waves of stability.

She held me tight.

I am exactly where I need to be.

There were six of them.

Were there six of them?

I think there were six of them.

Six memorial boards, all with Grandma on them.

I saw them as we were setting up, so unassuming, standing atop black easels.

I knew I needed to take this time while the room was calm and much emptier than it would be in an hour's time.

There is something wild about scanning 98 years' worth of memories, knowing full well that this was only a fraction of a full life lived.

So many different moments.

Youth.

Milestones.

Family.

This, friends, is what grace and beauty really look like.

Panning through the boards, there would be periods with people I didn't recognize or had never met.

Some boards had several photos I had seen in other albums.

Ooohhh.

I got to the portion with all of my California family.

Look at that one.

Third row of photos from the bottom.

Second photo from the right.

That little shit in the blue jacket who isn't smiling...rather looking down and scowling...

Was me!

My poor family could not do anything to get me to accompany them with a smile.

I went through all of them.

One photo of Grandma was painfully absent.

Actually, my favorite photo of her.

Heck, it didn't even have me in it.

I was behind the camera.

Ten years earlier—my new bride sitting on the sofa as Grandma Mary was introducing her to an entire lifetime of Leeman family history.

The family she had just married into.

I thought I was photographing the continuation of the story.

This felt like it was about legacy.

Like there was going to be this photo in an album sitting next to our wedding photos.

Sitting next to our 20-year anniversary photo.

Sitting next to our 40-year anniversary photo.

Sitting next to our 52-year anniversary photo.

To me, it felt like one of the most important pictures I could ever take.

Something doesn't have to last forever to have been real.

That has not been an immediate conclusion, but one forged over these many months of heartache.

Because that is the fork in the road.

I know the ending, and it is tempting to invalidate all of the goodness that came before it.

The harder challenge for me is to keep looking at the photograph with unbridled gratitude.

I don't believe I would be here writing these words to you now if I had chosen to invalidate it all.

Eventually, the quiet room began to fill.

There was a flurry of activity.

I never really thought about how many particulars are involved in an event like this.

Flowers.

Funeral bulletins.

Food.

Table and chair rentals.

Audio and visual things to work out.

That was my responsibility.

There was a photo montage we were going to run after we got to the reception.

Being a bit of a perfectionist, I was struggling with the fact that the song we were using was only two minutes and nineteen seconds.

One of Mary's favorite songs was "What a Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong, and she wanted it played at her funeral.

And dammit, that was what she was going to get.

Mary was someone who always looked at the simple moments in life and saw the best in them.

That doesn't mean she had a pain-free 98 years.

She lost my grandpa, Dick, in 2002.

He was the kind of man who would get down on one knee so he could meet you at your young height and have an intelligent conversation about the best flavors of ice cream.

I loved him dearly.

Mary lived more than two decades of her life without him.

And dementia took up far too much of the final chapter of her life.

Grandma chose the soundtrack herself.

The timing of the music and the photos did not line up.

There were simply too many memories to fit inside one song.

So we put her song on repeat.

Love You.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

For the first time in my life, I was living in a place I never wanted to move away from, all while holding the hand of my favorite person.

Read Part 3 here

Our day began at 5:50 a.m. to a blistering alarm.

I would always wake up in a daze.

You know those college years where you would wake up the morning after some totally righteous party, head pounding, thinking:

"God, what did I do last night?"

Only I wasn't drinking.

I was just working until 11 p.m., trying to come home to the other side of the duplex and wind down enough to fall asleep for six hours.

Truthfully, during the week it was just about surviving.

We had a routine.

In the morning, I would always make us fresh juice.

The California produce was unbelievable. Even the worst piece of fruit in California was the best piece of fruit in the Midwest.

We would get ready and start work.

Every other day, one of us would have six hours off in the middle of the day, and I think we spent the time either taking a nap, getting lunch at Garrett Station, or grabbing some coffee.

After all of the day's activities were over—going to parks or on other outings—the five of us would be back at the house, and we would make dinner.

Bedtime was generally early for our residents.

I remember sitting in the dark, exhausted, watching reruns of Seinfeld before my shift ended at 11 p.m.

The weekend always brought with it the same thing:

Hope, adventure, and recuperation.

Without the limitations of needing to pay rent, food, or utilities, we felt more freedom to explore.

We also felt a sense of needing to fit an abundant life into a very small period of time between 11 p.m. on Friday and sometime Sunday evening.

Because the 13-hour workdays would come soon enough.

It was beautiful having family so close to us—aunts, uncles, cousins, and my sweet grandma all within a thirty-five minute drive.

Certainly one of the motivating factors for taking this job in the first place.

We almost always started our Saturdays the same way: snuggling in bed, getting ready for the day, and going to get breakfast at this little place.

They had like ten different types of eggs Benedict.

It was unreal.

On the weekends, we ate virtually every meal out, exploring and seeing what culinary charms we could find.

We were a little less health-conscious back then, so we were not worried about alcohol, sugar, or really carbs in general.

Everything felt rich.

The restaurant lighting.

The palm-looking trees that seemed to only be subject to California's delightfully consistent warm weather.

Everything was fresh.

Fresh fruit.

Fresh flowers.

Fresh bread.

When we grocery shopped, Trader Joe's had the lowest quality of food.

That is saying a lot!

Gosh, what I would do for a Trader Joe's in rural Wisconsin.

Every car was fairly clean, without so much as a blemish.

Even vehicles 20 years old might have a touch of rust but were still limping along.

Makes you really think about how hard Midwestern winters are on cars.

Makes you really think about how hard Midwestern winters must be on our bodies.

Work was hard.

But we played hard too.

We were feeling good.

We were feeling close to each other, like we could actually do this.

Live as man and wife and co-workers all in one.

We had this.

1,200 square feet.

Three bedrooms.

Two bathrooms.

A giant kitchen.

And the fanciest washer and dryer I had ever seen.

And it was all ours to fill with our stuff and our memories.

Our tastes were modern. We shopped for furniture like we were filling our own private hotel suite.

We had an enormous bedroom with a connected bathroom, a music room, and a third bedroom to...

...hide all of our moving boxes.

His and her bathrooms.

That is luxury, Ladies & Gentlemen!

We curated every single piece together.

Our pride and joy was our dining room.

We purchased a table which, for the first time, was not something small and square to be crammed into a nook.

It was meant to be sprawled out.

It was meant to seat friends.

It was meant to seat family.

It was meant to seat the two of us.

Every day before work, after I made our juice, I would peer into the dining room from the kitchen and think:

"I wonder when we will get to use this."

It was increasingly more difficult to find an answer to that question.

Such a trade-off to have the means to live a rich life and not the time to live a rich life.

Occasionally, as you do, you network with other people.

You talk with people at the new church you are attending.

Or you get into conversations casually at a beautiful restaurant surrounded by an elaborate aquarium.

Little fish float just outside of your field of vision as the super-rich, the super-powerful tech couples would talk to us.

After all, we were just miles from Netflix, Apple, and eBay headquarters in Los Gatos, California.

This place felt transient and entitled.

Salaries were counted with six and seven digits.

Tenures measured in months or a small handful of years.

These jobs were just stepping stones to go somewhere else and do it in style.

Perhaps our five and a half months there were no different.

After speaking about their careers and aspirations, as if almost out of necessity, they would remember to ask:

"Well, what brings you guys to Los Gatos?"

We would look at each other and say:

"Social Work!"

We had made it.

We were officially a California Power Couple.

Love you.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

California-soaked nostalgia only the Chili Peppers can do, with John riding that vibrato pretty hard. Gosh, I love California.

Read Part 2 here

The Pacific Ocean was forty-five minutes from our front door.

Forty-five minutes, can you even imagine?

For a Midwestern boy like me, this was a dream come true.

Close enough that you could almost convince yourself you'd go next weekend.

—Or after work settled down.

—Or after the next doctor's appointment.

—Or after one more week.

The strange thing is...

I never stopped longing for it.

Living that close to a nearly endless body of water never made it feel ordinary.

If anything, I held it in greater reverence because I knew how extraordinary it was. Every glimpse from the highway felt like a tender reminder that something unimaginably beautiful was just over the next hill.

We moved in and started working almost immediately.

Can you believe all of this fit in a Honda Civic? I still can't. Somehow, everything we owned was sitting there on the living room floor, waiting for us to start our new life.

We did the things: took the tests for certifications, went to the DMV...all of the pieces of paper that said we were qualified to hold these precious souls close to our hearts.

That we did.

And it was beautiful.

And challenging.

And scary.

And frustrating.

And one of the best things I have ever done in my life.

For five and a half months we were a family unit: the two of us, the three of them, and some staff to offer us respite when we needed it.

And we did need the respite.

Hours were long, totaling sixty or more per week.

My wife and I alternated between two shifts.

One shift split the day in two: mornings, a long afternoon break, then evenings until eleven.

The other was a straight shot from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m., Monday through Friday.

The weekends: OFF. (lol)

I only say that because while we did have staff around to be in the house overnights and from Friday at 11 p.m. to Monday at 7 a.m., we quickly learned this was the "advertised schedule" and not what reflected reality.

Our household had serious needs, needs that we were not going to let lapse, no matter the cost.

This meant grocery shopping for the house during our off time. Many shifts were scheduled as one person caring for three. That simply wasn't feasible, so we would both come over to the other side of the duplex during our time off to make sure everyone was being well taken care of.

Sometimes we would head out for a date night and turn right around.

Sometimes there were medical emergencies.

Sometimes our staff ran out of cleaning supplies.

It all came back to us.

It is funny reflecting on this season with other people now.

"What was it like to live in California? It must have been absolutely amazing!"

We saw a lot of:

Costcos

Targets

Pharmacies

Doctor's offices

Hospitals

The ocean was patient.

We finally carved out a day.

(The ocean one time.)

Certainly there were great parts, and some things I had to adjust to.

It took me about a week and a half to become a true Californian.

Years of surviving Illinois winters with -40° wind chills and humid 100° summers disappeared almost overnight.

"Oh, it is chilly in here!" I would say in shame as I silently called myself a wuss, sneaked my sweater on, and calmly surrendered my Illinois card.

The reality is, the job was demanding. Sometimes the work was heartbreaking.

My wife, absolutely unstoppable, attended to more of the logistics of day-to-day life than I could even count.

We watched each other's six like two heroes standing back-to-back, ready to take on whatever was thrown at us.

We worked as one, stepping in whenever the other needed relief.

...Sometimes that meant doing the errands on our time off.

...Sometimes that meant coming into the house at the end of a 14-hour day with an In-N-Out cheeseburger, a giant bag 'O fries and a gallon of Coca-Cola.

Let me tell you, I know it doesn't sound like it, but that was like water in the desert.

I found myself feeling like a fierce protector, wanting to shield them from all of the pain and hurt this life had brought our friends.

And knowing that I couldn't possibly have done that fully.

My heart broke hearing that one of those who had been in our care years ago passed away.

I can only imagine how free and how large they are now, living with:

Absolutely.

No.

Barriers.

The prideful part of me hopes those we cared for are able to remember us. That even if for only a few months, we made their burdens feel lighter, their lives feel fuller, and their chronic conditions felt lessened.

The rooted part of me knows we did the absolute best we could, warts and all.

We could have just done the thing, you know?

We could have gotten our first apartment.

We could have gotten our first pet.

We could have DoorDashed every meal.

We could have had a vast network of couple friends.

None of those firsts are wrong. In fact, I think they are beautiful and necessary.

In some ways I regret that we did not get to share a more typical set of early married years. To me, looking at that one possible route in life, it looks like peace.

It feels like rest.

Making this one person the center of your life.

It just feels odd because we were not called to that.

We were called to outward purpose.

I wanted the emotional capital to do both.

I wanted the margin to align the love of my life with taking on the call of my life.

I wanted to be just hers and be just theirs because they both deserved the very best of me.

The ocean was patient.

They were, too.

Love you.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

I often find myself trying to strike a balance between “Life is beautiful” and “I don’t know if I’m going to make it!”

Read Part 1 here:

The night before we left to make the trek to California, I had a dream.

In that dream, words from a person I could not see told me:

"This will not work out... but I want you to go anyway."

I woke up questioning what I had just lived through during my seven hour stint unconscious.

Fantastic.

......Nothing like a good pep talk before making a decision that will change the trajectory of your life forever!

Over my birthday weekend, we flew to California for an interview for an opportunity to live with and care for three individuals with disabilities.

We met with a board of people and some of the family members of those we could potentially be caring for.

They liked us.

We packed up everything we owned in our 4-door sedan.

It was....a tight fit.

It did help—we ordered a cheap car top carrier from the interwebs. It fit all of our clothes and everyday type stuff.

Inside, a carefully laid tapestry of home electronics and music stuff and things:

• A 32" Samsung TV.

• A set of Blue Sky 2.1 studio monitors.

• Four prized bass guitars.

• Pedals.

• Guitar stands.

• Etc.

I still remember standing in my parents' driveway thinking,

"Oh my God. I don't think we are going to make it."

We Tetrised the crap out of that little car.

Everything fit.

And now the hard part, the really hard part.

We hugged my parents and 33 years of little flickers entered my brain.

...only I wasn't dying, I was leaving everyone I held close.

I had been in Illinois all my life.

It helped to develop a fire in me.

A fire in me that fostered friendships.

Developed relationships.

Formed beautiful bonds and fun bands.

...and really, just at that point...

my relationship with my parents was starting to bloom into something even more beautiful than it ever had been.

A faith community too.

Pretty much twenty years there, praying, growing, yearning, and sure, slapping a little bass guitar when I felt the congregation needed a bit more jubilation.

I didn't tell her about the dream while we made this transition.

I simply didn't know what to do with it.

She had spent the last several months carrying me—asking questions I had stopped asking myself, believing in me when I wasn't entirely sure if I believed in myself.

This wasn't something she could carry for me.

So my dream sat with me in the passenger seat.

She never knew it was there.

We were troopers.

I mean, we drove a lot...

Stopping only to pee, eat, and sleep.

We decided to take the southern route:

Illinois → St. Louis → Oklahoma → Texas → New Mexico → Las Vegas

Up the coast of California.

The scenic route.

I don't really remember it though.

I started out strong, driving for several hours in a day, but I made a fatal error along the way:

Eating my once-every-five-years Big Mac on the road.

FOOD POISONING DEATH.

Amazing how something so small could derail a trip.

"Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions—on a sesame seed bun."

Oh, that sandwich was special alright—I didn't stop throwing up for an entire day.

When I say "We were troopers" on this trip, I really mean:

My wife was a Rockstar.

She drove.

The Rest...

of...

the...

way...

Finally!

We made it to Las Vegas!

I was feeling better...

...so naturally I had to partake from a World-Famous Las Vegas all-you-can-eat buffet.

(THAT WAS NOT SMART gif.)

I had a terrible relapse.

Oh well.

We slept in the city of lights for just one night.

The rest of the trip was just long but fairly uneventful.

After a few days...

We had made it.

Warm air.

Beaches.

Oceans.

Beauty—

all within a half-hour drive.

That road trip became our honeymoon. I always hoped I'd take her on a real honeymoon someday—somewhere with no responsibilities.

No things to do.

No heavy emotions of leaving what once was.

Something that never really made it to its fruition.

California was finally outside the windshield.

And my dream?

It was still riding shotgun.

Love You.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

A song about rejecting the timeline everyone says your life is supposed to follow. Sometimes you just need to live your life in a way that others may not understand, and that is okay!

There are certain questions in life that don't simply ask for an answer.

They quietly divide your life into before and after.

For me, it was only five little words:

"Why don't you just leave?"

Not because I hated my job.

I didn't.

I was good at it.

In two years, I had worked my way into management at a logistics company and spent a total of nearly ten years there.

From the outside, everything looked responsible.

Steady paycheck.
Benefits.
A career.

From the inside...

It looked a little different.

Night shift.
Twelve-hour days.
Gray walls.
No windows.

The astronomical heat of the summer days would get closed in by the large loading dock doors.

This was before the days of the Fitbit and Apple Watch. I have absolutely no idea how many steps I put in. However many it took to walk up and down the 281,000-square-foot building over and over again.

My work badge didn't even have my name on it.

It had a number.

#53264.

It wasn't an overtly cruel place. It felt more like the dull pain of tired feet and time that slipped away so inconspicuously.

Being in this building slowly convinced me that surviving was the same thing as living.

For a long time, I believed it.

Then I met a woman who asked different kinds of questions.

My wife had chosen a very different path.

She worked in social work, helping individuals with disabilities find subsidized housing.

The work mattered deeply.

The pay... well, that wasn't quite there.

Every morning she'd wake up before sunrise to prepare for the day.

She'd spend hours driving from appointment to appointment, helping people who were struggling navigate systems that rarely seemed designed to help them.

Then she'd come home to do hours more of work after work to reiterate the fact that she was indeed at work working.

I've often thought it strange that some of the people who dedicate their lives to helping "the least of these" end up needing help themselves just to keep doing it.

It's a strange economy.

One evening, in a quiet moment, she looked at me, shifted her concern toward me, and asked,

"Are you happy?"

I don't remember exactly what I said.

But I remember what I didn't say.

"No."

Not because I was miserable.

Because I had stopped asking myself the question altogether.

Then she asked something no one had ever asked me before.

"Why don't you just leave?"

In my head I half expected Doc Brown to burst through the wall shouting,

"GREAT SCOTT!"

It sounds almost ridiculous now.

Simple.

Obvious, even.

But when you've spent years believing your responsibility was simply to endure, a question like that doesn't feel simple.

It feels impossible.

Leave?

People like me didn't leave good jobs.

We stayed.

We provided.

We endured.

At least...

that's what I believed.

She believed something different.

She believed I wasn't meant to spend the next thirty years slowly shrinking into a life that no longer fit me.

She believed there might be another version of my life waiting for me...

...if I was willing to risk finding it.

I didn't know it then, but that question changed the direction of my life long before I answered it.

I quit with nothing else lined up except a large pile of savings that had been carefully accumulated for my "safe" version of life.

On my last day, I walked through those security doors for the final time.

When I reached my car, there was a small piece of paper tucked beneath the windshield wiper.

For one brief second, I thought, "Well... I have a thoughtful admirer."

I smiled.

It was my wife.

She had driven there while I was working just to leave me a handwritten note reminding me that she believed in me, that this leap was worth taking, and that we were going to be better than okay.

Everything we owned was packed into a three-year-old Honda Civic.

California was waiting.

But the real journey had already begun.

It began with someone loving me enough to ask a question I had never given myself permission to ask.

I had spent so much time becoming dependable that I forgot I was still allowed to dream.

Love you.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

A song from one of my oldest and most loved bands. This is somewhat of a personal declaration as I move into this next chapter of my life.

“Life is too short for shallow friends.”

I have been a quality-over-quantity guy all of my life, and it is because of that high expectation that the last five years have been so extremely isolating.

I have a quantity problem.

Is it like this for other people?

Can I get an “Uuuhhhh Amen!”?

And yeah, I’m not just talking about the “male loneliness epidemic”...

...or that (hopefully only) once-in-a-lifetime pandemic where we locked ourselves in our houses for months and slowly let close, in-person hangouts slip away from us.

Somehow all of our employers made us come back to work, but our friendships and true social networks never really went back to business as usual.

My best things are often my worst things.

If you are just hearing me say this now, it probably won’t be the last time I write this sentence.

My desire to be authentic.

My desire to really know “you.”

I don’t want to talk about the weather. I don’t want to pretend to care about a game at the bar.

God, don’t tell me about your political identity because that is not who YOU are.

As I find myself in this new path of singleness, I know, for me, I will need to take the long way around: the path that is correct for me, where there are no shortcuts because I know doing that will drastically reduce the quality of my journey.

And sometimes it is so, so painful, but so, so worth it.

So it is in this spirit where I say, knowing full well that some individuals can find lasting relationships online:

Bumble, go fuck yourself.

It was at least fifteen months.

Fifteen months at my job, talking with customers. I mean, I work at a music store. I am literally doing one of the things I was meant to do: marry a musician with the guitar, the pedal, or the amp that would make his or her face smile and their heart emote.

This was going to be easy to get friends.

Nerd out with them for 10 minutes over some gear + join a band = PROFIT.

I have met probably thousands of aspiring students, teachers, and musicians.

And yet so much had felt wrong.

“I have this music written. Can you just play these charts?”

Next.

“I am a CEO of this company and I have a few hundred employees. I am worth at least five million dollars. I need a bass player like you.”

Gross.

“Oh yeah, pedals are stupid. All I need is my Les Paul and my Marshall stack.”

Buh-byeeeee.

“I’m a guitarist, but I play bass too. I mean, it is pretty easy because it has two less strings.”

We’re done here.

Josh was a customer of mine, a kind and wonderfully bearded, soft-spoken guy.

Our friendship started from me selling him sets of D’Addario flatwound guitar strings. One day, six months later, after several small but meaningful microtransactions, he said, “Yeah, you know we recently had a little change-up in our band. We had someone playing saxophone and a bass player, and they left.”

Wait a minute, I play bass

“It’s kind of a post-rock instrumental band. Our guitarist has a lot of pedals. You have a lot of pedals? That is awesome!”

omg omg omg omg he didn’t ask why a bass player needs pedals

“Well, hey, we are getting together to play some music on Sunday, and you are welcome to come by. If things end up working out, that is great. If it ends up not being a good fit, no big deal at all!”

Four days later, Sunday, March 9, 2025, I went into the basement of a cute little house close to the Capitol, decorated with intention and a little touch of Bauhaus... my bass strapped to my back, a 2x10 bass cabinet in one hand, and a pedalboard bag of pedals, not assembled and Velcroed to a cold sheet of aluminum, but rather loosely wrapped in towels.

I was timid.

I was not assembled.

I was wrapped loosely in towels, hoping this patchwork of guys could amount to something.

I didn’t know what I would need. I didn’t know what would be accepted. I didn’t know if I would be accepted.

I sloppily wired three pedals together. This was essentially the first date. I couldn’t be overzealous.

I plugged in.

They started playing. I joined. I immediately stopped worrying. I stopped thinking. Eight minutes later, I came out of the musically induced daze.

Josh said, “That was really cool. Hey, could you turn up?”

They want more bass? Haha. This is a new phenomenon I am not quite accustomed to.

I could feel my confidence growing. Every song we would play, I could see Josh (our drummer) and Johnny (our guitarist, adorned with a long silver wizard beard) look out.

While it was unsaid—because we were still playing—I could hear:

“This is good. This is really good!”

If a beat dropped or a note merely misplaced, the other two would swoop around the other one to make the musical context feel intentional.

I have been in bands where, when you played a wrong note, the band literally stopped and called you out for it.

They were my allies.

We wrapped up and started putting everything away. I thought to myself, “This felt successful and worthy of continuing.”

Josh asked us to come upstairs so we could have some dinner.

...Wait, I just got to jam for a couple hours, and now there is dinner? This is like no band I have been a part of.

I went upstairs and met Josh’s wife, Misha, to this day one of the sweetest, most encouraging souls and finest cooks I have met in this slice of the Midwest. She insists that the music we make is beautiful. The shaking rafters of her house exude life when we play.

I believe her.

Fringe benefit of being in this band: our #1 groupie shows up to all of our practices. Bodhi runs a tight ship and makes sure that we take our union-mandated smoke breaks.

What started out as then has now turned into now.

One year and four months of almost weekly band practices and “family dinners”—the most consistency I have experienced from any band ever.

Except for last week. We were slackers. We blew off practice last week.

Boys trip! Exploring the best music shops of the greater Milwaukee area.

We hit the usual: a Guitar Center. Nothing to see here.

We hit Cream City Music, an absolutely beautiful, high-end music store that holds a special place in my heart, a place where I was reunited with a very similar bass to one I had naïvely let go of nearly 23 years ago. A story for another day, I suppose.

Lastly, we hit a Music Go Round. I thought these were all out of business! We had one near my hometown over 25 years ago, and the doors shut shortly thereafter.

But what a beautiful premise for a music store! All pre-owned instruments. That is really where the magic and mystery happen.

There is something about a bunch of instruments that have seen history, seen some battle scars, and have had strings vibrating on and through them for years.

The wood opens up.

The notes fly off the fretboard.

Like pungent sips of wine of a certain vintage.

Unmistakable.

The store was surprisingly large and well-stocked.

I took it all in, my inner child lighting up as it does when I am in a place like this—saving the bass section for last. There were some cool pieces, but nothing I would say could better accomplish what my current stable is capable of.

I was ready to walk off, find the guys, and implore them for my fourth cup of coffee that day before we made the trek home.

BUT WAIT!

There was a dude.

He was turned away from me. He was holding a bass, a beastly large yet perfectly voluptuous thing.

The neck was dark like chocolate or coffee or beer... really, just insert your own tasty dark-colored confection here.

This was familiar, a similar build to another instrument I owned eons ago.

Ever heard of Wenge? (Pronounced “WENG-gay” or “WHEN-jee.”)

This wood is native to regions of Central and Equatorial Africa.

On the headstock, a tiny little “W” inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

That stands for Warwick, a German bass guitar manufacturer. Started in the ’80s. Made popular in the ’90s and ’00s by some of my favorite bands and deepest influences: Dirk Lance of Incubus, Aaron “P-Nut” Wills of 311, and Stuart Zender of Jamiroquai.

Dean Dinning.

Toad the Wet Sprocket.

My longest-running soul connection.

But distribution slowly dried up. Warwick went from having a completely dedicated bass wall in each Guitar Center to being almost nonexistent here in the U.S.

--So I stalked him. He kept playing. The throaty and aggressive voice pierced my soul. So did each one of the forty-five minutes he played it. I kept grabbing instruments near him and making some small talk.

In between musical passages, he would stop, flip over the massive six-stringed instrument, taking in all of the lines, looking at the headstock, perhaps shocked by the gold gleam of the tuners, which were stamped with “WEST GERMANY.”

Letting out a soft sigh.

You know the one.

“I must have this, but I literally don’t know how to make this all work.”

I had to put out some feelers.

Finally, I just had to know.

“WOW MAN. THAT THING SOUNDS GREAT. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? ARE YOU GOING TO TAKE IT HOME?”

“Man, I wish. It is wonderful, but I don’t think I can make it work. Do you want to play it?”

Nonchalantly I said, “Sure, I will give it a try.”

I will spare you my feelings after picking it up because, oddly, they mirrored his own.

Soft sigh.

I put it back in the super-hidden spot he found it, we got my fourth coffee, and I went home.

114 hours later, I had 20% of my pedal collection listed online and enough profits realized to make this a reality.

This time I drove back to Greenfield, Wisconsin, by myself... blasting and singing Toad the Wet Sprocket’s entire discography at the top of my lungs.

Toad’s fourth studio album, *Dulcinea*, was once a close mainstay of road trips during my marriage and in my Top 3 most listened to albums. I just needed this music to be mine again.

Along the way, I stopped at this brightly lit Yemeni coffee shop, Matari Coffee Co.

I felt in perfect alignment with the barista. Joy overflowed from us both, laughing with him, asking him about the business and how long they had been going.

Twice he brought out samples of juice, and a taster of another one of their coffees.

Each time I felt connectedness.

I cannot wait for the continued adventures, savory meals, and tasty yet stanky... sweet yet raucous... planned yet improvised hours of music we will have.

An EP is forthcoming. We will be going to the studio soon.

It is time for us to leave the basement.

It is time for us to shine.

I am thankful for this mini cohort of absolutely beautiful people and one spunky dog.

These men have been my guys. For something that started out so casual, they have seen me through some of the darkest times of my most recent life. They have loved me and fed me.

I have never had a problem attracting high-quality people.

I would argue that all of you here with me now fit that exact description.

While I don’t think I could ever turn down more friends, adding their own richness and complexity to my already blessed life, I really feel like I have gained a few more.

Oh yeah, I am not looking for a band right now. You have no idea how happy that makes my heart!

But if I did need one, you know I would have to lead with this:

“I’m a bassist, but I play guitar too. I mean, it is pretty easy because it has the same amount of strings.”

Love you.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

A song from one of my dad’s favorite films, O Brother, Where Art Thou? It captures the optimism and desire to bring light to others that I recognize in him—and also in myself.

I kind of feel like I am in a funk today.

For so many reasons.

Good reasons and bad reasons. Deep reasons and silly reasons.

Being miles away from those you love kind of reasons.

This feels like a seven-month season that has somehow lasted a decade.

Today, I huffed and hauled a solid wood bedframe by myself up a flight of stairs as I slowly reclaim my apartment. This process is happening one painful piece at a time.

Little squeaky Styrofoam bits floating across the room.

My mortal enemy.

I'm happy to report that I didn't pull a hammy over it.

But no, no—that wasn't it.

Least among all these reasons:

I just spent an hour and a half scouring gigabytes upon gigabytes of photos on my phone and diving deep into everyone's favorite Zuckerberg-owned cloud.

I was looking for something specific.

Me with someone specific.

I found a snapshot of that one recipe I made that one time. It only tasted okay.

I found a picture of the one time I met that dude at that thing.

I found a photo someone took of me at that place because I was in a band and we played on that stage where I got electrocuted every time I touched the microphone and ten people showed up.

At least we got thirty dollars and free beer.

I am ashamed to say I failed.

I couldn't find one current photo of me with the man I love most in this world.

(I didn't find a recent photo of us together, so instead I will post my favorite picture of two of the most beautiful humans I know)

It wasn't always this way.

I think many men experience this with their fathers. The great deepening of the relationship doesn't happen until much later.

I know my dad did with his dad.

With a lack of maturity and perhaps no lack of hubris, your dad starts out for you being a provider, a protector, and sometimes... just sometimes... when your ass is in need of a good kicking (metaphorically speaking) or a drastic course correction... a disciplinarian.

Maybe that's where the relationship plateaus for a while?

For me, one day in my thirties, something shifted.

I woke up and realized:

"Oh my gosh, this man has in him the heart of God."

Not fury.

Not anger.

Not certainty.

But compassion.

And grace.

He has always wanted what was best for me and has sacrificed more than I will ever fully understand to help me get there.

I'm in a season of life where I don't even know where "there" is but I am trying to rest knowing I am right where I am supposed to be.

All I know is that I want to be as close to him as I can be for as long as I can.

It is a true underdog story.

Minnesota baby turns into adventurous Iowa kid.

Adventurous Iowa kid turns into troubled Illinois teenager.

Troubled Illinois teenager falls in love with a sweet girl.

They have a baby when some would say they were just babies.

Health problems ensue, financial destruction explodes, a second baby is made, this time a beautiful baby girl.

Career changes bounce.

Businesses owned and lost and owned.

Eventually, a calling found.

Today, he pastors one of the healthiest, most inclusive, and most unique Christian churches I have ever encountered in the Midwest.

I've seen a lot as a pastor's kid.

Especially as the child of a pastor who started a church with little more than a vision, twelve or thirteen people in a room with some snacks, a few hundred paper flyers, and an elementary school rented week to week.

I can still picture the janitor standing in the hallway, shaking her keys when it was time for us to leave.

I've watched him build something from almost nothing. Multiple times.

He is literally a man who can do it all.

Make a pizza. Remodel a kitchen. Bake donuts. Build a she-shed. Smoke a brisket. Cut hair professionally.

And, when you need it most, simply lend you his ear.

I have seen him grow from a man who started out knowing everything to a man who looked inward and outward and decided there were good questions worth asking about how and who we love when we say that we love everyone.

Questions about people.

Questions about faith.

Questions about what it really means to love our neighbors.

I've seen his motives questioned.

I've seen his heart questioned.

I've heard of people telling him not to speak about injustices happening in our own community.

You've heard the saying:

"Shoot first. Ask questions later."

The expression developed from "Wild West" narratives of the late nineteenth century and was associated with people who responded to perceived threats with immediate force rather than with deliberation.

As an aside, I can picture my dad as a young boy in Fairfield, Iowa, walking the train tracks with his friends and probably a BB gun, inspired by his favorite TV shows, shooting at whatever wouldn't get them into trouble.

In the 1970s, he gave up the BB gun and got into trouble.

In the 1980s, he gave up trouble, found Jesus, and, ironically, found a new weapon: his Bible.

In the 1990s, another journey began.

He didn't abandon the Bible.

He simply discovered that it could be read through a wider lens.

One that included not only Scripture, but also the human heart.

I don't know if he would describe it this way, but this is how I've come to understand his life:

Love first. Ask questions later.

Not because questions aren't important.

Not because truth isn't important.

But because people are.

I have inherited many good things from my father.

A love of good food.

A head of hair and beard that will probably be completely silver before I turn fifty.

A perfectly timed movie quote.

Every year on my birthday, Dad quotes from the beloved film “City Slickers.”

“Hello, boy. Happy birthday. I'm losing feeling in my left leg. Here's your mother."

I don't know what God will say to me when I reach heaven, but the God I believe in has a big, open heart.

I believe when I arrive, He will say, "Luke, you are my favorite."

I believe when you arrive, He will say, "___________, you are my favorite."

And I believe that while there may be a couple of less-than-flattering things we discuss about different times in my life, what I hope is that He will NOT say that I loved too little, excluded too many people from love because of "___________," or chose judgment over shining light.

--That I over-deliberated over love.

Pops put a lot of good into me, like his father before him.

"Love first, ask questions later."

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY to the best man I know.

Now, if you can, go take a photo with your dad!

Love You.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

I had never heard this song before, but it feels like a celebration of being brought into the world already loved and protected.

I had a decision to make today, on this Sunday — Mother’s Day 2026 — one that weighed heavily on my heart. I couldn’t decide what to call this piece…or chronicle, if you will. Writing about the person you have literally been connected to most in this life is no small feat.

On the one hand, I could go with Option 1: lead you in with a soft title, not jarring in the least, and not really indicative of the pure joy this person has brought into my life.

Option 2: let’s just go straight-up clickbait.

“My Mom Will Beat You Up”

(The first person who ever stood between me and everything that could’ve broken me)

In a quest to fully represent the woman my mom Linda is — and explain how fierceness and sweetness can peacefully coexist — I think we have time to talk about both today, so let’s do that.

Last time we started with thing two and worked backward to thing one, so this time: first things first.

The upgrade, as defined in a small cottage in a Midwestern town, is adding that extra 5% to whatever you are creating — the thing that makes the exponential leap in quality and pushes your experience from “meh” to “yeaah!”

In the most practical sense, it presents itself like this:

I’m not going to skate around this.

My mom is the self-proclaimed “Soup Goddess.” That may sound a little pretentious at first, but it is objectively true. I feel like I remember her saying it the first time she really dialed in a soup she made, with a sort of cute confidence and a half-smirk.

But everyone quickly realized, after one bowl and then a second, that this truly was the truth.

But why?!?!

Why does this stockpot of deliciousness make Zoup and Panera tremble?

They don’t put in the upgrades!

That cheese? Oh yes, this cheese is aged.

Yes, that is cardamom.

Is that just a hint of soap you taste? Well, that is fresh cilantro!

This love — this desire to make things just that much better — extends so much further than soup.

The time spent making my sister Joanna and me feel loved and cherished.

The perfectly decorated and hand-curated pieces of our house that somehow made it feel warm and inviting all at once.

The candles, the wreaths, the throw pillows — each one a little piece of her.

We have a running joke while eating dinner:

“I see three plates here. What food should I put on this one?”

The details matter.

And we are all her details.

It did not come without cost.

Almost her life and mine.

I was a couple of months premature, and with that came severe risks to both of us, along with the possibility of complete financial ruin for my parents.

I never really felt that part during childhood. Only now — all grown up — do I understand the weight they carried regularly but rarely alluded to.

They fought, and still fight, so hard for me.

Sometimes I can only imagine the helplessness they must have felt at different moments. Understanding now just how deeply they have loved me…geez. Sometimes it breaks my brain a little.

Wow, that was gushy.

Can we talk for a minute about how badass she is?

Will she beat you up?

No.

I have a confession to make.

That was clickbait.

But my, she has gotten me out of some jams.

Some of my health problems and restrictions followed me throughout childhood. Overall, I am thankful. I know it could have been so much worse.

But when you are going to school, seemingly small things can feel like really big things.

Due to some surgeries I had when I was younger, I could not do contact sports.

This included wrestling.

Not something I was particularly excited to do, but gym class exists primarily to traumatize you and give you and your future therapist a few conversation starters years down the line.

Come to think of it, about 80% of the trauma in my life probably occurred in junior high. I suppose that is not so dissimilar from most other people’s experiences.

All of the boys had to wrestle in junior high.

All of the girls did not.

Well, I couldn’t, so they put me with the girls.

I should have been more confident and really capitalized on the situation, but I was not there emotionally. I mean, spending 45 minutes in a room with 30 girls and no competition?

Probably won’t get that chance again.

Either way, I was terrified, and all of the boys made sure I felt it.

The short version is: I told my mom, and the next day the situation had magically resolved itself. I think they had me helping on the sidelines or something to fill the time in my class.

I can’t really confirm or deny what happened in that gym teacher’s office that day.

All I know is that I felt seen.

She always sees me.

She knows me.

My heart. The things that bring me joy. My struggles. My longings unfulfilled.

She has been here for all of it.

Love You.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

A gentle reminder that she showed up when I desperately needed it.

I guess before we go any further, I’d like to clear up two things about this long-term collection of stories, thoughts, and experiences.

1. She is not my enemy.

2. I really do not want to spend all of this time with you, in written word, talking about divorce.

Let’s start with number two and work backwards.

That is my mission statement, and I’m sticking to it.

I have a goal to actually get past this divorce—not stew in it. This period is merely the springboard from which other good things will happen.

Not for it to become my “thing” or my niche.

Not to offer an AI-powered divorce self-help machine of “78 things you need to understand in order to move on with your life after divorce” or “19½ reasons she never actually loved you anyway.”

The truth is, she did love me.

The truth is, I believe she still loves me.

The truth is: I still love her, deeply.

This could be easy for me—to gradually earn your trust over time and let you feel a sense of justice on my behalf for the struggles I’ve gone through. And in that, it could be easy to paint her in a certain light.

Sometimes we, as readers, do that automatically when we invest five minutes into someone else’s life.

But as we move forward—with everything else we’re going to talk about in the coming months (or maybe years)—I need to define who she is, so that when you hear me talk about her in passing, you don’t picture darkness.

You don’t picture:

Nagging. Manipulative. Foolish. Self-centered. Reckless.

A Stage IV Karen.

I want you to picture beauty, compassion, and a developed sense of worldly justice.

And yes, struggles with past trauma and health.

But then—extreme resilience.

I don’t know anyone who has worked harder. I would routinely tell her that if anyone else had her life—if they had to face what she faced—they would crumble under the weight.

She was my love, my wifey, my Sweetiekins Superpie, my hero.

She is still my hero.

And she believed in me, that was enough for me.

I had known her for a little while, but only in passing. My parents had actually developed a friendship with her before we really spent time together. Eventually, we started playing music together in the band at church.

I think she was interested in me—but wasn’t sure how to hook me.

One Sunday morning she looked at all the pedals I was using to create different sounds and textures on my bass guitar and asked if I could show her how to use them on her keyboard.

Checkmate.

I see what you did there—using my nerd-dom against me! Well done!

It didn’t take long for me to realize she would be my wife.

She practically told me she loved me on the first date.

I know for some people, that might have been the end of the date—and well, the end. All-in, too fast. We tend to throw that label around easily.

But I believe she actually did.

And it was exactly what I needed at the time.

I had a lot of unresolved feelings from past rejections and relationships. I wasn’t in a place where I could be the pursuer.

We didn’t have to play games. It was simple. Sweet. Almost childlike.

“I like you. Be my friend?”

And she did so much to look out for my well-being.

She asked me so many times if I was happy—and pushed me to figure out what I could do to get there.

Sadly, I think I’ve spent most of my life lost in some mix of a vague sense of purpose and deep fear.

Point you toward a real direction, it does not.

(Read about this in my last post)

She took the biggest chance on me when we moved to Wisconsin.

Sometimes, no matter the amount of preparation, effort, 70-hour work weeks, and best intentions—you still fail.

I did.

And I didn’t fail well.

I was the most driven I had ever been—for me, for us.

We had potential to unbury ourselves. To feel some financial relief. To get emotionally and physically healthy.

To lift ourselves up so we could be strong enough to lift others.

Maybe we’d get a dog. Okay—maybe two dogs.

A boy and a girl. Bernese Mountain Dogs.

We’d name them ColBear and Evie—an ode to our favorite late-night host and his incredibly sweet wife.

When we moved here, she found her life.

I lost mine.

This will be hard. This absence in my life has crushed me every day for four months.

The worst is right before bed.

• And when I wake up.

• And when I’m at work.

• And when I’m taking the store’s garbage outside to the dumpster.

• And when I’m driving home.

• And when I walk into an empty apartment.

• And when I cook for one.

And when I make coffee for one.

When I realize she won’t be here with me again—so we can navigate life together.

Have you ever seen those interviews where actors talk about how they draw on real-life experiences to convincingly emote on screen?

I feel like I now possess that kind of raw, weighted energy.

Maybe I should look into acting.

Anybody know a good agent?

Maybe I could land a role on Law & Order as:

“Uninformed Officer #3”

“Guy in Alley”

Or heck—let’s aim high:

“Coffee Shop Owner.”

“I didn’t get a good look at his face… but I did think it was odd when he ordered his coffee with a splash of alpaca milk and two sugar cubes.”

Nailed it.

At different times in our lives—when things weren’t going well—we would hold each other, look into each other’s eyes, and say:

“It’s going to be better than just okay.”

And it will.

I just didn’t know that truth would exist in a life apart.

Love you.

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I’m just happy you’re here.

A sweet reminder that the people and simple things we love are often what quietly fill our lives back up when we’re running on “E.”

My cup is not full.

Life has made me empty.

My dreams were all but certain, and now I don’t know where they’ve gone—gone away, I guess.

Could I even spot them if I looked hard enough?

The universe really likes to force innovation when we’re comfortable living the existence set before us, but not fully living out the mission of who we actually are.

I diverted from my path to what I thought was right—things that were truly good: being a loyal husband, a friend, a son, a brother, an uncle, an employee who never complained. A nice guy. Unassuming. Non-confrontational.

Secretly complacent.

I put all of my eggs in this husband basket, and sometimes they were really Grade A—pasture-raised, certified organic, laid by chickens supplemented with free-choice oyster shell for calcium… chickens who, frankly, gave a damn.

Sometimes, though, they would slosh and float. Sometimes they would not pass the sniff test. They’d lead to the furnace like Veruca on a scale.

Ultimately, this was our sum of two imperfect people coming together, and we were not strong enough together. I was not strong enough on my own.

I’ve been doing a lot of reading and listening to stories of other divorced men. If you had told me a year or two ago that these are the videos I’d be binging on YouTube—hanging on to every word—I’m not sure I would’ve believed you. I would probably still be floating upon a pile of guitar pedal and gear review playlists.

Most of these videos are about surviving the present, getting through to the other side, and—if you’re lucky—arriving at a place of contemplative singleness. Not necessarily excluding women forever, but becoming so whole that whoever is next can’t help but be drawn into the ecosystem you’ve created for yourself.

I can’t diagnose all the tiny nuances of where this went downhill anymore. I’ve had four months for that. All I can do now is apologize to her—from the deepest part of me—for the role I played in all of this, and reclaim myself in the process.

Reclaim myself like 2005 Luke.

You know the one:

“Leather jacket, white T-shirt, sweater vest. Devastatingly handsome.”

—Really just me with spiky hair and too much reverence for sugar and alcohol—

Strike that. Reverse it.

I meant 2007 Luke. Joined a Globo Gym. Walked 10,000 steps a day. Started watching his carbs. And, for some reason, took to heart his namesake—the writer of the Third Gospel and Acts.

In some sense, I had the most spiritually relevant experience I’ve ever had—in the bluntest way possible and not in the way you might think.

No angels, no deep Godly voice. I didn’t shake and lurch all over the church floor.

“You will do great things. You will be light to so, so many people around you.”

Boom. Puff of smoke. That was it.

Even now, when I ask for direct, God-to-consumer confirmation—nothing. I’ve even asked for reprimand for the ways I’ve gone off track. Anything to get attention from a puissant parent I haven’t heard from in a while.

“SMITE ME, ALMIGHTY SMITER!”

Nothing.

At least He hasn’t decided to smite me. Maybe the opposite. Maybe He’s smitten with me.

Maybe I’m exactly where I need to be. Maybe I am who I need to be right now. Maybe I am who I always was.

2007 Luke.

If the last two years have taught me anything, it’s that I have no idea what the way forward is—nor what the future holds.

All that’s left is to continue being the best version of my most authentic self. I’ll smile at you even if you don’t smile back. I’ll hold the door open for you—even if it’s 2026 and men and women can hold their own damn doors. I’ll tell you you’re beautiful, even if you’re flawed—because you are. We are.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to explain an experience like the one 2007 Luke had. What I keep coming back to feels a little silly—but, for me, deeply profound.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the show Sex Education. If you can get past the sometimes comical and awkward sexual escapades of teenagers trying to figure out the wild balance of love, sex, and identity, there’s some deep, soul-searching material there.

It follows Otis, whose mum, Jean, is a sex therapist. Otis decides to follow in her footsteps and starts a clinic at school to help students with their…errr....problems. His best friend, Eric, spends much of his time wrestling with his deep devotion to his church and his identity as a gay Black man. The two clash in the most compelling way.

Anyway, I’ll keep things vague so I don’t spoil it. Maybe the punch won’t land the same—but if you value how uniquely different we all are, and how everyone deserves healing, redemption, and love, it’s worth your time.

I’ll leave you with this—a moment from Eric’s close encounter from the final episode:

“You will change hearts and minds and let everyone know that I love them for who they are.

This will be your calling.

It will be your life’s work.

I made you this bright so that others would see in the darkness.”

Boom. Puff of smoke. That was it.

Now I just have to go out and do it.

No more waiting.

Love you.

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Light can’t be hidden behind a paywall.

There’s also a paid option if you’d like to support Luke’s Coffee Chronicles and help me keep writing it.

I’m just happy you’re here.

A map of participating coffee shops throughout Wisconsin, each offering a buy-one-get-one-free coupon.

Two coffees for the price of one.

Darn good excuse to go exploring together.

On Sundays it became our thing.

We never finished the map.

“Luke’s Coffee Chronicles” was created by my sweet wife because she saw the passion and joy that flowed through me every time we walked into a new little spot.

It started as a way to document the places we visited together.

Through time and heartache, it has become a way for me to document the places in this life I am going alone.

This feels a little melancholy—being in this new life space, a space once joyfully occupied with another. I imagine this won’t be the only time I feel off-kilter.

Coffee is close to my heart—the relationships and the beautiful conversations. The bean may be a drug, but for me, it is all of you to whom I am truly addicted. Is there anything better than having coffee with those you love?

So today, here I am. I went to Appleton, WI, for work for a couple of days. I was supposed to come up to train someone, but they quit before I got there. I ended up helping the store out anyway.

I tried to scope out the scene and found myself going to three little shops.

This city’s coffee shops close down in waves: 1 p.m., 3 p.m., 5 p.m. If you want coffee after five o’clock, you’d better get a Keurig!

My hotel room sat three floors above a Starbucks.

Dark. Shucks. Foiled again.

Over the next couple days, I went to il Bar Coffeehouse, Commodore Cafe, and Brewed Awakenings. I feel like I always change up my strategy. It’s hard when you’re only going to a place once for coffee. How do I figure out if they’re any good?

On the one hand, if you get a whole milk latte and the espresso punches through—unlike the competition’s thick-but-bland counterparts—you may just have a winner.

But what about when you want to be a purist? Espresso plus water? Espresso minus the water? Just chew on some frickin’ coffee fruit?

My early-afternoon jam has been the espresso-forward cortado—an almost perfect ratio of milk to coffee and coffee to milk. I say “early afternoon” as if I were an “adult” who respects the half-life of caffeine and stops drinking it after 2 p.m.

Let’s be honest. I do not.

And so it was: my solo quest to find some good coffee in Appleton, WI.

This new place feels different—sometimes scary, sometimes lonely.

Walking alone in a city, with everything stripped back and no distractions, I realized there was no one there to love me. And no one for me to love back.

Maybe that was because of what I had contributed to the end of our relationship.

I am hard on myself—the ways I have failed, the things I could have controlled. What the heck? Even the things I can’t control seem fair game.

More often than not, I can find it in myself to dole out grace—grace to my neighbors and grace to some strangers.

Sometimes to the detriment of myself. Like Milton passing out cake.

And so today, at a round café table, party of one, I’m trying to finish where I began.

“Is there anything better than having coffee with those you love?”

Love You.

A Note About the Soundtrack

This is not something I was intending. It just kind of...happened.

As I think about all of the stories inside me, they are definitely defined with music wrapped around them.

Thusly...

There is now an official Luke’s Coffee Chronicles Soundtrack on Spotify! 🎵☕

🎧 Track 1 “The Only Living Boy in New York” — Simon & Garfunkel

This song gives me a sense of hopeful wandering. It also happens to come from one of my favorite films, Garden State. “So there’s that. I guess I have that.