“If you could erase one memory, what would it be?”
We all have memories that sting. Failures. Regrets. Accidents. Loss. Moments we wish had gone differently. It’s easy to imagine how much lighter life might feel if certain days had never happened.
I wouldn’t erase any of them.
Every memory, good and bad, shapes who I am today. The hard ones give me resilience, humility, and perspective. The joyful ones give me hope and fuel. Together, they’ve woven the story that brought me to this moment.
If I erased regret, I’d lose the lessons.
If I erased pain, I’d lose the growth.
If I erased loss, I’d lose the clarity it gave me about the value of life and love.
I carry each memory with gratitude. Gratitude that even the hardest chapters are part of a larger story. Gratitude that none of it was wasted.
Gratitude that grace has been big enough to redeem even the parts I once wished to forget.
Photo by Jason Thompson on Unsplash – because grace brings life out of the hardest places.
Are the stars just as bright from above as they are down here?
Do you get to see the ones you love? Your parents, your brothers and sisters, your old neighbors, that one special friend who always made you laugh?
Is there coffee in Heaven? Is it better than your favorite blend on a cold desert morning?
Do you remember everything now? Things once forgotten.
And now that you know, what do you know?
Do you hear us when we talk about you? When we laugh at your stories and try to retell them just right?
Do you miss us, or does love work differently there?
Can you see how much we love you still?
Are you proud of the life we’re trying to live?
Do you see how we carry your lessons forward, quietly passing your wisdom down, one small act at a time.
I wonder if you recognize your love moving through our family in the lives your grandkids and great-grandkids are creating.
And I was just wondering…
When it’s my time, when I finally get to see what you see, will you be waiting for me with open arms, and smiles, and one of your special meals that feels so much like home?
At kilometer 32 just south of San Felipe, where warm breezes wandered, and stars blanketed the sky — more stars than anywhere I’ve ever been.
Off-road racing brought us there, wide sandy beaches just a short walk away, bathtub-warm waters stretching out forever, the tides carving their quiet stories in the sand.
Under their shady palapa, watching the sun rise and fall on the horizon, Mom and Dad built their place from scratch, one humble project at a time. It was luxury camping at its very best.
Their place was just across the arroyo from the beach, where Dad taught Julianne to drive a stick shift on the wide-open sand.
How I long to beam back there. To see them again.
To hear their voices busy with new plans, to see what they’ve been working on, to sit with them in the shade at cocktail hour, chips, salsa, and all the shrimp we could eat, as the afternoon melts softly into evening.
I’d love to hear who’s come to visit lately.
Both are gone now, but the memories remain. Their laughter rides the breeze, as fresh as the salty air, that still stirs in my heart.
Backstory: A Campo Sahuaro Adventure
When Mom and Dad bought their lot around 1988, it was nothing more than a small concrete slab and four stakes marking the corners of their sandy “oasis.” What made this campo special was its access to a fresh water well…rare in that part of Baja.
Their lot sat on a bluff overlooking an arroyo, with the Sea of Cortez just beyond the sandy beach. In Mexico, buying a lot like this meant purchasing a long-term lease from the property owner. As long as you pay the annual lease (which was under $1,000 per year) you control the land. Anything they built on it was theirs.
Because Mexico has nationalized property in the past, many Americans build semi-permanent structures that can be dismantled and hauled away if needed. That kind of caution remains, even though nothing like that has happened in a very long time.
Being a concrete guy, Dad’s priority was pouring a lot of concrete. He laid down a huge patio that would become the base for everything else, including one of the largest shade structures I’ve ever seen. It didn’t happen overnight. This was a multi-trip (multi-year) endeavor, often coinciding with supporting Team Honda’s off-road racing efforts. They’d haul supplies and tools down along with pit equipment. In the early ’90s, sourcing building materials in Baja was still hit or miss so they brought most of what they needed with them.
By around 1991, Dad was ready to build a workshop. It would be like a shipping container, made of wood, with big swing-down doors on each end that doubled as ramps. He welded little leveling stands to the top of each door so they could serve as sleeping platforms when opened. I slept on those doors under the stars every chance I got.
As with everything at Campo Sahuaro, there’s a story behind that build.
We were down there pitting for Team Honda, which meant several fellow pit crew members were staying at my parents’ place. At that point, it was mostly a shaded patio and a small pump room. Many of the guys were carpenters, so they brought their tools and were ready to build.
Dad’s motorhome was packed. The center aisle was filled with 2x4s, stacked at least five feet high. Getting around inside was nearly impossible. Behind the motorhome, he towed a converted motorcycle trailer that he’d built at least ten years earlier. It was loaded with a perfectly stacked cube of 4×8 plywood sheets. The walls of the future workshop.
I happened to be traveling with them on that trip, ready to help with both pitting and construction. About 50 miles from the campo, we heard a loud crash and scraping noise. We were driving across a dry lakebed, the road raised 15–20 feet above the flat terrain. I looked out just in time to see the trailer tumbling down the embankment.
Dad got the motorhome stopped, and we rushed out to assess the damage. The trailer tongue had sheared clean off under the weight of the plywood. Thankfully, it hadn’t failed earlier, during high-traffic sections of our trip. The trailer was upside down in the lakebed, still lashed to its cargo. That cube of plywood was completely intact.
Within minutes, two vans carrying some of our crew pulled up behind us. We counted heads — at least ten of us, including a few high school football players. It wouldn’t take long to relocate all that wood.
A chain gang formed. We passed sheet after sheet of plywood up the embankment and loaded it onto the vans, lashing them down with tie-downs and ropes we’d salvaged from the trailer. We even hauled the trailer carcass back up the hill. At the very least, we figured we’d salvage the tires and axle.
That’s when an old Toyota pickup rolled up. A local man hopped out. I greeted him with my high-school-turned-Baja-race-pit-guy-Spanish. Lots of smiling, gesturing, and broken sentences later, we learned he was a welder and fabricator. He was heading to San Felipe to visit family and watch the race.
He looked over our trailer, nodding thoughtfully. He said he could take the trailer on his truck bed along with the remains of the tongue and hitch. He’d rebuild it and leave the rebuilt trailer at his brother’s restaurant in San Felipe. We asked him how much he’d charge us for that service. His response was $20(!).
I confirmed that his plan was to haul our trailer back to his shop (about 40-50 miles back), rebuild it, and then he’d tow it all the way down to San Felipe for $20. We told him there was no way we’d let him do that for anything less than $200. His eyes got real wide. I don’t think he believed what I was saying. I said that we’d gladly pay him that amount for all that he’d be doing for us.
We loaded the trailer carcass onto his truck bed, shook his hand, and paid him the agreed $200. We wouldn’t be able to see him at the conclusion of the job, so pre-payment was our only option. He turned around with his new load and headed back to his shop.
We mounted up and continued to Campo Sahuaro, wondering if we’d ever see that trailer again.
The Workshop Rises
The race went great. The workshop was built in a day or two with the expert help of our crew. The carpenters led the way and the rest of us did our best to help and stay out of their way. Copious amounts of alcohol were consumed around the campfire, many snacks and excellent meals were eaten, heroic stories (some of them true) were shared with lots of laughter along the way.
On the way home, we stopped at Baja 2000, the restaurant where our mystery welder said he’d leave the repaired trailer. And there it was.
Not only had he fixed it. He’d reinforced it, straightened the bent parts, and welded it all back together better than before.
Legacy
Over the years, I visited Campo Sahuaro many times, sometimes with my wife and daughters. As mentioned earlier, Dad taught my oldest daughter to drive a stick shift truck on the beach in front of their place when she was probably 12 or 13 years old.
I loved knowing the stories behind everything built there. Most of the stories involved improvisation, imagination, and always perseverance. There were a ton of lessons at their property about staying focused and overcoming obstacles in the pursuit of your goals.
I loved sleeping under that blanket of stars, watching satellites traverse the sky (there’s a lot more of them up there nowadays). I loved swimming in the warm ocean. Most of all, I loved being with Mom and Dad, sharing good times and making memories with them at their special place, 32 kilometers south of San Felipe.
p/c – I asked ChatGPT to make an image of a starry night on the beach based on my story. Amazingly, the image it rendered is mostly how I remember it…except for the houses on the front row (Mom and Dad’s place was on the second row), and the dry-docked fishing skiffs that used the campo as their base of operations.
I sit uncomfortably and motionless in the back of the plane. Two hours into our flight. The Credence channel beckons. I nestle into the channel’s first song, and I’m visited by a memory like a warm blanket on a frosty morning.
Someone told me long ago There’s a calm before the storm I know; it’s been comin’ for some time
It was the summer of ’78, or close to it. My dad was proud as he could be of our 19-foot jet ski boat. He couldn’t wait to hit the glassy sunrise waters of Lake Havasu and watch his sons ski. One, then the other.
When it’s over, so they say It’ll rain a sunny day I know; shinin’ down like water
Putting on a single ski binding requires a blend of finesse and strength. At least as much strength as a seventh grader can muster. The secret is to let the ski vest do the heavy lifting and just relax.
I wanna know Have you ever seen the rain?
Moments later, the rope pulls taut, my ski is aligned just right. I’m ready and yell, “Hit it!”
I wanna know Have you ever seen the rain Comin’ down on a sunny day?
All 455 cubic inches of the inboard Oldsmobile engine roar to life. In seconds, the boat and the kid behind it launch out of the water.
There’s a moment, right as you break free of the lake, when all the pulling eases off at once. Water skims effortlessly under the ski.
Thoughts of speed and daring take over. I lean into my first glassy turn. My ski hums a high note as my grip tightens against the pull of the rope.
Yesterday and days before Sun is cold and rain is hard I know; been that way for all my time
It’s a blur of jumps and splashes. Long pulls to the side. Deep, slow turns in the opposite direction. Always a glance back to admire the rooster tail…especially when the sun catches it just right, holding the spray in the air like magic.
No time to admire it too long. Time to hammer the oncoming wake, trying to clear the other side, then do it all again. Pull wide. Pause. Dig in. Turn hard. Admire the rooster tail.
‘Til forever, on it goes Through the circle, fast and slow I know; it can’t stop, I wonder
The song ends, and I’m back where I started. My neighbor taps my shoulder. He needs to get to the bathroom.
We’re on our way to live new stories and make new memories. Life’s adventure continues.
I wanna know Have you ever seen the rain?
But it sure is nice to visit with a cherished memory. Like that friend who we see less than we should…but always pick up our conversation right where we left off.
I wanna know Have you ever seen the rain Comin’ down on a sunny day?
It happens to all of us this time of year. The days get shorter, the winds grow crisper. Something stirs within us that doesn’t quite fit the mold of any other season. There’s joy, sure—joy enough to make us believe in miracles again. But alongside that joy, like the shadows cast by twinkling lights, there’s a touch of sorrow. Like an old friend who shows up every December, pulls up a chair, and says nothing at all.
Words that lie dormant eleven months out of the year come alive at Christmas time. Jingle Bells. Rudolph. Good tidings. Noel. The Manger. Words so beautiful and strange, yet they create beautiful poetry on our hearts. Sugarplums dancing in dreams. Mulling spices on the stove. Decorations we see only in this season but remember more fondly with each passing year—twinkles of joy at their best, empty reminders at their worst. And somehow, merriment and brightness find their way in, even when the years haven’t always been kind.
If you listen closely, you can hear hymns calling us across the cold and lonely nights:
“O come, O come, Emmanuel”
“Silent Night”
“What Child is This?”
There’s a funny thing about Christmas—it’s a season of paradox. A time for rejoicing, and a time for remembering. For celebrating, and for mourning. All in the same breath.
Every year, the world gathers around a single story. A manger in Bethlehem, where our Savior came as a child. It’s a story that whispers hope into the cracks of our broken hearts.
“Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged!” That’s what the prophet Zephaniah said. “The Lord, your God, is in your midst.” And somehow, two thousand years later, we do believe. We light candles and sing songs of joy—because we need to. Because joy matters.
It’s funny how much effort we put into this season. Trees trimmed. Ornaments hung. Villages built. Wishes made. And when the last batch of cookies or Cornish pasties come out of the oven, we sit at tables crowded with food, and laughter, and the people we love. Sometimes we even catch a glimpse of something eternal in it all—the way the lights reflect off the fancy silverware, or how a child’s eyes light up at the first sight of presents.
But there are empty chairs. They’re harder to discuss. Maybe it’s a father, a mother, a grandparent, or a sister. Maybe it’s a friend, a brother, an aunt or an uncle who have gone far too soon. We feel their absence even more at Christmas. We see them in the lights we hang, and the hot chocolates that we make. We hear them in old songs, the ones we used to sing.
And then there are the faces we miss in another way—our family who are still with us but just too far away. The ones across states, oceans, and time zones. We think of them when we pull out the old family recipes and photo albums. We wish they could be here to see the kids open presents, to share in the laughter over the pies that we burned, or took out too soon. But instead, we send texts and pictures, leave voicemails, and whisper a prayer hoping they know how much they’re loved, even from so far away.
Yet even in sorrow, there’s something beautiful. Because love never really leaves us. And maybe that’s the greatest promise of Christmas—the one hidden behind all the ornaments and stockings, and twinkling lights. That the Child who came to a manger promises us something more. He promises that the story isn’t over. That one day, we’ll all sit at a table that never empties, in a place where joy knows no end.
For now, we celebrate as best we can. We bake our pies and pour our cider. We listen for sleigh bells in the distance and leave room in our hearts for joy to enter—just like it always does.
And when the night gets quiet, and the fire burns low, we remember. We remember the ones we’ve loved, the ones we’ve lost, the ones too far away to join us, and the One who came to bring us home.
That’s Christmas. A little light, a little shadow. A little merry, a little sorrow. A season that changes the very words we speak and, if we let it, changes the very hearts we carry.
So if you’re out there tonight, sipping mulled cider by the window, just know this:
You’re not alone. The Savior is here. He’s in the manger. He’s in the laughter. And He’s in the quiet, too.
And maybe—just maybe—He’s singing over you, as one sings at a festival.
The Bible verse that inspired this post when I heard it in Church last Sunday:
Shout for joy, O daughter Zion! Sing joyfully, O Israel! Be glad and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! The LORD has removed the judgment against you he has turned away your enemies; the King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst, you have no further misfortune to fear. On that day, it shall be said to Jerusalem: Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged! The LORD, your God, is in your midst, a mighty savior; he will rejoice over you with gladness, and renew you in his love, he will sing joyfully because of you, as one sings at festivals.
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.”
– Terry Pratchett, Source: Reaper Man (h/t – James Clear)
Every so often, we’re reminded of our mortality…especially as we get older and face the loss of loved ones, both young and old.
Truly, it’s a matter of time for each of us. Not an if, but a when.
I appreciated seeing this quote today.
It’s a reminder of the enduring mark we leave on others. Far beyond the days we live, we influence the lives we touch, leaving lasting impressions.
A tribute to those we’ve lost and how they continue to be with us. Our memories of them, the lessons they teach us, their legacy of connections. All of it remains and echoes in our conversations, our thoughts, our choices, and even in the way we approach the rest of our life.
We are here only briefly, but we’re each given the opportunity to plant seeds. Seeds that, in time, may bear fruit for others long after we’re gone.
A gentle reminder to make sure that our legacy is a positive one, filled with love, wisdom, and warmth.
So the ripples of our lives continue to inspire and uplift those we leave behind.
As a kid, September marked the end of summer’s glorious freedom and the start of another school year. Truth is, by mid-August, all the kids on my street were getting bored and restless, ready for something new.
My birthday is in September. But because it coincided with back-to-school season, my presents were school clothes. Useful, yes, but hardly the exciting stuff of childhood fantasies. My brother, whose birthday is also in September, was in the same boat—more school clothes. Still, it usually meant two cakes in one month, which always felt like a win.
Fast forward to adulthood. September takes on a new meaning, especially if you own or run a business. It’s the last month of the third quarter—the point where you should have a pretty good idea if your business is on track for the year. Strategic planning for next year is underway — the annual cycle never stops. Little time to pause and reflect. There’s always a new deadline, a new target. September is less about questions and more about answers and execution.
Then life throws in its own strange layers. In 2019, my father passed away on my birthday. A heavy twist of fate that turned my annual day of celebration into something far more complicated. In a strange twist of symmetry, last year, my mom died on my brother’s birthday.
Now, both of our birthdays are marked not just by the passage of time, but by the memories of losing our parents, their passing dates forever linked to our birth dates.
September marks the birth of my oldest son-in-law, my youngest daughter (32 years ago tomorrow), and one of our eight grandchildren (also tomorrow). Lots of celebrating and gift giving…and some ice cream, of course.
All of it adds up to a certain strangeness in September for me—a month of beginnings and of endings. A mix of personal milestones and bittersweet memories.
I’m working on an autobiography of sorts. It’s a compilation of my answers to a series of questions. There are about 75 of them that act as prompts. Here are some examples:
Tell me about your childhood home.
What were your school days like?
What was your favorite fashion trend when you were a kid?
How did you meet your spouse?
The idea is that my kids and grandkids and anyone else who’s interested can learn more about my life as they read through my answers to these questions. It’s been a fun project that I’ve been working on over the past 3-4 months.
I just finished answering this question and thought I’d share my answer here:
Can you share a favorite quote or saying of yours?
Life is a journey, not a destination.
I’m not sure who said this first. It’s something I said for years before learning that it was a famous quote from someone else. Turns out there are posters and artwork that you can buy that highlight this quote. Maybe I saw the quote decades ago and it lived in my subconscious mind until later in life.
I don’t have anything against goal setting or visualizing a future and going after it. But it’s important to avoid having tunnel vision in your pursuit of goal achievement since you may miss other opportunities and experiences that introduce themselves along the way.
I’m reminded of a drawing of a stickperson on a ladder. They are locked in on their goal: reaching the top of that ladder before anyone else. This person even jumps over someone and kicks another person off the ladder in their effort to reach the top first. When this person finally reaches the top, they find that the ladder doesn’t actually lead anywhere. Their ladder is standing in the air and not leaning against anything.
The lesson is to make sure the ladder you’re climbing is going somewhere you really want to go.
When you reach your goal, no matter how lofty and difficult it was to achieve, you are merely at a new starting point or more accurately, you’ve made it to one of an infinite number of stops in your life-long journey.
The real goal should be to maximize your enjoyment of the journey itself. To appreciate the small things that happen, the surprises, the diversions, the successes and the failures, the people you meet, and the places you get to experience along the way.
Life is that thing that happens while you’re busy making other plans.
This one is closely related to the first quote. Life is a series of “nows” that are happening in real-time. You can make plans, point yourself in a particular direction, and even tell yourself that you’re in control of all the things that are happening in your life (spoiler alert – you’re not in control of all the things, you only control your response to all the things).
The time to start something new or something that will improve your life is always six months ago. While you’re busy talking about your future, it’s already happening. That thing you’re thinking about doing today but procrastinating while you do more planning will become that thing you should have done six months ago.
Plans are valuable, and you should have a broad plan with some key pillars that you can stand on throughout your life. It’s equally important to avoid hiding behind the planning phases of your life and forgetting to live your life purposely. It turns out that life’s happening anyway, so you might as well live it proactively and not reactively.
These are the good times.
The shortened version of this among friends is, “Good times.” Meaning these are the good times we’ll look back on fondly when we get older. No matter how screwed up something is, or how hard the thing you’re doing right now is, or how much you just failed… all of it will be lumped into your mind and memory as “good times” from your past.
In fact, some of your worst life experiences or life failures might even become the fondest memories you share in the future. You might reflect on how great something was, or how it was good that you had that failure or that heartbreak so you could apply what you learned later in life.
It’s unfortunate that we usually don’t realize this when these things are happening to us in the present.
“Nothing you love is lost. Not really. Things, people – they always go away, sooner or later.
You can’t hold them any more than you can hold moonlight. But, if they’ve touched you, if they’re inside you, then they’re still yours.
The only things you ever really have are the ones you hold inside your heart.”
– Bruce Coville (h/t James Clear for sharing)
I’m working on a project for my kids and grandkids that has me writing answers to a series of about 75 questions. It’ll be an autobiography of sorts…a collection of memories and stories about life from my perspective.
While answering a question that asked me to describe a typical school day, I eventually got to my life in high school.
I found myself thinking about the first person who I’d known well that died.
Mr. McNally, my freshman pre-algebra and senior year chemistry teacher, was killed by a drunk driver who ran a red light and broadsided his vehicle.
I hadn’t thought about Mr. McNally for many years, but the moment I thought about my time in high school, all the wonderful memories about him came flooding back. I could see his witty smile; the lab coat he always wore in the chemistry lab. I remembered where I sat in the chem lab and the goofy glasses we had to wear when conducting experiments.
His untimely death was devastating news for our school and all of us who knew him. Mr. McNally was loved by his students. He was one of the special teachers in my life. The kind that not only teaches their subjects extremely well but had a profound impact on my growth as a person.
The unfortunate truth about life is that as the years go by, you’ll have to say goodbye to countless special people. Family members. Friends. Teachers.
Some will die, some will move away. In each case, we will lament that it was too soon. Their departure leaves a shadow on our soul where once they belonged.
I think the most powerful part of Coville’s quote is the way it highlights the transience of love and our relationships. We can’t grasp or possess the moonlight, but we can admire it and the feeling it gives us. Similarly, we can’t possess the people or experiences we love. We can only cherish the memories and the impact they’ve had on us, and hope that we were able to return a positive impact to them.
Coville’s quote encourages us to appreciate the moments and connections we have while we have them. Knowing that if they end, the love we shared with them and their significance endures, enriching our lives.
May the memories you have of your loved ones remain with you always, and may those memories be a source of light and inspiration even as your journey continues without them.
I have one favor to ask. If you enjoyed this post, please forward it to others.
I originally wrote this poem eight or nine years ago. It was an exercise in using contrasting words, contrasting rhythms, active and passive voices, sensory symbolism, and a few other style toys that I thought would be fun to try (for a hobbyist writing nerd).
As often happens when I write, the theme I had in mind when I started was quickly overtaken by other ideas. The words and symbolism began pointing the way. A new theme slowly emerged.
Then, just as I was gaining momentum, some shiny objects interrupted, and I set this poem aside. A whole bunch of amazing life events started happening and years (eight or nine to be exact) came and went.
This poem sat on the hard drive of what would become my “old” computer. When I moved over to the new computer, somehow all the data didn’t get transferred properly to the new computer (or to any of the cloud storage locations I use today).
I forgot about the poem until a couple of weeks ago when I was looking for a fictional story I’d written. After some searching, I realized the only place it could be was on that old computer that we hadn’t turned on in years (and that we kept for some reason). Imagine my surprise when I was able to boot it up and look around on the hard drive for some of my old (nearly lost) work.
I found that fictional story I was looking for (maybe I’ll publish it in some form in the future), along with a bunch of other work I had forgotten…including this poem. Again, shiny objects intervened, and I didn’t get around to re-reading this poem until today. The toys I’d been playing with so many years ago were just lying about where this big kid had left them.
I picked up my writing toys and continued playing with the words, the styles, and the symbols. The theme that was there so many years ago was showing itself but in a new way that I hadn’t quite seen in the past. Again, the words and symbols pointed the way (just like Mr. Cox told us in eleventh grade English class).
I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think in the comments.
The Dance of Light and Dark
Lengthening shadows descend across the forest floor.
The perpetual dance as day gives way to night.
Glorious palettes of color and light,
Surrendering to shadows in the growing darkness.
The air grows cold with the smell of decay.
Death wins a battle in its forever war on life.
Your heartbeat echoes behind your ears.
A quiet rhythm of life.
You hear the mournful wail of a distant companion, howling for a moon not yet risen.
Stars shine like pinholes through a curtain.
The moon rises in the distance, casting new light in the dark.
While creatures of the night toil in the shadows,
Hunting and evading, hiding and pouncing, dying and surviving.
They don’t know what their future holds.
Pain or comfort.
Life or death.
Trees moan quietly as they sway against the wind’s unending assault.
Each is alone in the crowd to persevere as they must.
These trees know without knowing that morning will come.
A distant dream in the long cold night that’s just beginning.
Morning brings new light.
An eternity of hope.
Wistful breezes carry the freshness of this glorious day.
The sun lends its brilliant glow to all that it touches.
Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership 
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