Wow...that came out of nowhere.

Hello, and welcome to Friday, weary travelers.

My flickering hope for this week remains that at least some of you have stopped by from my social media posts. Of course, there's also my t-shirt giveaway, and I would that everyone has a chance to find the secret and submit an entry. These shirts are the prettiest purple I could find, and you'll be one of only three humans to have it if you win the random drawing.

In other news: My vacation ended at 5 p.m. today. I honestly can’t remember the last time I took a full week of PTO just to relax and reset, but if you’re able to do it, I heartily recommend it. It actually took me back to when I was 17, living with my brother Tyler. We were driving to Salt Lake City to pick something up, and he mentioned—so proudly—that he was getting paid just to hang out with me. I thought that was the coolest thing ever. To this day, whenever I log my vacation time, I still get a little thrill of "silent pleasure" knowing I'm getting paid to take a break.

On the flip side of that pattern, I’m also acutely aware of the moment my PTO expires. It’s here that my experience repeats itself chiastically: I’m shifting from the silent pleasure of a paid reset back into the familiar, rhythmic chaos of the workday.

Honestly, I am ready to return. I am one of the rare and fortunate individuals who value their job and the people in it. Consequently, my unusually quiet week has been filled with vivid dreams of people randomly relocating my office as a form of punishment for my absence, passionately criticizing my recent job performance, or returning to work and not recognizing the environment or the employees. As a person possessing an unnatural amount of baseline anxiety, this is not a particularly healthy mental state in which to persist longer than a week.

Speaking of my dear brother Tyler, I am saddened to realize that the anniversary of his passing is steadily approaching. Knowing he has been gone for nearly two years now brings more than just a momentary touch of melancholy. Not a month goes by without a vivid dream of his presence—dreams where normal conversation flows between us for what feels like hours, until the torturous machinations of my conscience forbid further discussion. He is torn from me the moment I become aware of the inconsistency, and I open my eyes to the quiet of a dark room. He and I shared much more than a last name; I feel I carry within me the infused blood of every anxious thought and turbulent, lonely night he experienced on Earth.

I more than empathize with him; I would carry his mortal frailty upon my back if I could have only one more phone call with him. He was simple but genuine. Following the separation from my first marriage, he most earnestly flexed his humble talents my way.

It is truly one of my most cherished memories: standing at the base of the cold stairwell leading up to an empty apartment, where he—in his stuttered, imperfect diction—told me he knew exactly how I felt. In that moment, I knew I had a companion in this world who offered more than fair platitudes and loving gestures. I had a molecularly bound man of flesh and blood to whom I could cry out my frustrations and loneliness, and they would be received with compassion, understanding, and solidarity.

He was a unique human—a wholly imperfect and disastrously vexed man of conflicting emotions, outbursts, prayers, and effort. I think of him often. As the first of my immediate family to depart this mortal sphere, he holds a sacred place in my soul, a Pandora’s box of friction and contradictory sensations.

As is apt in stories such as these—which I am sure many of you can empathize with—I am haunted by the fact that I never truly told him how much I appreciated him. On those rare occasions when communication was attempted, we punctuated the unease of the moment with stubborn denial and pseudo-modesty. Thus, we were both spared the responsibility of fully carrying the other—and for that, I regret much.

One thing is certain: these recurring dreams are not of the ordinary kind. They are laced with intention, carrying the hallmarks of that blessed state where the mortal veil parts ever so slightly, and we imperfect souls are able to dance tremulously with the divine. It bears witness to my soul that he has gone on, but not departed. His lifelong struggles with mental illness have evaporated, leaving him free to continue his path of fatherhood and his infectious desire to learn and serve.

As the anniversary of his passing draws near, I know I will recall more of his life and legacy, pondering even further the deep similarities between the two of us.

Anyway, thanks for stopping by, whoever you are. Your patronage to this site means more than you can imagine; and for crying out loud, try to win a t-shirt!