I sat in the room that was mostly windows. Outside the windows were tall pines but unlike the ones back home. My ears were still trying to adjust to being at 7000 feet of elevation. I listened to the man speak of his time in the war. I watched his body move and without being told I could tell he was in pain. His body hurt but I could feel his soul still hurt. His details of the war were limited but not because it was traumatic but because it meant something to him. The life that was lost, his life that was lost when he came home, and his rebirth to once again embrace hope poured from the lines in his face. He never shed a tear but on his face was a beaten path of dried tears of the years gone by. A twinkle in his eyes appeared when he spoke about his family and the grace, they had given him to find hope. At this point I was mesmerized and consumed by his private emotions. I have often spoken about the ability to take “the ride” with others when emotions run deep. The ride is being on that path with that person as they express whatever they feel in their soul. The ride is not for everyone but for me it’s an invitation that is hard to turn down.

I gazed out the windows at the pines and for moment I wished I was back home some 5000 miles away. I wondered about my own family, and do they really understand my drive to seek those who search for hope. Do they understand the drive that invites me into a world where I will take a ride and for brief moment I can feel the pain, the joy, and all the emotions that go with living a life full of color. The man spoke more about his family but now the lines in his face and the twinkle in his eyes seemed to be united. The man spoke of the day his grandfather knocked on his door and said, “I need a place to stay”. The door was opened wider and the Vietnam United States Marine veteran who filled the position of his nonexistent father walked in. It was at the point the ride was joyful but also sad. I realized then with tears in my own eyes the man would forever in my soul be recognized as the Caregiver. His grandfather was 85 years old and with his own war, his own life full of color, the life he lived was now desperately trying to catch up with him. The Caregiver having his own war and his own life full of color stepped out of his worn torn sandbox and into the humid depths of a jungle. All in hopes of serving than man who served him.

When I stepped on the plane to come back home, I thought the ride would be over but in this case the ride continued. For some this sounds difficult but for a simple man who finds peace on the soil and in the trees its path I embrace. The Caregiver and the grandfather stayed with me for weeks. I could feel the bond and I could also feel the pain from the sandbox and the jungle. On a Sunday afternoon I sat at my shooting bench, and I was still on that ride. Down range taped to a target were quarters and USMC keychains on one side and St. Michael on the other side. I’ve lost track over the years of how many I have shot holes through. As I laid my cheek on the edge of the butt stock, I was back in the field behind my parent’s home over 20 years ago. My father sat there in his wheelchair and watched me drive that bullet through that first quarter. He wore that quarter around his neck as he fought a battle with an enemy he could not see. When he took his last breath that quarter was within reach.

As I focused on the quarters and key chains I thought about hope, sandboxes, jungles, and the enemies that live silently in us. The enemies that try and kill our bodies and the ones that try and kill our souls. The ride continues as I squeeze that trigger and release that breath from my lungs. As I approached the target, I realized that I shot a key chain twice. Not my intentions but then the ride was over when I felt the sharp edges of the two holes.

The Caregiver and I somehow crossed paths a month after he told me his story on that mountain top. We talked about the time between now and then and once again the twinkle in his eyes was there. I reached in my backpack and pulled out the USMC key chain with two holes in it. I explained I did not mean to shoot it twice but once I realized it, I knew it was meant for you and your grandfather. I told him that for now the key chain is for your grandfather but when his battle is won, it will be yours. The Caregiver turned the key chain over and with a look of surprise he said, “my mom gave me a St. Michael medal when I was deployed.”

I explained to the Caregiver that to me life is about 13 seconds. A 13 second interaction with someone, something, or an act you do. I further explained that it would be simple if our time here was just about being a husband, a father, a friend, or being a servant for the purposes that keep us unbalanced. If we knew why we were here would excel at that one thing and most likely all the rest would never be felt. The problem with the 13 second theory is it takes a lot of work to engage and take those rides to accomplish that mission. But if more people bought into the 13 second theory, then people would take time to be kind, love their neighbor, embrace the good and the bad, and focus on giving hope and not taking it.

Days later a picture appeared on my phone of the Caregiver and his grandfather holding the two-hole shot keychain. The smiles on their faces told me that once again hope was within reach. The jungle was less humid that day and the sandbox was not so worn and torn. There will always be sharp holes through our souls but over time the sharpness fades, but the hole remains. Those holes unite us with others and builds a bond that cannot be broken. Much like the bond between a grandfather and his grandson.

A few days after that first picture appeared on my phone two more pictures appeared on my phone. A picture of an ammo can with the words texted “rarely gets opened” and then a picture of a worn and torn medal of St. Michael that was worn around the neck of a boy fighting a war in a sandbox. Once I read the words and saw the pictures, I was back on the ride again. I could see the twinkle in his eyes and that path of dried tears of years gone by. I never told him I have my own medal of St. Michael and like his it has its own story. I never made it to the jungle or the sandbox, but I got a few holes in my soul, we all do. I’m not broken, just a little weathered to embrace the unpredictability of life.

That drive that makes me seek those in search of hope is from years of wondering if hope was within reach. To some it’s just a quarter or keychain with a hole in it but those that know its origin, it’s the hope from a son to a father fighting an enemy you cannot see. If shooting that keychain twice on the range was no accident, then that may have just been my 13 seconds, but the beauty of life is I will never know but I gave them hope.