“Come on”, said the man. He was eager to get going. He always was. The dog knew he enjoyed these weekly Sunday morning walks. She did, too. Sunday morning walks were long, and she got to take the man beyond the comfortable confines of the neighborhood. They were peaceful and filled with unique smells. Today’s weather was perfect, too: calm, crisp, cool. The dog knew that the man relished this sort of morning. She would be patient today so that the man could savor every moment along the way.

She tugged at the leash to let him know it was time to go.

Together they stepped off the porch, followed the front walk to the driveway, and descended the driveway to the sidewalk. This was familiar territory for the dog, of course, but it was important to start the walk here. It was her responsibility to keep up with the neighborhood discourse, after all, and she would not fail to check and reply to the voluminous peemail left for her. She guided the man from mailbox to mailbox, taking particular note of the backlog of messages at the fire hydrant on the corner. The man never seemed interested in this part of the walk. What a shame. But the dog couldn’t blame him for tugging anxiously at her leash, begging her to hurry. The best part of the walk lie ahead of them.

First, though, they would need to cross the busy street. It was quieter on Sunday mornings, but she would still need to be careful. The man feared the busy street, she knew, and he always stopped at its edge. No matter. The dog waited for him to gain his confidence. When she sensed he was ready, she stepped off the curb and pulled the leash taut to urge him along. He followed. He always followed her across the street because he trusted her. “Hurry!”, she signaled to the man. “Your favorite part of the walk is near!”.

And it was. Just across a small bridge and down a small hill was what they had come for: the short-cut grasses, clovers, dandelions, and other groundcover; the tall grasses, much taller than the dog, turned brown and dry by the end of summer and arrival of autumn; the trees of all different shapes and sizes, some with smooth bark and others with rough bark, some with acorns or pods or, at a different time of year, fruits, most of which were dropping their leaves to the ground where the dog could inspect them; the creek, with its slow, meandering flow of shallow water; and among it all the scent of uncountably many humans and dogs and rodents and birds and insects and so much more – maybe even opossums or raccoons or foxes, if she were lucky.

The dog had a skip in her trot as she led the man to the sensory smorgasbord. He followed, his steps light and quick. The dog thrust her nose to the ground, zagging this way and zigging the other. The man stood still, closed his eyes, and inhaled. The dog dove into the tall grass. The man brushed his hand along the tops of the dried blades. The dog froze to watch a squirrel foraging for acorns beneath a tree. The man watched a leaf float atop the water, lazily making its way downstream, bumping rocks and sticks as it went.

There was so much to explore! The dog was tempted to stay in one place – and she sometimes did for a minute or two – but she knew she needed to keep the man moving or she would never get him back home. She could tell the man was in his happy place. That made her happy, too.

The dog and the man came to the turn-around point, another bridge where they crossed to the other side. The man’s pace slowed. The dog slowed, too. She wasn’t ready for the walk to near its end any more than he was. Together they took in the scene. The dog sat. The man spoke.

“I love these walks,” he said. The dog cocked her head. The man wasn’t finished. She waited.

“Things are changing at home. There are kids. Mom and I are busier. Work is stressful. I don’t always give you the time you deserve. We don’t get out to walk every day. I’m sorry.” He locked eyes with her. “You’re a good girl, Daisy.”

“I love these walks,” the man repeated, “and I hope we never lose them.”

The dog let the man have his moment. A grasshopper clung to a nearby tree stump. A meadowlark warbled from its perch atop a long-forgotten metal fence post. Somewhere children squealed as they played in their yard.

When the time was right, they continued together along the creek’s edge. Their fun and exploration continued. The dog even discovered the scent of not just one raccoon, but a whole family of them! The man laughed at her excitement. But soon he tugged at the leash. He was ready to return home.

So she led him there. She knew the way. She helped the man cross the street, checked the hydrant one more time, trotted back up the driveway, and bounded up the front steps. Once safely at home the man felt comfortable enough to release himself from her by unhooking his leash. While he did so, he stroked her over her head and behind her ear and said, “You’re a good girl, Daisy”. He opened the front door.

There would be many more Sunday morning walks like that one, the dog thought. She was sure of it.

We step out of the forested hills onto the finger of a butte that projects itself above the broad valley. Carefully, we descend toward the edge, to a place that will be private. Ours. Below us, remnants and recreations tell the history of warring peoples. Around us, an ancient landscape reveals an epic story of a far grander scale. Both are crumbling, eroding, returning to what they once were and anticipating what they will one day become.

Like us.

I carry your vessel with care. It is you but it is not you. We arrive at the spot. The rocks drop off sharply to our left, to our right, and in front of us. There is a tree. Its roots cling tightly with hope and desperation.

I slip the backpack off my shoulders. I unzip it, reach inside, and remove the maroon velvet drawstring bag. I withdraw the jar and, with a deep breath, unscrew the lid. I close my eyes, pause, and open them.

You will nourish the tree. You will provide it with nutrients and soil. You will become part of the tree, of its bark and its leaves, and of the fungi and critters that live around and upon it. I scatter you among the roots. Earth to earth.

I stand up and feel a gust blow on my face. You will ride the wind. You will travel with it to locations near and far. You will become uncountably many new things. I launch you into the air. You swirl and swim and spread across the sky until I cannot see you anymore. Dust to dust.

I sit. We talk. I tell you how happy I am that I found this place. I imagine coming here with our grandchildren, and them with theirs. One day, I tell you, I will come here and I will not leave. I will be part of this place, too.

When it is time, I stand up. I return the jar to the velvet bag, the bag to the backpack, and the backpack to my shoulders. The sun has moved higher, its heat stinging my skin. The clouds dance and decorate the blue sky. The wind hums among the rocks and through the trees.

I leave. I listen to music as I walk on the dusty trail. They are our songs, filled with memories. I smile a teary smile. There will be new memories. I will be back to tell you about them, and to make them with you and with those who join us.

As I walk down the final hill and leave the forest, I look up. I see the finger of rock extending from the butte where you now rest; the lone tree that already you are becoming; the blue sky where you dance. You are with me, you are a part of me, always and forever, and you are also here. I am happy to have fulfilled my promise to you when we talked about the end that we thought was so far away.

I love you. I will return.

Today is Sadie's birthday. Her 44th, a number which wouldn’t have meant much to her. Sadie didn’t fret over her age.

It goes without saying that 43 years wasn’t long enough. Ninety-three years wouldn’t have been long enough. We take solace in knowing that Sadie made multiple lifetimes’ worth of impact on those around her. She loved us and we loved – we love – her. Sadie did immeasurable good for countless souls.

Jim Carrey starred in a film back in 2008 called Yes Man. In it, Carrey plays a character mired in routine and negativity. After attending a self-help seminar, he is convinced to say “yes” to anything asked of him. Being a comedy, the film of course puts Carrey in a variety of absurd situations, but [spoiler alert] he ultimately learns that while one probably shouldn’t go through life saying “yes” to everything, “yes” generally brings you more satisfaction and does more good overall.

Sadie was a Yes Woman. Saying “yes” got her from junior high band to San Diego and Dublin. Saying “yes” got her from jogs along Sheridan Boulevard to marathons in Minneapolis. “Yes” got her three children, and then more children, and then even more – from Lincoln and Boston and Tajikistan and Brazil. It got her careers as a teacher, as a homeschool mom, as a counselor, as a mental health advocate.

Saying “yes” got her me. (Nobody’s perfect.)

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Sadie said “yes” to each of us. She gave us second and third and fourth chances. She believed in us and gave us the opportunity to succeed.

I am not a Yes Man. I like my comfort zone, thankyouverymuch. However, I cannot deny the success of Sadie’s approach. When I follow her example, I and those around me wind up better off. It’s hard for me; saying “yes” requires a tremendous amount of conscious effort. I’m working on it.

Several people have messaged me about how Sadie might have celebrated her birthday today. There would have been coffee. Chocolate. Carrot cake. Probably a request for my mom’s rolls. She would have spent time with as many of us as possible. We would have given her gifts.

We can’t give her gifts to unwrap today, but that doesn’t mean we can’t give her anything. I invite you to join me today in lighting a birthday candle for Sadie. When you blow it out, instead of making a wish, say “yes”. Say “yes” to anything: to taking the kids miniature golfing instead of watching TV; to adopting a shelter pet; to skydiving; to learning to make bread. Then tell us about it. Here’s mine:

I said “yes” earlier this week to clearing up a literal pile of to-dos that had paralyzed me, in several cases for months. Some of the to-dos were expensive. Some required difficult conversations. One was canceling Sadie’s phone number, a bit of finality that was much harder for me than you might expect. I’m not yet finished – in fact, I’ve had to add a few items – but I’ve made excellent progress and I have a plan for the remainder. Most importantly, I feel so much better about myself.

Today, give the gift of saying "yes". Happy birthday, Sadie. We love you.

It was Monday, August 21, 2017.

I had modest expectations for the eclipse. I knew it would be an interesting, possibly once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I knew what it would look like, having seen photos. I knew it would be a unique sensory experience — the temperature would drop, animals would behave strangely, shadows would look strange — having read descriptions. I knew that watching it was something I wanted to do with my family, even if the younger children wouldn’t remember it. I knew that this would be a neat natural event, like a particularly heavy snowstorm or an especially pink sunset.

So as my eclipse timing app counted down toward zero I helped to prepare the children’s glasses and I talked to them about what was happening. I taught them about the eclipse rationally, scientifically. They listened with varying degrees of interest consistent with their varying ages. Sadie, like a good improv partner, asked questions that allowed me to show off my Dad Wisdom.

Despite all of that — despite all the research I did and the photos I had seen and the descriptions I had read and the app telling me exactly when every step of the eclipse would occur at our precise geographic location — I wasn’t ready for it. I mean, I was ready for the eclipse, but I wasn’t prepared for the experience of the eclipse. That moment was so beautiful, so mesmerizing, so damn cool. It was, in a way I cannot fully convey, an all-encompassing mind and body event.

I remember the moment well. I remember looking up in awe. I remember looking at my children, hoping they would capture and retain even a tiny sliver of wonder from the event. I remember putting my arm around Sadie and, together, looking up.

The morning was warmer than it should have been. The forecast spoke of highs in the mid-80s, but even as it first rose over the trees it was clear that the sun had every intention of firing on all cylinders that day. My friends and I awoke early to set up chairs, move tables, and prepare. We returned to our cabin, showered, and put on our tuxedos.

It was Saturday, July 5, 2003.

Sadie and I wanted to get most of our photos out of the way before the ceremony. It would make the day go more smoothly, we reasoned, and it would mean that our guests wouldn’t have to mill around while waiting for the reception to begin. Of course, that meant that we would have to violate the old tradition of the bride and groom not seeing each other prior to the ceremony. We were over it. The Jewish bride and Methodist groom were already bucking tradition in a hundred other ways.

I left the cabin, drove the short distance to the lodge where Sadie was getting ready, and waited outside. A small group waited with me, most of them with cameras in hand to capture the moment. Soon, Sadie appeared in the entryway.

Sadie and I first met in August 1992. Our first date was in December 1996. After all those years, I knew her and I knew what she looked like. I knew that she almost never wore makeup. I knew that “doing her hair” meant deciding between a ponytail or pigtails. I knew that she looked best in casual, comfortable clothing. I knew that she knew that she didn’t have to try to impress me, that I was most impressed when she was precisely herself.

Despite all of that — despite knowing Sadie for over a decade and dating her for nearly seven years and living with her and seeing her every single day — I wasn’t ready for it. When the doors opened and I saw her in her wedding dress for the first time, I was floored. There before me was Sadie, the same Sadie I had always known, yet somehow different and new. I saw her through fresh eyes in that moment. The world stopped. It was love at first sight.

I remember very little of that day. Most of my memories come not from me, but from photographs. We got married outside by a pond, we had a reception in the nearby lodge, there was food, we danced, it was hot. I remember almost nothing of the ceremony. I can’t recite for you our vows. I know what song was played for our first dance but I do not remember the dance itself. However, today on our 21st wedding anniversary, my first without her, I remember that moment when I saw Sadie for the first time again as fresh as if it were yesterday.

I am drawing upon many “first” memories for comfort today. They are not enough — no memory ever will be. But they are good and warm and happy, and for them I am thankful.

It was the start of a beautiful day.

There was no reason to expect that particular Monday to be more memorable than any other. I had no major plans: I would spend my day off working in the yard or taking the dogs to the dog park or running errands. I would nap. It was going to be a run-of-the-mill, everyday, forgettable Monday.

Instead, I remember most of it.

Grief is a strange emotion. I don’t understand it. Sometimes it stings. Often it aches. It comes in waves, crashing and eroding and tearing you down before returning to the abyss. Grief looms; it lurks; it’s a sneaky bastard. Grief plays dirty.

Yet grief spares some people. They are sad, they mourn, and they carry on. They are the lucky ones — or are they? Is it lucky to be spared the depths of human emotion? Is that truly desirable?

I happen to like grief. I don’t enjoy grief, but I understand its utility. Grief makes me feel the full spectrum of feelings. It hurts, yes, but it is certainly better than the void of Depression or the unrelenting monotonous agony of despair. Grief allows me to remember what was, to think about what is, and to ponder what will or could be.

In contrast, loneliness is not for me. I’ve tried it on several times. I have given it a fair chance. It doesn’t fit me and I would like to return it.

I used to think that loneliness and being alone were the same thing. I thought that loneliness was just being alone too long. The solution to loneliness, I thought, is to just … not be alone any more. I was wrong.

I enjoy being alone. One of the reasons I run so far is to be by myself. Being alone is a respite for an introvert who participates in and enjoys bursts of extroversion but knows he cannot stay there. Being alone allows me to observe. Being alone is an opportunity to think, to process, to plan. Alone time, whether on a hike in the woods or in a chair on the edge of a busy room, is necessary and wonderful.

Loneliness is empty. Loneliness is knowing everybody else has plans. Loneliness is looking at your growing todo list and realizing there is nobody to do them for and nobody to say “thank you” when you’re done. Loneliness is wanting to pick up your phone to text that thought or joke or reminder to someone but that someone isn’t there. Loneliness is a weight, a fog, a persistence of hopelessness.

I used to let loneliness settle over me because I thought it was inevitable. Not any more. I shed it as quickly as I can. I can’t stop loneliness from reaching me, but I can keep it from latching on.

I am often asked how I am doing. Not the standard “How are you doing?” that we all ask each other every day and don’t really care about the answer to. Rather: “How are you doing?”. The words are the same but they carry a different weight. There is a hint of whisper to the words. I know what they mean.

I dread the question. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment behind it. I do! People care and that’s wonderful. However, the question is rarely asked in a context in which I can answer fully or honestly. The grocery store aisle is hardly a suitable location for deep, probably emotional discussions. So let’s just not do that question except in carefully chosen situations. OK?

You want to know, though, don’t you? I will tell you: I am well. I am content. I am happy. I have a stable of supportive family and friends. Some help me deliberately, while others provide me with aid and comfort without their even knowing, just by being themselves. Importantly — maybe most importantly — I have learned to help myself.

Sadie died on a Monday with her head on a Garfield pillowcase. Let that sink in for a moment. I want you to appreciate the tragic irony. Sadie sure would have!1

She and I experienced a fair amount of pain and loss together. Over time, we recognized that we had a choice: we could let it overwhelm us, or we could disempower it by developing a shared affection for dark humor. We opted for the latter. It (mostly) worked.

In the months before she died, I sat on the edge of Sadie’s side of the bed nearly every morning. I would rub her legs, or her back, or, if her body were too painful to be touched, her head. And we would talk. On good days I would sit for five or ten minutes, until she was ready to get up or I had to leave. On bad days I sat with her as long as I could, sometimes over an hour, occasionally more than two. I was often late to work.

And so the day after Sadie passed away I sat on the edge of her side of the bed, I rubbed her legs, and I talked to her. I talked for over two hours. It was while I was talking to her that I noticed I had been talking to her pillows — specifically, to her Garfield pillow, which was propped neatly in front of her other two plain-colored pillows. I didn’t get it at first, but gradually the realization flooded over me. “I agree, Garfield. Monday sucked”, I said. A chuckle rapidly turned into a mess of laughter and tears. It was an absurd scene. Sadie would have loved it.

Every day I talk to Sadie and I feel better. She grieves with me, celebrates with me, wonders with me, laughs with me. She has guided me through crises and she has helped me to develop new friendships. She even helps me meal plan.

This morning I told Sadie about yesterday’s eclipse. I told her about how beautiful it was. I described how shadows get weird. I remarked on the number of people laying on the Capitol lawn, gazing upward. I talked about how frightening an eclipse must have been for people who did not understand what was happening. I reminisced about how we watched the last eclipse together on our back deck, which was mere meters from the absolute center of the path of the moon’s shadow, and about how we both agreed the event was far more beautiful than we had anticipated.

I talked to Sadie this morning just like I have talked to her every day for the past six months. Every day I sit on the edge of the bed, I rub her legs, and I talk to her, out loud, as if she were there. For me, she is.

1

Those of you who aren’t Garfield fans are no doubt confused. Garfield — the cat, not the President — famously hates Mondays. Back in the 80’s, merchandise of every conceivable type featured a dour Garfield and text like “I hate Mondays”.

We were a good bunch. Our favorite hangout was the Village Inn on Van Dorn Street just up the road from our high school. We didn’t drink. We didn’t smoke. We sure didn’t do drugs. Our naughtiest behaviors involved playing the school fight song out the window of a moving vehicle and TP’ing the occasional tree. If you wanted to create the next great streaming series about a group of band geeks living life in the mid-90’s, our experiences would make a great foundation.

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It was New Year’s Eve. We planned to watch a movie, play some games, and eat junk food while waiting for the ball to drop, the clock to strike midnight, and 1998 to arrive. We laid out our spread on a table along one wall. There were chips, cookies, and snacks of all sorts, along with a variety of pop — including our group favorite, Hee-Haw, that curiously yellow Mountain Dew knockoff from Hy-Vee that came in 3-liter bottles for $0.89. And there was a pan of brownies.

Nobody took a brownie at first. It wasn’t anything personal. I suppose no one wanted to be the one to dive into an undisturbed dish. They looked so picturesque! Finally, Monica spoke up.

“Who brought the brownies?”, Monica asked as she evaluated the baked goodies.

“Sadie did!”, Amy answered.

Monica grabbed a plate and began cutting the brownies into squares. “Ooh, they’re still warm!”

Others gathered around. Monica served up brownies to each of them before plating her own. She took a bite.

“Holy shit,” Monica said as she chewed. Her eyes were wide. By then, others had taken their first bites. The basement was filled with “ooohs” and “mmms”. “Sadie, did you make these brownies?”

“Yeah,” Sadie responded.

“These are fucking good brownies!”, Monica exclaimed. We all laughed. We didn’t often swear, but if somebody was going to tell it like it was, it was Monica.

“What are they? What’s in them?”

Sadie smiled shyly. “I don’t know. They don’t have a name. I kind of made them up. They have peanut butter and chocolate chips.”

Monica shoved more of the brownie into her mouth. “These things are amazing. You’ve got to name them.”

“I think you already did,” I said.

“Did I?”, Monica asked.

“Yeah. You said it yourself: they’re Fucking Good Brownies!”

The others agreed. “It suits them.” “I can’t think of a better name.” “That’s perfect!”

“I can’t call them that!”, Sadie retorted. It was true. A bold moniker like Fucking Good Brownies was out of Sadie’s comfort zone, and it certainly wasn’t consistent with her reserved demeanor.

“Well how about FGB’s then?”, I offered. And that’s how Sadie’s FGB’s were born.

I have eaten many FGB’s over the years. Many. So have our kids, our family, our friends, and even strangers at potlucks and dessert fundraisers. They are fun, simple, delicious. In many ways, FGB’s came to represent Sadie’s love for baking and for gifting the products of her baking to others. Indeed, the connection of FGB’s to Sadie helped drive my desire to ask folks to bring desserts to share at her memorial service last month. What better way to remember Sadie than with table after table of sugary delights?

Well, I’ll tell you. I want you to have Sadie’s FGB’s, too, and to share them with those you love. Any time you want.

Sadie’s FGB’s

Here are the ingredients you need:

• 2 1/2 cups flour

• 1 tsp baking powder

• 1 tsp baking soda

• 1/4 tsp salt

• 1 cup margarine

• 1 cup peanut butter

• 1 cup sugar

• 1 cup firmly packed brown sugar

• 2 eggs

• 1 tsp vanilla

• Chocolate chips (to taste)

And here is how to make magic:

Preheat the oven to 350F. Stir the first four (4) ingredients together in a bowl. Set it aside. In a second bowl, beat the margarine and peanut butter with a hand mixer at medium speed until blended. Beat in the sugars, followed by the eggs and vanilla. Add the flour mix and chocolate chips, and combine. Spread into a 9” x 13” pan and bake “a long time” — at least 20 minutes, but likely longer.

A week after Sadie passed away, my mom, my sister and I stood in my kitchen and discussed the upcoming memorial service. “I’m going to make a batch of Sadie’s FGB’s,” my mom said.

“Do you even know what FGB stands for or how they got their name?”, I asked her.

She and my sister both shook their heads.

“It stands for 'Fucking Good Brownies’.” My mom blushed. (We aren’t a sweary family.)

I explained. “They got their name one night when we had everybody over to our house. Monica took a bite and the first thing she said was ‘These are fucking good brownies!’”

My mom paused for a moment, then said, “Well, they are.”

If you make a batch of Sadie’s FGB’s, I would love to hear about it! Please comment here or send me your story at brent@hellomrwilson.com — with photos of you and your loved ones enjoying them, if possible!

He eased the car to a stop and put it in park. The vehicle idled peacefully. Normally the boy would turn off the engine, but it was a cold February night and he planned to sit there for a while. Or at least he hoped to. He was in no rush for the evening to end. The headlights reflected garishly off the garage door in front of them. The boy turned them off.

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Outside the neighborhood slept. It was only 11:00pm, but hardly a light shone from behind the curtains in the windows of the nearby houses save for the occasional flash of a bedroom television. It was winter, so there was no hum of air conditioning units, no dogs barking from behind their fences, no neighbors sharing a late-night conversation while smoking on the front porch.

There were no lights on in the house at the end of the driveway. But the boy knew at least one person inside was awake. Lying in bed, but awake. Waiting. Waiting for the front door to open and for the boy to leave. Waiting for the front door to close and the grandma car to pull out of the driveway and for the sound of teeth being brushed and for the squeak of bedsprings in the adjacent bedroom to signal the end of waiting. Waiting to be able to sleep, to know that all was right in the house.

The boy was in no rush.

His heart thumped. He couldn’t help it. Even after two-and-a-half months — eighty days to be precise, not that he was counting, since that first date — he couldn’t believe he had wound up here, living this moment. His mind raced, but not in an orderly fashion, with each thought staying in its own lane as it sprinted around the track like he would later that spring. The thoughts were a jumble, obstructing each other and bumping into each other and shedding pieces that were probably unimportant but maybe not. A veritable demolition derby of ideas and emotions.

Finally, one thought stood out. It was a humble one, but the boy figured it was good enough to start with. Besides, he had to do something. So he obeyed the thought.

He turned his head. He locked eyes with the girl. The girl smiled at the boy.

His body flooded with … what was that? Love? Lust? Utter disbelief that a guy like him was in the same car as a girl like her? She was smart and cute and talented and oh-so-different from him in so many ways. For one thing, the girl had dated before. The boy had not. Not really. He had girl friends but not girlfriends. He didn’t know how any of this was supposed to work. He made it up on the fly. And frankly, he wasn’t very good at it.

He smiled back.

The boy and the girl sat in silence, stuck in each other’s eyes, each unsure what to say or do. “Maybe I should hold her hand,” the boy thought to himself. But that would require reaching his hand out toward her. How far should he reach it? Should he go halfway to allow her to come the other half? Surely he couldn’t reach all the way to her. Her hand rested on her leg, and he couldn’t possibly risk touching her thigh! Scandalous! He could leave his hand near his side, turning his hand upward as if it invite her hand to him. Would that be too passive? Or would that be a sign of respect, of empowerment?

They alternated blinks. Did she hold that last blink a little longer than normal? The boy wondered if she was sending a message. But what? He wished he knew anything about women. He was eighteen. He was supposed to have learned this stuff by now!

He should say something, the boy thought. He could talk about their evening, though they had already done a lot of that during the drive. And besides, they talked about their friends and band and school all the time.

The Buick purred. Its blue digital clock taunted the boy as it ticked off the minutes. 11:16. 11:17.

Or he could address the elephant in the room. The elephant with the three word name. The boy loved the girl. He told her that he loved her, but he hadn’t really told her that he loved her. He had written it — he had written the actual words “I love you” — in the card he gave to her on Valentine’s Day. It took him over an hour to get up the nerve to put the words on paper. But he hadn’t said the words out loud, nor had she said them out loud to him. Putting it in writing was one thing, but saying it out loud meant it was real. He wanted it to be real.

11:21.

He reached out his hand. He went two-thirds of the way, far enough to make his intentions clear, but he hoped not so far as to risk appearing too presumptuous. A moment passed. Had he misread the situation? Did he move too quickly? Was she … Oh, there she goes. She held his hand. The boy and the girl linked fingers. She squeezed lightly. He squeezed back. They smiled.

Still they sat in silence. It wasn’t as though they had nothing to talk about. They often spoke on the phone. Nightly, in fact, with few exceptions. They talked for hours about every topic imaginable. About school and friends of course, but also about religion and politics and unusual headlines in that day’s newspaper and mathematics and people they had seen that day who looked like famous actors and all kinds of trivia and esoterica. But not in the driveway. Sitting side-by-side in the driveway was different. It was intense. The boy got tangled up in his own thoughts. So they said little. Instead, they stared, each lost in the other’s eyes.

11:26. 11:27. The blue digital clock was relentless.

The girl was supposed to be home by 11:00pm. She was home, sort of. She was in the driveway, just outside of the home. That should count. The boy and the girl knew that it didn’t count to her father, who soon would get tired of lying awake in bed, restless, waiting for the sound of the front door to open and the Buick to back out of the driveway. He would soon go to the front door and flash the porch light, and the night would be over. 11:28. One of them should say something.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?”

Her voice shattered the silence and shocked the boy. A kiss! She wants a kiss! She wants a kiss? The boy wanted it, too, but he had never kissed a girl before. He had thought about kissing a girl — kissing this girl — a lot. Here was his opportunity! His first opportunity. His only opportunity? He had better act. But what was with that question: “Are you going to kiss me or what?”. It was so bold, so daring, so direct. So unlike her! Was she annoyed with him? Should he have initiated the first kiss? Had he screwed this all up?

Shut up, boy, and kiss the girl.

He leaned toward her, she leaned toward him, and they kissed. The boy didn’t know what to do or if it was a good kiss, but it was a kiss. Their first. They separated, looked at each other, and kissed again. Their second.

The porch light blinked. They sat upright and looked at each other through fresh eyes. She is radiant, the boy thought. The girl sighed, knowing that her father would scold her for sitting in the driveway so long. She smiled and responded out loud to what so far had only been written. “I love you, too.”

The boy beamed. “I love you, too … too.” He cringed. She giggled.

She opened the car door and stepped out. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Sadie,” said the boy. She closed the door, walked up the front steps, and went inside the house. The porch light turned off. The boy closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and replayed the events in his mind. “Click,” he said to himself, a method he had picked up to take a snapshot of a moment he wanted to be sure to remember.

The boy turned on the headlights, put the car into reverse, and backed out of the driveway. As he drove home he replayed the girl’s words: “Are you going to kiss me or what?”. He chuckled to himself. They were going to make a great old married couple some day. He just knew it.

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Consider her treatment of toothpaste tubes. Did she squeeze gently? No. Did she start at the end, slowly working her way toward the opening as she coaxed out every last fluoridated drop? Nope. No, Sadie mangled her toothpaste tubes. I mean absolutely manhandled them. For a while I tried to share toothpaste with her. But she did horrible, unspeakable things to those poor tubes. When I saw my toothpaste treated that way, I was crestfallen.

And don’t get me started on what she did to our vehicles over the years. Do you have any idea how many ditches she wound up in, mirrors she removed, basketball poles she knocked out of vertical, and gas pump hoses she drove off with?

It’s also Sadie’s fault that I run so much. I would have been happy running 5Ks for the rest of my life, with perhaps the occasional 10K thrown in here and there. But Sadie made outlandish things (such as me ever running more than 8 miles) seem possible because she did outlandish things and showed not only that they were possible, but that they could bring joy.

Sadie ran cross country and track in high school. She was slow. She often finished last, or at least near the back. But she loved running. She loved it. She loved the camaraderie and she loved being outside and she loved how running made her feel. After high school she kept on running. She began running more and more, eventually running marathons where her slow-and-steady approach paid dividends. She got the license plate RUNRGAL. She joined running groups. She had good runs and bad runs. She finished dead last in the Lincoln Marathon one year. And then she went home where she signed up for her next race. It was outlandish to think that the slow girl from Lincoln Southeast High School would go on to be such a runner. Sadie made it happen.

Sadie’s career was defined by her seeing a problem and taking outlandish steps to solve it. She started simply enough, as a math teacher. Her district needed adult English as a Second Language instructors. Sadie didn’t teach adults and she didn’t teach ESL. She figured it out and did it anyway. Sadie had never intended to do anything but work out of the home, yet once we filled our home with children, she learned how to be a stay-at-home mom and homeschooler. For a while we were parents to an outlandish eight children, several of whom had high needs. She was an amazing mother to them all. She got hired at a Montessori preschool despite being neither a Montessori teacher nor a preschool teacher. While at Parkview, she earned a Masters in counseling so that she could be the school’s counselor. Never was there an outlandish situation that she didn’t overcome with a smile on her face.

But the most outlandish thing she ever did – the most improbable, ridiculous, bizarre, and totally Sadie thing – was rescuing a southern bog lemming named Scrat.

It was a cool, cloudy, rainy day. Sadie came home from a run, all bundled up in her waterproof running jacket, with something in her hands. She went into the kitchen, got some towels, and carefully placed upon them a tiny, hairless, pink critter. Its eyes weren’t even open! It had no business being on our kitchen counter. And yet, there was Sadie, trying to find a way to warm it up.

Sadie started making phone calls. She tried several animal rescue organizations. She explained to each of them that she had found this … thing on the bike path while out on a run. She had picked it up and carried it home, a mile and a half away. Eventually somebody recommended feeding the critter kitten formula from an eyedropper. Nobody thought it would survive the night.

It did.

It survived the next night, too. Eventually three things became clear: this was some kind of rodent; it had every intention of living; and we were now its parents. As its parents, we were tasked with naming it. We chose Scrat, after the acorn-hoarding squirrel from the Ice Age movies.

Scrat thrived. He grew fur. His eyes opened. He ate more foods. He began to run around. And believe it or not, he turned out to be a fun and amazing pet.

I never would have picked up that little pink goober from the sidewalk. Chances are, you wouldn’t have either. We would have left it for an owl or a fox to find. But Sadie did the outlandish thing of picking it up and taking it home and making it comfortable and feeding it and saving its life. And because of her outlandish act, our family gets to tell the fun story of the time we had a southern bog lemming named Scrat as a pet.

We can’t always do the wild and crazy thing. We can’t always run marathon after marathon; or quit a job to become a homeschooler; or earn a quick Masters degree; or carry an infant rodent a mile and a half through the rain. But Sadie showed us that sometimes we can, and it’ll be worth it.

Or maybe we’ll fail. Although Scrat lived, a baby bird and baby squirrel – other critters Sadie tried to rescue – didn’t. And remember those 8 kids I mentioned? A short while later, we were back to three. Sadie gave herself permission to fail, and that freed her to try so many wonderful things. Indeed, it’s why she had so many friends in so many different circles. It’s because she did the outlandish thing and tried.

And so that’s what I ask from each of us. I have been asked many times what people can do for us or how they can honor Sadie. Simply, you can take a lesson from Sadie and do that outlandish thing – that thing that’s outside of your comfort zone, that seems a little outlandish, but is doable. Become a foster parent. Finish your degree. Invite your neighbors over for supper. Run for political office. Go to marriage counseling. Take piano lessons.

Do the outlandish thing. Give it a genuine, authentic try, and give yourself permission to fail. It’s what Sadie did throughout her life, and we are all better for it.

This piece is a modified version of my tribute to Sadie at her Celebration of Life on Saturday, October 21, 2023.

I treat my Crest very differently. I begin at the crimped end and methodically work my way toward the opening. By the time I am finished with the tube, I can be confident that there’s nary a speck of toothpaste remaining inside. This, as far as I am concerned, is The Only Correct Way.

Young Sadie and Brent first moved in together in the summer of 2001. Our apartment was small and simple, but it was a fine first apartment. And besides, it was mere blocks from our university which, among other benefits, saved us hundreds of dollars on parking.

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We were unmarried. Yes, we each had (and used!) our own bedrooms, but we lived under the same roof. Sadie had worn my promise ring on her ringer for four years by that point, but that didn’t change the fact that we were living in sin. Still, that was not the gravest evil in that apartment. Sadie and I shared the apartment’s single, tiny bathroom and its single, tiny medicine cabinet, so we shared toothpaste as well.

I quickly discovered that I lived with a monster.

At first I denied it. Surely my lovely, gentle Sadie wasn’t responsible for the twisted multilation of the toothpaste tube. Perhaps she dropped it. And stepped on it. And … ran over it with a truck. Twice each day I fixed the tube as best I could, smoothing it out, flattening it from the crimped end.

Denial didn’t last long. I talked to Sadie about it. “Why do you mutilate the toothpaste tube?”, I asked her. “Do you realize how much toothpaste you’re leaving behind?” “Would you please do it my way?”

Nothing changed. I grew frustrated. Angry, even. Every morning and every evening my mood soured when I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. The toothpaste tube — a stupid tube of toothpaste! — became a source of tension in our relationship. I grew rather petty about it. I was rather skilled in the art of passive aggression and I put those skills to use. I am not proud of myself.

I realize now that Sadie wasn’t intentionally trying to hurt me. She kept doing what she was doing for two reasons. First, she didn’t understand how much the toothpaste situation bothered me. I didn’t convey my feelings well, often relying on humor or sarcasm when talking about it. Second, I was all in a tizzy over a stupid. tube. of toothpaste. Who the hell cares that much about toothpaste? No sane person can be expected to understand that somebody could get so worked up over such a trivial toiletry matter.

Fortunately, I came across a bit of wisdom that, in retrospect, is totally obvious, but which at the time seemed revelatory. That wisdom? Each of us could have our own tube of toothpaste. Toothpaste is cheap, and it’s all going to get used at some point so there is no waste. Sadie could squeeze her way, I could squeeze mine. Problem solved.

You might argue otherwise. “But Mr. Wilson, you’ve merely avoided the problem! You’ve not solved anything!” I disagree. Sadie and I assigned vastly different levels of importance to an objectively trivial issue. Resolving the matter via discussion, compromise, or other therapeutic strategies was not worth the emotional capital those approaches would have required. Besides, I’m not convinced we could have resolved the matter any other way. A new tube of toothpaste was quick, cheap, and effective. That’s the definition of a wonderful solution.

Relationships, be they with partners, children, friends, co-workers, or otherwise, develop toothpaste tube-like troubles periodically. When you sense consistent friction over something insignificant, rather than getting heated, ask yourself if you should just buy yourself your own tube of toothpaste.

Microaggression is a term used for commonplace verbal, behavioral or environmental slights, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative attitudes toward stigmatized or culturally marginalized groups.

In other words, it’s little stuff that folks do to one another to harm them in some way. It might be using a term like “male nurse”, or asking an adoptive parent if they have any children “of their own”, or building a website that is incompatible with assistive technologies like screen readers.

Following my wife’s death, I have found that the world around me is filled with sources of harm that are similar to, but distinct from, microaggressions. I call them microdepressions. They are all of the little ways that the world messes with the emotions of and brings down a guy who just suffered a terrible personal loss. They are legion.

Usually microdepressions are triggered unintentionally. Regular, everyday, otherwise benign situations become a bunch in the gut when experienced in the wake of loss. The elderly couple who walk hand-in-hand daily on one of my frequent running routes remind me that I will never share that routine with Sadie. Updating my patient profile prior to a recent appointment with my doctor required changing my marital status from “Married” to “Widowed”. Checking the mail not only means being confronted with letters and advertisements addressed to my wife, but also having to update my list of businesses and organizations I have to tell about her death.

Many microdepressions are self-inflected. Dozens of times each day I see something and think to myself, “I should text a photo to Sadie!” or “I should tell Sadie about that tonight!” before I can catch myself. But those are automatic thoughts, difficult to control. I can hardly be blamed for them. In contrast, the house is filled with reminders of her that I could easily change or remove. I don’t.

The truth is, I don’t mind experiencing microdepressions as I go about my day. I like the little bursts of sadness, not because I enjoy the feeling of sadness itself, but because every time I get sad, it means I’m thinking of Sadie. I want to think of her, even if doing so makes me tear up. I’m not ready to leave sadness behind.

Besides, microdepressions are, by definition, micro. They are small. Manageable. Not that small things cannot be harmful, of course. One can become overwhelmed by masses of lilliputian triggers if one does not have an appropriate way to deal with them. But with good tools in one’s toolkit — a strong support structure of family and friends; good diet and exercise habits; a wry sense of humor; or a capable therapist, to name just a few — it is possible to develop healthy responses that build a person back up after their loss tore them down.

I know that there will come a day when microdepressions related to Sadie’s death all but disappear, and I know that day will represent a positive milestone. I’m not in a hurry to get there. No, for now I am happy to be just a little bit sad for just a little while a handful of times throughout the day. It keeps me close to Sadie, and that’s what I really want right now.

Sadie Wilson, August 8, 1980 - October 9, 2023

Two days after my wife, Sadie, died, I posted this message on Facebook. I have not edited it from its original state1 (though I would love to!).

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My best friend of 27 years and wife of 20 years, Sadie Wilson, passed away in her sleep on Monday. She was 43 years old.

Sadie and I met at Pound Junior High in 1993, in Mr. Roehrs’ band. Early in the school year I asked why she was absent one day. A friend told me. I responded, “What is ‘yom kipper’?” She was new and different. But 8th grade Brent was terrified of girls, so we remained just band friends.

Sadie told the story differently. On the first day of band class there weren’t enough chairs in the band room. Sadie was left standing, looking around. I stood, told her to take my chair, and went out to the stage to get a new one. She was smitten.

We met up again when she got to Lincoln Southeast High School a year after me. On the first day of marching band, we were assigning parts. Somebody handed her music for 2nd Trumpet. I said, “No, she needs to be on 1st trumpet”, and swapped her music. She couldn’t believe I remembered her or that I would stand up for her. Double smitten.

Still, although I was close friends with many girls, I was much too scared to ask any of them out. Other boys were not. Finally, my chance to ask out Sadie came in November of my senior year. A friend helped boost my courage (thanks, Katie Scheele!) and I called her up. She said yes.

On December 7, 1996 we marched in the Star City Holiday Parade. Later, I picked up Sadie at her house and we went to our friend group’s favorite hangout: Village Inn. She had a milkshake with her meal. I had iced tea. The kid in the booth behind us insisted that he and his grandma “go ride in red car now”. I paid by check.

Soon we were inseparable. We spent hours on the phone or sitting in her driveway, talking late into the night. (Which drove her parents crazy. Sorry, Rick and Pat!) We talked about everything. Everything. We soon knew more about each other than any person we had known in our lives.

I first held Sadie’s hand during a movie in January 1997. I wrote “I love you” in a card on Valentine’s Day. We kissed a couple weeks later. By May I recruited friends Maureen and Amy to help me make a bold move, and in June I gave Sadie the promise ring that they helped me to buy.

There are so many more stories to tell. Cornhusker Marching Band, our engagement in 2002, our wedding in 2003, our house and Daisy the schnoodle in 2004. Sadie became a mother to Robbie in 2006, to Joey and Keishor in 2010, and to myriad foster children, students, and others throughout the years.

We lost three boys we were about to adopt in 2018. We were crushed. We did not handle the trauma well. We limped along until we could limp no further. We separated. It sucked. I fought for her, and then we fought for us. It worked.

Since then we were closer than we had ever been. This year, Sadie opened up with me about her health. She was in pain, and she was suffering, every single day. She had been lying about so many things. She lied to most of you – in some cases on the very weekend of her death. She didn’t want to burden us.

I sought a remedy that doctors and drugs and therapies hadn’t been able to provide. Sadie loved the beach, so in September I took her to Puerto Rico. When we arrived at a beach in San Juan on our first morning, she took off her shoes and socks, walked directly into the warm water and silently stood, eyes closed, facing the rising sun.

If Sadie knew you, she loved you. She had her family and her kiddos and runner people and book club people and foster parent people and work people and school people and Temple people and church people and coffee people and on and on. And we loved her back.

Keanu Reeves was once asked what happens to us after we die. He paused, took a deep breath, and said, “I know that the ones who love us will miss us”. I miss Sadie. I miss Sadie so, so much.