Dearest Morgan, 

It’s four in the morning. And I’m awake. Just sitting here. Thinking about you. 

I haven’t slept since your last text. Your text about how doctors placed you under hospice care. Your text asking me to come say one last goodbye. 

Here I am, in the dark of morning, sitting in my kitchen. Lost. 

And for some reason, I’m thinking about the thief on the cross. The Sunday school story about the remorseful thief who hung crucified next to the Humble Nazarene. Remember him? I’m thinking about how in his final moments of life, life became so clear to him. 

Right now, I feel a little like that thief. I’m thinking about the impact you’ve had on my life. Thinking about all the little ways I have changed since we first met. So many changes. Too many changes to count. 

Beautiful little changes. Millions of them. 

Like the way I say “yes” to stuff now. Even stuff I don’t want to do. I choose yes instead of no. I say yes to friends’ schemes more often,

whereas once upon a time I wouldn’t have. I do this because it was you who once told me, shortly after you almost died, “I’ve learned to ALWAYS say yes to fun, especially when it’s bad timing.” 

You were 19 when you said that. 

Also, I work less now. Because it was you who once told me—and you said this while attached to life support—you said: “I’ve learned that life is not about how hard you work.” 

I also hang out with people more often now, even when I don’t feel like peopling or being social. Because you once told me, after one of your near-death experiences, you said you learned that life itself wasn’t the main gift. You…

My dad was a runner. He started just before I was born. One day after work, they say he came home and decided it was time to quit smoking and start jogging. He stabbed out his smoldering cigarette and he tore off running, right then. He finished the cigarette later that evening. 

He ran marathons throughout my childhood. Marathons were his thing. And although, occasionally, I still saw him sneak Marlboros, it was ONLY on special occasions. Such as Wednesday. 

But he couldn’t smoke much because running and smoking contradicted each other. But then, the old man was a walking contradiction. 

My father was an ironworker. Union man. Local Number Ten. He wore denim and boots every day of his professional life. The man hung suspended from 40-story skyscrapers, tied off with a safety harness, and stick-welded column splices from nine to five. 

When he got home, he’d be covered in soot, with little white patches of skin around his eyes, and he smelled like diesel. And yet, the first thing he’d do was change into

running clothes and go for a six-miler. 

He began running the Pikes Peak Marathon on a whim. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. One day he came home from work, loaded up our van with camping gear, and announced that our family was going to Colorado where he would run 26.2 miles, climbing 14,000 feet above sea level. My mother responded by picking up the kitchen phone receiver. 

“Who are you calling?” Daddy asked. 

“I’m upping your life insurance,” my mother replied. 

We camped in Colorado for a few days. I remember the morning of the race. The old man was nervous. He wore red cotton shorts. A Coors Banquet Beer ball cap. He was unprepared. But he believed he could do it. 

He kissed my…