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 realized people were the gift. 

I use my phone less. I listen more. I strike up conversations in the supermarket with random people, anyone who seems like they want to talk. 

And, not least of all, I pay more attention to the food I eat while I’m eating it. I try to consciously enjoy every bite. I FORCE myself to be aware, noticing how amazing this gift of food is. How delicious. How beautifully sacred food is. How amazing food feels in my mouth, and how privileged I am to be eating it. 

I do this because I once watched you eat a supper consisting of only five tater tots. You were still attached to your TPN line, the life support system that feeds you through your bloodstream; you hadn’t eaten an actual meal for a long time. Your teeth ached because they hadn’t been used. Your stomach was burning because it had been empty for literally years. 

But you could tolerate five tater tots. 

And so you did not waste them. You ate slowly, savoring each bite, spending upwards of half an hour enjoying them. I watched you in a kind of dazed wonder. Namely, because you experienced more enjoyment from five tater tots than I’ve ever derived from a single Thanksgiving feast. 

Those are just some of the lessons you taught me. Just a few of the changes you brought to my life. Each minor change, like poking a hole in my Canopy of Existence, thereby letting more sunlight through. 

You see, a man can go through life so hidden from the sunlight that he forgets the light is even there. He lives in darkness, with scales over his eyes, hidden from the noble truths that govern all things. He gets lost. He loses his bearings. His priorities get out of whack. 

But no matter how confused he gets, no matter how screwed-up, Heaven always sends him a guide. This messenger is often disguised for man’s benefit. For man is too dense to recognize God. But beneath the guide’s flesh-and-blood cloak is the beating heart of an ancient master. Someone sent to earth to point the way home. Someone to show us how to love. How to forgive. Someone to knead, shape, and bake our daily bread. 

You were that teacher to me. 

It’s funny how you remember significant moments in life. The moments which, at the time, you did not find significant at all. They just seemed like average moments. You had no idea these moments were divine when they were happening. But they were. They were nothing short of divine.

When I first met you, I was on assignment, writing a story about service dogs. I was interviewing people who used these dogs. Veterans with PTSD. People with autism. You were the afternoon’s last interview. You were waiting for me in the meeting hall. I saw you in the corner, sitting on the floor, playing with your dog, Clarabelle. 

Your violent red hair, bound in a single braid, falling over your shoulder. Your milk-white complexion, like a newborn’s. Your smile, electric. You were just a kid. 

“Who is she?” I asked someone. 

My liaison got this warm look all over their face. “Oh, that’s Morgan.” 

And I’ll never forget the tone they used to say those three simple words. It was the same tone of voice a grandmother uses when removing a sheet pan from the oven, saying, “Wait until you try these brownies.”

You and I talked. And that’s when I learned your story. You told me how a stroke left you paralyzed. How your intestines were paralyzed. Your leg. Your arm. Your hand. You told me about your epilepsy. About your near-fatal diabetic adventures. About your blindness. 

And the whole time we talked, I felt chill bumps. All over. Like, actual gooseflesh. I held back tears. 

You could not have known what I was going through at the time. I was undergoing a very difficult period in my own life. Maybe the worst period I’ve ever experienced. 

But after our meeting, I felt lighter. I felt peaceful. I knew, somehow, that something had happened to me. Something divine. Granted, I was too stupid to know WHAT happened, exactly. But I knew it was real. And even though I am no rocket scientist, I knew I wasn’t wrong—even a broken clock is right twice per day. 

After that encounter, I knew there was no going back for me. I knew we would be lifelong friends. Allies. Buddies. I knew that something had shifted in the cosmos. Something had happened. 

Unto me a great light had shone. A gift had been given. A gift to all. To your family. Your friends. To me. To my wife. To the world. To everyone. And the gift was you. 

I refuse to say goodbye, Morgan. I don’t believe in goodbyes. For this life is an illusion. An intense dream. Nothing more. You taught me that. It is only when one awakens from the dream, safely in the arms of the Gentle Nazarene, that real life shall begin. 

I love you more than you’ll ever know. And in the time that we will soon be apart, I will hold you in my bosom, every moment. Every day. Every breath. I only ask one favor of you, dearest Morgan. I ask that you remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. 

Your forever friend, 

—Sean