March 2006 – April 2006
Spring break arrived, and even though I had been looking forward to visiting my brother and his wife in Boise, a part of me hesitated. The post office fight had only happened a week earlier, and I felt an uneasy responsibility to stay close to my parents—just in case something else happened. Anxiety sat under my ribs like a stone. Anything could erupt without warning, and the thought of not being there to witness it or help them—offer advice, or at the very least share the burden—made me feel guilty.
But my parents insisted I go. They looked tired in that way people do when fear has become routine, but they tried to hide it behind cheerful expressions that felt a little too bright. They were happy I was going to spend time with my brother, or at least wanted me to believe they were. Their forced optimism didn’t erase their own anxiety, but it did make it easier for me to pick up my bags and head out the door.
The drive to Pittsburgh was quiet and windy, a typical early March day in the low 50s. The sky was that washed-out gray that can’t decide whether it wants to rain or not. As I walked into the airport, the familiar comfort of the place calmed me: the mannequin of Franco Harris caught mid-miracle, and the Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton between the escalators—its skull level with you as you glide downward. There’s something grounding about being eye-to-eye with a T-Rex while heading to a departure gate. It’s ridiculous, but also a reminder that the world is bigger than our patch of land in Four States.
Boise ended up being exactly the kind of break I needed, even if I didn’t realize it at first. My brother and his wife were both training for their respective athletic events, so I tagged along to their practices. It was good to fall into their rhythms, to be pulled into their routines. One day, out of nowhere, my brother asked, “Hey! You want to check out Boise State’s field?”
Boise State’s blue turf has always been one of those strange sports oddities—something you see on TV and assume isn’t real. Standing there in person, the blue was startling. Not bright. Not dull. Just… blue. Seeing it felt like spotting a rare animal in the wild, something unusual and alive. It’s just a turf field, but at the same time, it isn’t. Very few people ever get to stand on that shade of blue. I felt lucky.
We filled the week with small adventures—walking the trails at Russ Freeman Park, catching an Idaho Steelheads hockey game, and watching movies at their apartment during downtime. We watched The Exorcism of Emily Rose and Saw II, even though I had never seen the first Saw. The mix of horror, laughter, and sibling commentary created its own comfort. There was something about being with my brother that settled me. The tension from the farm was still there, but it was dulled by the distance.
College Life
Returning to Fairmont State after break is always jarring, but this time the readjustment wasn’t as difficult.
My course load this semester wasn’t as demanding as the one before. Most classes had the same predictable rhythm—midterm, final, and weeks of preparation. Only Senior Seminar was writing-heavy. My professor, who had also taught my Terrorism class, knew I had a habit of writing papers in my head before ever touching the keyboard. It made her nervous. I’d walk into class saying, “I’m halfway done,” and she’d look at me like I was juggling lit matches. But after spring break I finally wrote the first draft of my paper: Can Democracy Thrive in Post-Saddam Iraq? Still working on the title. It was relevant to the time, a question that hung over the nightly news. Except for a few edits, the paper came out nearly complete. My professor was impressed, or maybe relieved.
College kept my emotional and psychological batteries charged. Classes didn’t distract me from the tension at home—they protected me from it.
Flag Football
Flag football became an unexpected boost to my self-esteem. Usually I played running back or wide receiver, and that was perfectly fine. Our team included three Fairmont State football players. They were laid-back and easygoing—grateful, it seemed, for a break from the grueling schedule of their real practices. Flag football was their vacation.
One game had to be played indoors in the gym, which was basically a shoebox with lines drawn on it. Throwing into the corner of an end zone that barely existed was almost impossible. Our college players kept trying, getting frustrated, until one of them finally turned and asked if anyone else could throw. I offered to try.
I lobbed the ball into a high arc, letting it drop like a feather into the hands of our receiver for a touchdown. The gym erupted in high-fives and fist pumps, the sound echoing off the walls. Scoring on such a short field felt like threading a needle. I assumed that was it—that next week we’d go back to normal with the college guys running the show.
But the next week they asked me to quarterback again.
I’m not a quarterback. I have no velocity on my throws, but I am accurate. And accuracy matters in flag football. I knew the route tree from high school, knew the terminology, and using the same language helped get everyone involved. We turned into a surprisingly efficient team. It was a genuine ego boost to have college football players want me to run their offense.
Matthew
In the first week of April, we drove to Wytheville to pick up my cousin Matthew. Aunt Theresa stayed home to care for my Pepaw, who had just had hip surgery, so Matthew was coming to stay with us for the week.
He was five—energetic, silly, endlessly inquisitive. Everything excited him, and he told you about it loudly, proudly, and repeatedly.
The alpacas were on the farm by then, which to Matthew might as well have been a personal amusement park. He’d stand completely still while the alpacas stretched their long necks toward him, sniffing his hair. He’d grin so wide it looked like his face might split open, then look up at us with wide-eyed wonder as if to confirm that yes, this was really happening. And then he’d talk about it for the rest of the day—reliving the moment with the enthusiasm only a five-year-old can maintain.
One evening I gave him one of my Superman shirts and fashioned a cape for him. He loved superheroes at that age—every piece of clothing he owned seemed to have a cape or logo attached. Wearing matching Superman shirts became our thing, something just between us. It’s one of my fondest memories of him.
Having Matthew around eased the tension we had been carrying. His presence pulled us into his world—one where monsters were found in comic books, not on right-of-ways. The anxious weight in the house lifted for a week. Instead of scanning the road for Dale or replaying the fight in our heads, we were watching Matthew zoom around on the four-wheeler or giggle as the alpacas hummed at him.
Sadly, Matthews time with us came to an end. Taking Matthew back to Wytheville felt routine, just like any other drive. But the drive home carried a different weight. With every mile, the lightness Matthew had brought into the house slowly faded, and the reality of the past few weeks eased back in. Still, when we crossed that invisible line and returned to the farm, we didn’t face it alone. We slipped back into our routines, yes—but we also leaned into our church family, into prayer, into the quiet steadiness of Scripture. In the middle of the heaviness, it was those rhythms that kept us grounded and reminded us where our hope still lived.