I wasn’t sure what to write about tonight, so I asked Abby when she was in my office to say goodnight. 

“Jack” she said, and I agreed. 

He came by today, as he often does, as I don’t nearly enough for him. We talked about woodworking and God and family and beer and John Antonio and Roby.

It feels as though something of a dam has broken with regards to my own pursuit of faith and spiritual understanding. For a long time now it’s felt like an inevitability, my coming to it, but I had no idea when that might be. Perhaps when I was on my death bed, or perhaps tomorrow. It happened to be the summer of 2024, Roby’s first summer. I suppose that tracks. 

In talking with people about it, friends, family, Abby, Roby, the wind, Jack, I still feel quite nervous, embarassed, even. There are many reasons for this, so many that it’s not worth even beginning to get into them. 

What is worth getting into is the level of comfort offered by the fact that Jack has walked here before us, and without the benefit of himself to talk to. Today he asked me about the story of my burdgeoning conversion and the first influence that came to mind was obviously him. There are earlier influences, and broader ones, but perhaps nothing / nobody as singular.

He’s a Good friend, Good with a capital G.