With a Little Help From My Friends

Matt wanted to borrow a book before he left. I combed the shelves. Thinking of my friend. Thinking of what we had around the house.

Lonesome Dove. Something by Toni Morrison. High Fidelity. Nick Hornby…Matt would love Nick Hornby. But it didn’t feel just. right.

100 Years of Solitude. Nope. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time. The Great Santini. Me Talk Pretty One Day. No. No. No.

But then…gold mine. There it was:

The Day John Met Paul — An hour-by-hour account of how The Beatles began.

Perfect.

Matt loves the Beatles. So do I. And I’ve always kinda thought we had a little of that John and Paul thing going — Matt of the blindingly quick wit and brilliant mind, Me of the hopeful heart and grounded footsteps.

This book, it captured this incredible moment in history when something beautiful was born. And it found its roots in two guys unabashedly happy to have found each other. And in turn, in some greater way, to have found themselves.

I was just about to hand the book over to Matt when I realized something. There was a whole other copy of this exact same book on the shelf right below. Why in the world would I own two copies of this one book?

I picked up the other to see.

— — —

Matt and I met the first day of freshman year at college. He was from New York. I, from Arkansas. And Northwestern University threw the two of us together in a room with a bunk bed and a couple clunky desks to share. Instantaneously, we connected. And all freshman year, this Jewish-East Coast-Artist bonded with this Christian-Southern-Journalist.

When my Dad died over Christmas break that year, it was Matt who was charged with caring for me on a day-in/day-out basis. He was my roommate. And friend. And I was 660 miles away from home. So we listened to some Sigur Ros that winter. Okay. A lot of Sigur Ros. But, we also had on the Beatles. A band and bond we shared — with our fathers, and also, with each other.

Matt was the first guy I called when seminary in Southern California seemed a possibility. He’d moved out here a couple years back. As an East Coaster, begrudgingly so. But when I told him about the prospect, Matt spoke for 45 minutes straight, without taking a single breath — with conviction in his voice and hope in his heart. The band, just might, get back together. And it was just too good to be true.

It was one of my great joys in this entire process to call him in March, on his birthday, and tell him the dream was becoming a reality. True and goodweren’t playing tricks on anyone. The Harrisons were headed West.

And then, these last few Sundays, as my family has been busy missing our family and friends back home, losing Abe’s buddy, and trying to settle in and adjust to this new life, Matt and his lovely girlfriend, Lauren, have stood the gap. For three Sundays in a row, we’ve shared a meal together, as our own family. And my kids have fallen for these two and their beautiful balance of laughter and love — far more than any of us could have ever hoped for.

— — —

Sunday night, as these dear friends of ours were readying themselves to head home, I looked at the copy of the book in Matt’s hand. And the one on the shelf. And in one swift motion I reached out and opened the front cover of copy number 2. And there, right in front of my eyes, was an inscription.

From my father:

To Bobby

XO Dad

2 boys your age who changed the world!

His handwriting. His words.

Wonder and Belief and Hope. All strung together in one snug little sentence.

You can do it, son. Even at your young age. Just find a partner that’ll run the race with you and go! Paul, meet John. Now! Together you can change the world!

The other copy must have been my dad’s original copy. That’s why I had two. I had his. And also the one he felt compelled to get his son. So I could see what he had seen. Experience the magic myself. And one day, when I least expected it, find those handwritten words all over again.

— — —

When you’ve lost somebody, or even something, any rediscovered trace of their existence in your life feels like the actual invention and realization of the time machine. What was once lost feels found. New all over again. And the joy that brings is hard to match just about anywhere else in life.

Resurrection power.

— — —

I’ve been looking all week for Nanas. Still searching. Entering rooms with clear eyes and a full heart. But all I’ve found is letdown and the hangover of hope— the makings of one heck of a country song. But that’s about it.

Hope hurts, you know. Even if its worth it, which I believe it is, it still pains. And it also has this horrible tendency to just throw you back out into the battle only to get you all bloodied up once again.

But every now and then, rarely, and usually when you least expect it, when you’ve lost everything else, hope does something miraculous. Hope finds you.

And there it was. Clear as day. In his own handwriting.

To Bobby

XO Dad

2 boys your age who changed the world!

I read the inscription once more. Looked up at my friend. Kept the copy with dad’s writing at my house. And left the other with Matt. A struck, stuck smile stretched across my face. A hug goodbye. And hope stealing my heart once again.