Courage in a Can

I know a guy who demonstrates every day of his life the meaning and the beauty of the word "courage."


He is utterly selfless and views his responsibilities to his family and friends as a joy rather than a burden to bear. He has taken some of the worst, most painful treatments that cancer can demand and with an "Aw, shucks!" grin, has simply asked for more.  He's suffered a freak accident that left him too long with screws in his skull and a birdcage view of the world, with his only complaint being that the drilling into his skull reminded him of the dentist's office.  And he's endured the unimaginable, excruciating horror of having lost a child. Never once has he so much as hinted that he deserves special treatment or that he be allowed to shirk his responsibility to loved ones during all of this.


One of the best memories of my life is a roadtrip he took with me less than a year ago.  We drove from Lexington, Kentucky to Houston together and, I swear to you, we never stopped talking once.  We talked about happy stuff and sad stuff; we talked about our lives and about our families; and, being Lavalley boys, we talked about the "Air Force." We were talking when the lights went out in the hotel room in Lake Charles, Lousiana and I'm fairly certain we were still talking when the lights came on the next day.  We talked all the way to Houston, and then we talked all the way to the airport.  We talked while he waited in line for his tickets, and we talked as he waded through security.  And then he was gone. And I was not only not talked out, but I felt like we still had more to talk about and I missed him already.

I bring this up now because I want the world to know that his is the kind of courage that I want as I go through this.  I want to face this with the kind of strength that he so effortlessly demonstrates every day.  Send me down a can of that West Virginia courage, boy!  I'm needin' it right about now.