Sometimes our greatest adventures start out as journeys we hoped we’d never have to take.

My boyfriend, Ben, and I have long discussed why our relationship has survived three continents, four time zones, and five years of long distance. One of the things we always come back to is that we were both raised by old men —his  father, and my grandfather were born two years apart in the 1930s. They came armed with stories of selling ice and coal off trucks in their youth, and serving in the Korean War. They both entertained conspiracy theories, my grandpa of UFOs, Ben’s dad of the Soviets.  Something about the shared consciousness of a generation rubbed off on two little kids growing up in the 90s, and Ben and I have grown up to be somewhat like old people (in literally the best way possible—I hope).

The first time I walked into Ben’s house, his dad, Doug, was sitting in his favorite chair with their golden retriever, Amos, watching “Two and a Half Men,” and smiling. Often when I came over to the Steen house, Doug would share stories, and jokes, and goof around.  Later he would also become the go-to cookie supplier in our social circle. He was a true friend, and a great baker.

Having an old parent you always know you’re going to lose them before you’re ready, though I don’t think there’s ever a good time to lose someone you love. I can’t count the nights I have spent sleepless just wondering if my kids will ever get to meet the amazing man that raised me. Ben always understood this lingering anxiety. He never wondered why I felt guilty if I didn’t go watch my grandpa bowl in his Tuesday night league (something I still don’t do enough), or why sometimes I would sacrifice our only available date night to hang out with my grandparents…it’s just something I didn’t need to explain.

 The consequences of age, and time, and life hit us.

On nights when worries quietly crept into the forefront of our minds we would talk about how hard it would be to lose our fathers. How much time did we have left? What would it be like?  I would attempt to imagine what the void left behind would feel like in some sort of preemptive defensive strategy — a morbid tactic, and one that never mitigated any sense of fear.

In February I was down in San Diego visiting Ben when I received a call that nobody wants. Doug had passed away. It was a shock to me, though that might sound stupid after all the premature conversations about when this day would come. Doug, like my grandpa, had an eternally youthful spirit. When a man has a spirit brimming over with energy it’s so simple to overlook the fact that his body is old.

The first one of our fathers was gone. Not forever, but for now. The consequences of age, and time, and life hit us. Everyone gathered. Everyone cried. What else was there to do?

Ben amassed peace knowing that his dad spent his last moments with someone that meant very much to him, his sweet dog Abby, and as he had told everyone so many times before, Doug wasn’t the least bit afraid to die. A man of faith, Doug had every confidence that he would be at the feet of his Lord after death.

The day after the memorial service we  set out back to California from Kansas City in Doug’s Volvo, with Abby the dog in our backseat. We started our trip back with the intention to heal, but that first day was grey, and healing wasn’t so easy.