men to their destruction, but my son has persevered.
I learned in the jungles of Vietnam that when faced with overwhelming loss and stress, a man must choose to live and find his own way through his broken heart. Alan chose to endure. He decided to walk away from Seattle, Washington, to as far as he could go in the continentalUnited States—Key West, Florida—the very place our family story began.
As of this writing, Alan has nearly completed his journey. I have no doubt that he will. I don’t know if it was a coincidence that led him to Key West or if maybe he was guided by some ethereal force, but either way, Alan has shown himself to be a man of courage and substance. He is a good man with a good heart—his mother’s heart. It is hard for me to fully express my feelings to him, but I love him more than I could ever say. I am honored to be his father.
My father’s writing ended there. I turned the page. There was a note in an unsealed envelope taped to the inside back of the binder. I extracted the paper from the envelope. The note was handwritten in my father’s disciplined script.
My dear son,
This brings our family history to the present. The rest of the story is yours to complete. You are the last leaf on this branch of the Christoffersen family tree. Whether your leaf turns into another branch, or even another tree, is up to you and God. Should you choose to continue our family name, then this book will contain your story and your children’s and grandchildren’s stories as well. Your experiences on your walk will be a great addition to our family history and will inspire all who read it.
I have compiled this history so that someday, after I’m gone, you will know who you are and where you belong. Always remember that you are not alone. I may not have always said it, but I always tried to show you that I love you. I am proud to be your father. Always remember this, my son, and Godspeed, until you have finished your walk to Key West and your even greater journey after.
I finally understood. My father hadn’t written our family history for himself. He’d written it for me. Only for me. He knew that someday he’d be gone and I would be completely alone. He was giving me a harbor from the squalls of time; he was giving me a place to belong.
CHAPTER
Sixteen
It is the heroic spirits in flawed men of flesh—not the whitewashed, heroic-sized renditions society fabricates—that deserve our adulation.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I brought the book with me to the hospital the next morning. There was so much I wanted and needed to say to my father. Most of all, I wanted to thank him for all he had done for me. For all the sacrifices he had made for me.
When I arrived he was still asleep. I sat down next to his bed and looked at him, my heart full of emotion. Now I knew the Great and Powerful Oz was not an illusion. The man behind the curtain was far greater than the contrived illusion of my flawed childhood perspective. What would I say to him? I sat there for nearly two hours listening to his heavy breathing, worrying about what to say. I never got the chance.
Suddenly my father’s breathing stopped, then he groaned. His eyes opened wide and he looked over at me. “Al . . .”
“Dad?”
He clutched his chest and grimaced. Perspiration beaded on the side of his face. An alarm went off.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Alan,” he said. Another alarm went off.
I jumped up. “I’ll get help.” I ran out of the room. A nurse was already hurrying toward us. “I think my father’s having another heart attack,” I said.
The nurse ran into the room. She looked at my father, then shouted out the doorway to the woman sitting atthe nurses’ station. “I need some help in here. Get me an EKG and page the doctor.”
I put my hand on my father’s shoulder. He was clutching his chest and breathing heavily. Suddenly he went limp. “Dad, stay with me.”
The nurse tilted my father’s head back,
I learned in the jungles of Vietnam that when faced with overwhelming loss and stress, a man must choose to live and find his own way through his broken heart. Alan chose to endure. He decided to walk away from Seattle, Washington, to as far as he could go in the continentalUnited States—Key West, Florida—the very place our family story began.
As of this writing, Alan has nearly completed his journey. I have no doubt that he will. I don’t know if it was a coincidence that led him to Key West or if maybe he was guided by some ethereal force, but either way, Alan has shown himself to be a man of courage and substance. He is a good man with a good heart—his mother’s heart. It is hard for me to fully express my feelings to him, but I love him more than I could ever say. I am honored to be his father.
My father’s writing ended there. I turned the page. There was a note in an unsealed envelope taped to the inside back of the binder. I extracted the paper from the envelope. The note was handwritten in my father’s disciplined script.
My dear son,
This brings our family history to the present. The rest of the story is yours to complete. You are the last leaf on this branch of the Christoffersen family tree. Whether your leaf turns into another branch, or even another tree, is up to you and God. Should you choose to continue our family name, then this book will contain your story and your children’s and grandchildren’s stories as well. Your experiences on your walk will be a great addition to our family history and will inspire all who read it.
I have compiled this history so that someday, after I’m gone, you will know who you are and where you belong. Always remember that you are not alone. I may not have always said it, but I always tried to show you that I love you. I am proud to be your father. Always remember this, my son, and Godspeed, until you have finished your walk to Key West and your even greater journey after.
I finally understood. My father hadn’t written our family history for himself. He’d written it for me. Only for me. He knew that someday he’d be gone and I would be completely alone. He was giving me a harbor from the squalls of time; he was giving me a place to belong.
CHAPTER
Sixteen
It is the heroic spirits in flawed men of flesh—not the whitewashed, heroic-sized renditions society fabricates—that deserve our adulation.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I brought the book with me to the hospital the next morning. There was so much I wanted and needed to say to my father. Most of all, I wanted to thank him for all he had done for me. For all the sacrifices he had made for me.
When I arrived he was still asleep. I sat down next to his bed and looked at him, my heart full of emotion. Now I knew the Great and Powerful Oz was not an illusion. The man behind the curtain was far greater than the contrived illusion of my flawed childhood perspective. What would I say to him? I sat there for nearly two hours listening to his heavy breathing, worrying about what to say. I never got the chance.
Suddenly my father’s breathing stopped, then he groaned. His eyes opened wide and he looked over at me. “Al . . .”
“Dad?”
He clutched his chest and grimaced. Perspiration beaded on the side of his face. An alarm went off.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Alan,” he said. Another alarm went off.
I jumped up. “I’ll get help.” I ran out of the room. A nurse was already hurrying toward us. “I think my father’s having another heart attack,” I said.
The nurse ran into the room. She looked at my father, then shouted out the doorway to the woman sitting atthe nurses’ station. “I need some help in here. Get me an EKG and page the doctor.”
I put my hand on my father’s shoulder. He was clutching his chest and breathing heavily. Suddenly he went limp. “Dad, stay with me.”
The nurse tilted my father’s head back,
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