THE NEXT RIGHT THING

1.
 “How do we know what the next right thing is?” you write. The pocket-sized journal we pass between us rests on a nightstand beside a lamp and an analogue alarm clock.
     You’ve finished your work and settled into bed at 1:00 AM. This living testimony exists because Oprah suggests that a shared gratitude journal nurtures intimacy – a way for busy couples to strengthen connection. The summer of 1999 is a busy time in our life – career building, home renovating, keeping our six-year-old and two-year-old boys alive and happy. 
     “Do we need to think more about where? Are we in the right state, country, planet?” you ask.
     We’re ten years into our five-year starter home. The plan was – mortgage what we can barely afford, fix it up as best we can, add kids, upgrade to a bigger and better forever home. Begin comfortable living.
     I write, “I’m ready for better, new and improved, to get on with it! Where do we belong? How and when do we get there? How do we know it’s right? We’ve reached maximum capacity – for the piano, kid’s dressers, computer equipment, laundry. Don’t get me wrong, this is the good ‘ole days... I’m worried I might not live long enough to experience opening a window that doesn’t crash down, enjoy dinner on a deck large enough for a table and six chairs, walk barefoot through a space not littered with Legos and Matchbox cars.”

2.
GPS was first used by the military for navigation. It helped provide safety and accuracy for strategic purposes. Navigating through unfamiliar territory can be daunting. When our children become drivers, they won’t be able to imagine plotting a course without a clue about directions.
     There’s no need to think about where. Our global positioning appears to work for us  –proximity to our work, public transportation, shopping, the ocean. You have the freedom of independent mobility, given your declining vision. Yet, we’ve outgrown this 1600-ft2 pre-World War I Dutch Colonial, filled the attic and the rafters in the garage, and expanded into a storage unit.
     The right thing is what we know. For eighteen years, all the right things – from the day you carried my books on a campus sidewalk to this twilight entry in our own family home – have brought us to this page. Living between the lines. 

3.
You wrote, “I am deeply troubled by our recent experiences. The choices we have made put us through many changes. I’m grateful for where we are today” — May 11, 1998.
	No amount of satellite signals can guide us through the unknown future. All things in life are the result of what has come before us. Millions of choices – intentional and inflicted – have led us to where we are today. I’ve traced ancestors through ten centuries of mothers and fathers, lords and warriors, bricklayers and immigrants whose fate and choices – wise, nefarious, and miscalculated – have brought us to this question, in our bed, our two little boys dreaming in the adjacent space.

4.
Today marks our 39th anniversary – twenty-five empty pages. This week I have driven 1,044 miles. I have told our story fifteen times on Capitol Hill and asked government prosecutors how long a presumptive trial may take to sentence the men who chose radical ideology, chose al Qaeda, chose our history. 
     Our love, my dear, is not a choice.

5.
For our twelfth anniversary you gave me a blue topaz stone encircled by twelve diamonds, dangling from a chain. When I began to write this story, I searched for it – to hold it. Misplaced, I’m devastated, again. 
     We had reached a place where we eclipsed survival. We were thriving – building our careers, funding college and retirement accounts, strengthening our relationship. With this expansion we relaxed into the disillusionment of choice, daring to plan the future that we envisioned, somewhere outside the lines of all the futures we had already manifested. 
     Pima Chödrön reminds us that the journey itself is the goal. It’s not about getting somewhere; it’s about right now, how we live this life. This is our journey. It’s a process of growth. “Our lives aren’t about constantly chasing the next milestones. We aren’t finally arriving. It’s about how we meet this moment – with openness and the willingness to keep growing.” 

6.
You write, “My dearest wife of 12 years. Sorry, no special plans for the day, but I did get you a special treat. Part of that working too hard thing and planning around the kids makes it difficult to get it together. I appreciate a nice dinner and maybe a movie or something as much as anything else. I think of more enduring love and strength for our future. To us in good health!
Your Husband — 7/25/99.
     In 779 days the alarm will not sound. You’ll toss it to the floor. I’ll choose to help you leave – lay out your clothes, pack turkey slices, brush off your shoes. You’ll choose to run for the bus. You will not return to this bed. I will search for you. Your brother will slip into the vacancy. I will leave this house, this city, this state. Our son will choose to join you. Another will only know you in the liminal space of these pages.
The question remains on the page, indelible.

7.
I never expected this. Twenty-five years cannot erode my love for you. I’ll drive a million miles to pursue truth and accountability for your empty pages. Justice itself is not the goal; it’s a process of discovery. My life is no longer about chasing the next triumph. I’m not finally arriving at a reckoning. It’s about how I meet each moment – with openness and the willingness to keep awakening. This is my testimony. It’s what I know. — 7/25/2026

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