Tag Archives: fatherhood

Brothers in Arms ©️

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Good morning, Cicely.

Today’s not about politics or poetry or wild dreams of transcendence. Today’s about my brother. And the ache that lives just beneath the ribcage when you love someone who’s far away—not just in miles, but in the kind of life they now live.

He’s eleven years younger than me. My little brother. But you know how time works—it stretches and collapses. You blink, and suddenly the kid who used to run after you barefoot through the gravel is a man. A husband. A father.

He married a Swede. Moved halfway across the world to build a life she could believe in. And now he’s over there, doing what good men do—holding his family together. Being strong. Being present. Even when it’s hard.

I know his wife’s struggling right now. And I know what it’s like to carry a family on your back while still trying to keep your own spirit from sagging under the weight. He’s doing his best. I see that. I feel that. And I’m proud of him in that quiet, older-brother kind of way—where pride doesn’t shout, it just nods.

But still… I miss him.

I miss the river. The Yellowstone. The way we used to float downstream like we didn’t have a care in the world. Just the sound of water slapping the raft, a cooler full of something cold, and miles of sky above us. I miss those walks, too. The kind where you don’t even talk, just walk, because sometimes words can’t hold everything two brothers share.

And yeah, I want him to come home.

I want to see him throw his girls in the air and hear their laughter echo through the pines. I want to sit on the porch with him and talk about nothing. About everything. About how weird it is to get older. About how hard it is to be good. About Dad. About life.

But he’s doing what’s right. What’s best for his family. And that’s what real men do. They stay. They show up. Even when they miss home. Even when they miss you.

So this is my radio signal across the ocean. A brother’s broadcast. If you can hear me—just know I love you. I miss you. And I’m rooting for you every single day. You’re not alone. You never were.

This is Chris in the Morning, KBHR 570 AM, sending a little warmth to a younger brother in a colder country.

The Doctor Was My Father ©️

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Good morning, Cicely.

This morning’s not about the moose trotting through Main Street or Ruth-Anne’s weather report. This morning’s about something quieter. Heavier. More sacred.

This morning’s about my dad.

He was a doctor. Not the kind you see in movies, with perfect answers and heroic music swelling in the background. No, my dad was the kind who stitched you up with fingers that shook slightly from exhaustion, the kind who worked long shifts and sometimes came home with the weight of other people’s pain still clinging to him like a second coat. The kind who carried more than he ever let on.

He made mistakes. Lord knows he did. Dads aren’t gods, and sometimes they don’t know how to say sorry. But he was there. Not always in the way I wanted, but in the way I needed. Solid. Present. And when the chips were down, when the world came crashing in, he never turned his back on me. Ever.

He was my biggest fan, even when I was fumbling my way through life like a blindfolded man in a glass shop. He never laughed at my dreams—even the crazy ones like coming up to Alaska and whispering poetry through a mic to a bunch of insomniacs and ice fishermen. He didn’t always understand it. But he never stopped believing in me.

And now he’s gone.

And I’d give just about anything for one more cup of coffee with him. One more walk around the block. One more quiet moment where I could say, “Hey, Dad. I know now. I understand. Thank you.”

But there’s no rewind button. No encore performance.

All I’ve got now are echoes.

The way I clear my throat before I speak—that was his. The way I place my hand on someone’s shoulder when they’re going through it—that was his too. His presence shows up in the most unexpected ways, like a scent on the wind, or the sound of a song I didn’t know I needed until I heard it.

And maybe that’s the secret. Maybe the people we lose never really leave us. Maybe they just become part of the air we breathe. Part of the way we live.

So if you’re listening this morning, and you miss your dad too… I’m with you.

And I think they’re with us.

In the quiet strength we carry. In the love we give. In the lives we build from the scaffolding they left behind.

This is Chris in the Morning, son of a flawed and beautiful man who did his best—and loved me the best way he knew how.