I took Chuck to dinner last night. You don't know Chuck, so just picture the kind of neighbor you hope for in rural Maine: blunt, opinionated, generous, and absolutely incapable of filtering a thought—that's Chuck.
I use his tractor every year to mow my meadow, and if I don't have a tool, Chuck usually does. When he tells you what he thinks, it comes unvarnished. That's what I love about him.
When Megan and I first moved into our home, we took Chuck to dinner. There's something you learn about a person when you break bread together—it's hard to name, but I can read someone across a dinner table instantly. So as the packing boxes piled up and the arrival of the moving truck loomed, I knew Megan and I needed to take Chuck out again. To say thank you. To say goodbye. A bookend to our time as neighbors.
Last night we sat overlooking the Kennebec River, eating oysters, swapping stories, and trading gratitude for the years we've shared—even with forty acres between us.
When the plates were cleared, we passed on dessert and walked down to a dock we could see from our window, ice cream calling us instead. We stood there in the salty breeze, cones in hand, when Chuck suddenly turned, looked at us, and said, "I can't believe she's leaving you. That's fucking bullshit."
It wasn't meant as a joke, but all three of us laughed—not because it was funny, but because it was raw and true. His words landed like a gut punch, and yet there was something oddly refreshing in their honesty.
In our world, when someone hurts us, the default response is clear: cut them off, cancel them, hate them. Divorce. Politics. Religion. Friendships. The rule is the same: pick a side, draw your line, and nurse your bitterness.
Hatred feels easier, but it eats you alive.
Someone has been teaching me a different way these past few years. He shows me how to carry a burden the extra mile, turn the other cheek, and forgive—not once or twice, but seventy times seven.
Love isn't pretending the pain isn't real. It isn't ignoring betrayal. It's choosing not to let bitterness have the last word. Megan made her decision. It hurts. Some days I want to grab the easy path of contempt, to hold her at a distance. But I know where that road leads, and I refuse to walk it.
Chuck's honesty last night was a gift. It named the reality. But it also pointed to something deeper: disagreement and disappointment don't have to end in contempt.
Every morning, as the sun casts across the meadow, I pray a simple line: "Please forgive where I miss the mark, just as I forgive others who miss the mark." Some mornings I choke on the words, but I keep saying them anyway.
And so here I am, packing boxes as my time in Maine drifts away like the current of the Kennebec. What lies ahead is uncertain, but one thing is clear: I will not choose sides. I will choose love.
Beautifully said!
Love your writing!
Your words reach very deep. Thank you!