When my wife left me almost a year ago, Pete was the first to call me. He’d been down the divorce road a couple times, emerging on the other side hand in hand with his beloved wife, Jenn. Together they walked me through what the next minutes, hours, days, and weeks would hold as I lay on the guest bed, my office now my temporary bedroom while a horrible week played out. Each offered their thoughts gently, with the certainty derived only from walking the well-worn path of grief toward hope.

I knew Pete for 20 years, first meeting him in the Bethel College library. We chatted philosophy as he scanned in new books and I took out the trash. Our friendship continued long after, our time together a bit less frequent, especially once I moved to Colorado. Last Thanksgiving I planned to see him, but I contracted strep throat on the trip and didn’t want to risk his already weakened immune system. He understood, of course, but looking back, knowing how little time he had left, the increased disappointment makes a lot more sense.

On that phone call - almost a year ago now - he said I should get a tattoo. “The divorce tattoo,” he said smiling, “is a rite of passage.” So, a few weeks later, once the immediate shock had worn off, and after an almost ludicrous amount of time scouring Instagram accounts of local artists, I booked a consultation, and in December had my first session, one that would prove even more cathartic than I’d hoped.

The piece is, of course, Disney themed - the dragon form of Maleficent as depicted at Disneyland’s Fantasmic! nighttime spectacular. I’d dreamed of this tattoo for years, and Pete’s words invited me to see the horror of divorce and loss of my daughter as an opportunity for growth.

On Tuesday I finished the piece. As I laid there, feeling every bit of the vibrant green ink injected into my skin, I imagined Pete sitting there with me, proud to see me taking his advice to lean into the muck - and probably showing me hundreds of memes.

I love and miss you more than I can express. I can’t wait for the day we can enjoy craft coffee together again (the cortado’s on me).

Thank you, Pete.