(The following is a letter to my son Corban who left us just over a year ago)
Hey Kiddo,
First things first. Dude! As I write this the Ravens have a real shot at going to the Super Bowl this year. Things could change but it’s looking really good. Maybe you’d be talking smack, but I seem to remember you said you’d learned your lesson—you wouldn’t wanna ruin their chances. Right? The Vols played in the Citrus Bowl today. They beat Iowa 35-0. It was playing on the tv in the living room, though we didn’t watch. It’d feel weird not to have it on. So, we just let it play. I do that a lot. It’s so weird without you here but having a game on in the background at least is peaceful.
So… Happy New Year, I guess? I’m not sure how it works there in eternity. What does a new year mean to you? Probably not much except maybe that we’re one step close to being together again. Oh, and regarding a new year, I hate that it’s 2024 because you left us a little over a year ago, but it looks like two years which gives the impression you’ve been gone longer than you really have. And what people don’t understand is that unlike people who tend to believe that “it gets easier”— it’s harder, at least for me as the time and space between us grows.
Anyway, I’m sure there are tons of sights and wonders keeping you busy and for that I’m grateful and a bit jealous.
Your mom and I continue to study Heaven. I’m amazed at all we can learn and all that’s available to us, but much of it’s still up to interpretation and mystery. We learn just enough info to wow us before we’re filled with more questions. One day your mom and I made a list of all the people we know who are there with you. I wonder if you’ve connected with them. Friends and family who’ve gone on.
I have tried to cope with your absence as best I can. Currently every time I try to type another sentence-- I burst into tears. You would not be impressed. Lol.
Let’s see, comedy--- I’m so glad you got to see me perform at CPAC. It was a great show. I pulled back for a while but you’d be happy and slightly mortified to know I jumped back into stand-up finally. For the most part it’s gone well. I struggle mostly with your absence in that respect. Much of my content was directly about you, so I’ve had to change things. In a way that’s good, it’s got me writing more. So, I’ve done some shows in some awesome places, but I’ll be honest there’s an emptiness or sadness I am working to overcome. I can’t stand leaving you out. Not to mention sadness and comedy are polar opposites. It doesn't always go as planned but I'm figuring it out.
A friend and fellow comic this year told me I should consider the first big laugh of a show yours. That sounded practical and made me happy and it helps me. I’m not sure if you know this, but I end every show with “That’s my time, I’m Chester G., and I’m also CorbansDad.” One night after a show a guy said his wife had taken a picture of the screen behind me that said “CorbansDad”. He said she planned to look it up because she knew “there must be a story there”. I hope she did look it up. I want everyone to know you.
I’ve tried to help others understand grief through telling your story. The truth is, I talk about you every chance I get.
After you left us, I was inspired to write down your story, I wrote it on a napkin and the end result was a song. I released it on Father’s Day, as “CorbansDad”. Not just because I miss being your dad here, but because I realized there are so many other hurting people who miss being moms and dads too. At first a lot of people didn’t understand, but I think they get it now. I am really not worried about those who don’t. I just hope they are never forced to get it. I do spend a good amount of time connecting with others whose kids left earlier than expected, and it helps me to know in some small way I can help them. And they help me too. Talking about you is therapeutic.
I’ve talked about you on podcasts and at shows, and on the radio. I knew while you were with us Corban that you never wanted attention brought to you. You did so much behind the scenes---Giving, serving, helping, and supporting other people. Speaking of friends, oh Corban you have some awesome friends. Many who stay in touch with us or check in. But also, there are those we keep up with and support on your behalf because you would want us to do that. I wanna honor you. We’re doing our best to "represent".
This year we started a foundation kiddo. It’s not our foundation, it’s yours, and people have been so
Give or Learn more at www.servestrong.us
kind. We offically named it “Serve Strong: The Corban Scott Goad Memorial Foundation.” We’re hoping to help first responders and sideline medical support teams. It’s early but already seems to be going well. I think you’d think it’s pretty cool. Your mom and I call it “Corban’s foundation” because in many ways it is you or at least the closest thing we have to you here. It’s a tangible representation of you. It’s something we can care for, and that we can serve others through, and a way we can express love for things you care about. I tell people all the time I want to love you and cheer you on as much in your leaving as we did with your coming.
Your mom and I talked this weekend. We’re going to make your bedroom sort of the hub for the foundation office for now. We’re not changing much, but we are bringing back your rolltop desk, the one your Nan left you, and a few other things. But it will still be your room. I know it’s weird, but I’ve had such a hard time with that. You’d be happy to know the cousins came for a visit over the holidays. We were thrilled to see them and they were the first guests we’ve invited to stay in your room. I think you’d be thrilled with that, and it was so awesome to see them.
I’ve always heard that the “holidays are hardest”, and they’re definitely tough---
birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s---but the days that are most troubling for me are regular, “everyday” days. Meals. Ballgames. Church. Last week at church, as the slides on the screen changed during worship and the sermon, I imagined you back there working---or fooling around in the sound booth. I smiled and then I wanted to run out of the sanctuary. Later we had a meal in the gym, and I could see you playing basketball and laughing at and with your friends. And of course, it’s the same place we held your memorial service. I wouldn’t change the way we did it, but life is hard kiddo. To say that no one understands is an understatement. I see you everywhere. Sometimes in the car I look to my right and I see you there. Sometimes you're wearing your earbuds pretending you can't hear me. Other times, you're poking fun at the music I'm listening to or the jokes I'm telling.
Oh kiddo, you’d love our new deck and screened in porch. It feels like something you’d truly enjoy. It reminds me of the cabin in a lot of ways. It brings us peace. It’s rustic and airy, and homey and comfortable. And sometimes when the weather allows, we sit out there for hours. Your mom reads. I try to read but can’t focus --so mostly I just scroll on my phone or work on my laptop. But we think about you there. We talk often about how much you’d love it. We even added some of your things on the shelves. We feel close to you there.
I have often asked God if he’d tell you I miss you and that I love you. I don’t know how he handles a prayer like that, but I know He loves me so maybe. Praying is extremely hard for me. Especially if I am called upon to pray out loud—even if it’s just to bless a meal. Worship is hard. Praying is hard. I don’t know how many times I’ve looked at your mother and nodded to ask her if she’ll just go ahead and do it—I will occasionally muster up the courage to pray or say the blessing and it always, always ends in tears. I’m a mess without you. I am a mess knowing how brief this life is. I am a mess when I see families choose other things over spending time together. Every relationship is a gift, and every minute even more precious than that.
The animals are doing well but they all miss you. Lucy your final rescue still sleeps curled up on your bed at night. Julie peers out the windows, and she’ll bark and growl if she hears a passing car with loud music and speakers thumping. And they will all look at us confused sometimes when we talk about you. You would love preacher the cat, the one who showed up at your memorial service and he’d most definitely love you. I would catch you up on your mother but as you know she’s very private, and this is my letter so I’ll leave it at that. Just know that she desperately misses you. As do I.
I do not know what 2024 holds. But you are in it. You’ll be in it every minute. We will continue to do our best by you.
Love you to eternity and back.
Dad
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*CorbansDad