by Rory Feek
We spent a day or two visiting Uncle Dale and his family, and then Dad took me to Estes Park, and I got to ride my first go-kart, which ended with me crashing into some tires and crying and him picking me up and us going out for ice cream.
In late 2008, not long after Joey’s and my music career took off, I got an e-mail from Uncle Dale’s wife, Linda. She said that he was really sick and that he’d been watching us and was so proud of me. And she sent me some wonderful pictures they had of Uncle Dale and my father when they were both young.
We kept in touch through the years, and sometime after he passed away, I got a call from his wife who said that she had Uncle Dale’s guitar and wanted to know if I’d like to have it. I told her that I’d be honored, and so she sent it to me.
I had never owned an old guitar before, especially one that had any family history, so it was especially special for me. And it was also beautiful. I told Joey all about it and started playing it in the shows we played.
A few weeks later I got a call from my aunt, who said, “Did you ever research to see how much the guitar is worth?” . . . and then said something about how the roof on the trailer she’s living in was leaking and the money would sure help her.
Well, I felt terrible. For two reasons. First off, that she had probably said something to me about finding out the value, and in my excitement I completely missed it. And secondly, I realized that I was going to have to pay her for it . . . and when I looked up the value of that model on the Internet, it said it was worth about three thousand dollars. Now, this didn’t come in a time when we had the money to spare, so asking my wife if I could send a check for three thousand dollars for a guitar that I told her was free wasn’t something that I was looking forward to.
But Joey was gracious and understood that we needed to help my aunt, and so we sent the check out, and I have played the guitar in most of our shows since then.
I played that guitar in the last show we performed, as a matter of fact. It was in Heber City, Utah, at the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in October 2016. We were all in Indiana with Joey, and she was very sick, and there was no way for her to play the show. If we had canceled it, we would have put the festival organizers in a bad situation and probably bankrupted their festival. So Heidi and I flew there and played it without Joey.
It was terrible. And beautiful. I think I cried through half the songs. And I know the audience had tears in their eyes the whole time too. Because they all knew what was happening to our family and what was probably about to happen soon . . . and their hearts went out to us.
After the last song of the show, I walked off the stage and handed the guitar to Heidi.
“I’m done,” I said with tears flowing down my face. She knew what I meant. Not just done with the show but done performing completely.
“It’s yours now.”
And just like that, Uncle Dale became hers.
Heidi loves that old guitar and wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Because it is her grandfather’s brother’s guitar and because it was mine. And even more so because it was there with us when Joey couldn’t be. It is a collector’s item and has probably appreciated in value since we got it. Maybe worth another five hundred dollars or more now, I would guess, but for Heidi and for our family, it is beyond priceless.
Boy in the Mirror
There’s a big difference between growing up and growing old.
I can’t figure it out. The guy in the mirror can’t be me. I’m considerably younger, better looking, with a lot less freckles and frown lines. But no matter how many times I wake up in the morning, splash my face with water, and expect to see something else staring back at me, it’s always the same old guy.
Growing older has been strange. First off, because only my body has grown older. My mind hasn’t seemed to age much at all. It somehow still thinks that I am in my late twenties, maybe early thirties or so. I have always heard that we all are born with internal clocks, but mine seems to have a few glitches in it. It’s like the hour and minute hands stopped turning around in the late ’90s.
And I’m not the only one. Almost every single man I know is the same way. They don’t recognize the guy they see in their mirrors. This man in the mirror is usually rounder or shorter, grayer or balder, or a million other not-so-flattering things for men. They all see themselves much younger than they actually are. It’s a weird phenomenon, for sure.
Add to the fact that when our parents were our age, they were old. And the generation before that. Their bodies somehow aged right along with the numbers on their birthday cakes. When my dad was thirty-eight, he was clearly an older man. And at fifty, he was a senior citizen or close to it. But me, at fifty-two . . . I’m in the prime of my life. Really just getting going.
When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to be older. I was in a hurry to get there. But somewhere around thirty, my mind put the brakes on. And they’ve sorta stayed on ever since. Most of my best guy friends are much younger than me. As a matter of fact, the group of men I meet with on our weekly Wednesday morning porch time to drink coffee and solve the world’s problems (we wish) . . . are mostly in their twenties and thirties. But, for some reason, I think we’re the same age. I’m not older, and they’re not younger, we’re just buddies. All peers to each other.
But I have a feeling that just because I think that doesn’t mean that it’s actually true or that they think that. There’s a good chance that they might see me as an elder statesman in the group or even an out-of-touch father-y figure of some sort. God forbid. It’s hard for me to imagine, but I know it’s possible. Probable, actually.
When I was still a fairly young songwriter, I went to breakfast with an older legendary writer, and while we were sitting in the booth at the Pancake Pantry, a pretty young waitress came over and took our order. She was sweet, and my older friend was kinda flirting with her. And when she walked away, he set his menu down and said, “Man, if I was five years younger, I’d . . .” You get the idea. He had no idea how old he was to her. And to me. I remember it was shocking, actually. And, at the time, I found myself wondering if it is this way with all men. I’ve come to realize that it is. Or, at least, with all the ones I know.
And the truth is, it’s not an age thing when it comes to aging. Strangely, sex still seems to be on every man’s mind, no matter how old they are. It makes me wonder if it’s that way even in a nursing home. I know most people out there are thinking, That’s sick. I get it. Me too. But I have a feeling if I was in a nursing home, I’d feel a little differently about it.
But the truth is, I am ready to be older. And I have been for a while now. I think my kids need me to be, and God knows if my wife was here, she’d probably be a big fan of it. But the problem is that I can’t seem to figure out how to get there. Most of my friends are all younger, or even if they’re near my age, they’re younger at heart, and that has a way of rubbing off on you. Mostly in a good way, but now and then I find myself thinking . . . Am I ever going to grow up?
Probably not. But I will grow old. And how those two things intersect is probably going to be a never-ending battle. For me and for all men. All women too. That’s probably a great thing. To be young at heart is a blessing, I believe. It keeps you young even when your body says something different.
I went to a preschool orientation last night with a bunch of other parents of three- and four-year-olds, and I was by far the oldest parent there. But, strangely, it didn’t bother me. Mostly because I don’t feel any different than them. In my eyes, life is brand-new with our little one and each and every day is exciting and filled with wonder, just as it is in Indiana’s eyes. Even though twenty-something years have passed since my older girls were preschoolers and I was sitting in a room full of parents hearing about school supplies and nap time . . . it might as well have been yesterday. It is all brand-new to me, just as it would have been if Joey were here with me.
Life is a gift, no matter what age you’re living it.
Climbing Trees
The best fruit is always out on a limb.
I’m a dreamer. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. But I’m also a doer. And that’s a powerful combination.
When it comes to dreaming, I am fairly fearless. I am not intimidated by powerful people or out-of-my-league situations or the hundreds of other things that can paralyze a lot of dreamers. For some reason, I feel comfortable outside of my comfort zone.
I heard a quote years ago that I loved and have tried to live by . . . “The best fruit is always out on a limb.” I’m not sure who originally said it. Some say Mark Twain, some say Will Rogers. But one thing I’m sure of is that I believe it. I know that it is true. Quotes are just quotes until you see them come to life. And then they are truths. This one is as real as it gets for me.
If life were a tree that we were climbing up, it is natural to want to stay close to the trunk and only reach for what is nearby and safe. But that is the same place where everyone else is, and they’re trying to do the same thing. And all the best fruit in those spots have already been taken. And so we must climb a little higher and dig a little deeper inside ourselves and face our fears by putting them to the test. By shimmying out on a flimsy branch that could break at any moment and send you crashing to the ground.
But oh, the fruit that is awaiting out on a limb. It is special. Magic fruit.
I’ve come to realize that, most of the time, anything worth doing is scary as hell. But the good kind of scary. The invigorating kind. The kind that reminds you that you are alive and that life is incredible and absolutely anything is possible. Another, more well-known quote by Henry David Thoreau talks about how most “men lead lives of quiet desperation,” and I believe that is true also. We live without ever really living. We love without ever really knowing what true love feels like. Most of the time we don’t even know what it is that we’re missing. We just know that there’s an emptiness inside us, and we’re yearning for something that we can’t put our fingers on.
So how do you do it? How do you push your fears aside and start climbing higher and further into the unknown? Well, the truth is, you don’t. He does. The goal isn’t to know what is waiting for you, it is to believe that something wonderful is waiting out there on a limb. And that requires faith. And for me, faith is always tied to God. To a higher power than ourselves.
I had to take a very close friend to an alcohol rehab center outside of Nashville recently and drop her off for thirty days of treatment. She was terrified. Not knowing what this place was going to be like or how it would affect her. I was so excited for her, I could hardly stand it. As I hugged her goodbye and left in my truck, I pulled out the front gate of that beautiful facility and passed through a large wrought-iron gate that had the words “Let go and let God” in bold letters written across it. And I smiled so big. Because that’s what it’s going to take. For her to get better and for us all to live a fulfilling life.
We can’t do it on our own. We just can’t. We need help. Right now, my friend doesn’t have a higher power. She only has her willpower. And as hard as she’s tried to do it on her own, she can’t. Her nerves are shot, and her heart is broken. That is a terrible, beautiful place to be, I think. I’ve been there many times, and that’s usually the moment when I stop trying to do it myself and getting nowhere and, instead, start letting go and letting God do what He does. Change us. Comfort us. Make us more like Him.
Going out on a limb requires a faith in something bigger than you. But that, of course, is where the magic is. You have to believe it to see it. And the best way to do that is just to start climbing and stepping out of your comfort zone. And with every urge inside you to look down and let life paralyze you and leave you clinging to the branch, don’t. Instead, just keep looking up, keeping your eyes on Him and what He has in store for you.
And next thing you know, you will find yourself living a life that you never in your wildest dreams imagined was possible. I know. It’s happened to me many times. It is happening still.
We are not all wired to go way out on a limb by ourselves. Some of us make that journey together . . . with others. My wife, for example. She was more cautious than me and preferred to stay grounded. Not because she was scared but because she didn’t long for much more of anything than she already had. But she was a huge part of the journeys we took out on a limb. Because she fearlessly believed in me and in God. She not only let me get out on some scary limbs by myself, she gave me a leg up to get started, and, most of the time, she was my biggest cheerleader in the journey.
From where she was standing, Joey couldn’t see the fruit either and had no idea where these dreams would lead us, but she didn’t need to. She, like me, was a believer in the impossible and also a believer in the Bible verse that says, “With God all things are possible.” And they were.
When I bought our beautiful, historic farmhouse, most people would’ve described it differently. Probably more like “money pit,” “barely livable,” or a “terrible mistake.” In fact, one of my carpenter buddies told me I was out of my mind. “You’ve got to have cojones of steel, my friend,” he said, “to buy a house like that! Do you have any idea how much money and time it’s going to take to fix it up?” Of course, I didn’t. I was clueless when it came to home repair or anything like it. But then he smiled and said, “But to win big, brother, you have to gamble big.” He went on to say that if I stuck it out and didn’t give up, the farmhouse would in time become an amazing place to raise my family and pass down when I’m gone. And he was right.
But, at the time, the decision to move my family into that old house forty-five miles south of Nashville was me scooting out on an unfamiliar branch and taking my whole family with me. I could’ve stayed in the comfortable apartment we lived in or invested my money in a nice house in a cul-de-sac in town somewhere. But something inside me longed for something less . . . that could in time be something more. Much more.
I have dozens and dozens of other stories of scary limbs that I’ve gone out on over the years. That Joey and I have gone out on. Not all of them worked out like we hoped, but, somehow, most of them have. And the ones that didn’t turn out like we hoped . . . well, they actually turned out even better. They were like branches that we went out on that had no fruit. They didn’t pay off in the moment, but they were part of building our courage, and instead of climbing down and giving up . . . we just grabbed a higher branch and kept climbing to see what might be there.
I am still climbing. Still shimmying. Now I have a baby in my arms, so each move I make is more delicate and important than ever.
My Worst Nightmare
For most of my married life, I have had a recurring nightmare that something happens and I lose Joey. Thank God that never happened.
That might seem like a funny statement considering the situation today, but let me explain. In my dream, I lose her because I’ve done something stupid and I’ve messed up the beautiful thing that God has given. I’ve thrown it all away for nothing. Blown the one incredible opportunity that I’ve been given to be part of something special . . . either by neglecting my wife or being unfaithful to her.
I know the man that I used to be, and I think that plays a big part in why I used to have that fear. I know that those things are possible. I’ve been foolish before and made bad decisions, and down inside, no matter how much I’ve changed, I know that there’s always a chance that the old person that I was could show up and mess everything up. I’m so thankful that he never did.
Near the time when we had found out that Joey’s cancer had continued spreading and there was nothing that the doctors could do . . . I had to fly somewhere without her. And I remember being in the airport in Nashville walking up to the Southwest counter and through security by myself. That might not seem like much of a big deal, but at the time, for me it was. Joey and I had flown hundreds of times over the past ten years, and we had always traveled together. We were pretty much inseparable, and everyone knew it. We knew most o
f the gate agents and security personnel by name, and they all knew us and our music and story.
So that day when I had to fly out of Nashville without Joey and people started asking me where she was, I smiled and told them that she was at home with her mama, that I’d be flying back home the next day and I would tell her they asked about her. It killed me to be there traveling without her.
About the tenth time that it happened, it hit me differently. Oh my God . . . , I thought, what if I were here without Joey and it was because I had lost her . . . to someone else? Tears started streaming down my face. I had to pull my ball cap down over my eyes to hide what I was feeling. It was a bunch of new emotions hitting me all at the same time . . . the painful truth of knowing that there was a good chance that I was about to lose my beautiful wife . . . and also the thankfulness of knowing that it wasn’t because I had done something foolish to lose her. My heart didn’t know how to process what I was feeling. Honestly, it still doesn’t.
I believe that is why I am able to walk around with a sense of gratitude instead of a feeling of complete loss. I am thankful at the same time that I’m brokenhearted. And, for some reason, the positive outweighs the negative. Maybe because all I ever hoped for in a relationship was something decent. It didn’t have to be great. Just not terrible. And God gave me so much more than I ever dreamed.
I still walk around pinching myself—not completely believing . . . how blessed I was. How blessed I am to be part of Joey’s life and story. I never deserved her, and she was a gift from heaven. So if God chose to call her back there . . . it is hard for me to be angry.
