You were right, Wally. The truth hit with a force that didn’t bother with warning, like a freight train barreling through the dark, cutting across the stillness of those Georgia nights in the mountains.

I remember sitting there, hands folded, gazing out at the fields and wondering if my work in the world would hold up after I was gone.

You pray, some days, that the seeds you once pressed into the soil still have hope of blooming, even if you won’t be here to see it. And yet, that ache sets in—the hunger to retrace your steps, mend old rows, rip out the regrets and weeds with these tired hands, though they tremble more now than ever.

It comes suddenly, like one of those thunderclaps that rattled the windows of the old barracks in Dahlonega.

A realization, raw and unvarnished: you’re worn down, your spirit outpaced by the world’s quickening strides.

Everything you thought you knew feels upside down, and the place you call home grows distant, all edges and echoes. It’s as if you’ve slipped hard and headlong into a world you hardly recognize, leaving behind the comfort of what used to be.

Still, you find yourself drawn onward, the rhythm of your steps playing out in stubborn cadence, though your own heart warns you nothing is waiting at the vanishing point. The dust you kick up is just a memory, trailing you toward empty tracks that glint and disappear beneath the heat. Hope may be thin as mist, but you walk on.

This was what I wrote to my dear friend, Sgt. Wally, when he set out for Belize—a search for something that always lived in his chest, waiting. Now, with him gone, I trust the angels found gold in the man they called home.