The Slow Burn: The Ride Was the Point

Five years.

Last week I said goodbye to one of my best friends.

Considering our company is only six years old, he got in on the ground floor. He helped build something real. Something that mattered.

But our story didn’t start in an office.

It started in a folding chair.

Pandemic year.
Masks on.
Chairs spaced out.
The world holding its breath.

I remember our first interaction vividly because the mask forced me to focus on people’s eyes.

His looked confused.

Not lost in the dramatic sense. Just… disoriented. Like he’d walked into the wrong meeting and was too polite to leave. The kind of look that says, How did I end up here?

Most people don’t land in recovery on a winning streak. He wasn’t the exception. The tornado had stopped spinning, but the wreckage was everywhere. He was determined to turn his will over to God, standing at the edge of a searching and fearless moral inventory, staring at debris.

And somehow, in the middle of that, we became fast friends.

No agenda.
No hierarchy.
Just two dudes trying to figure out how to live a new life on life’s terms.

We started meeting every week. Saturday mornings meant riding around the neighborhood in a golf cart with cigars lit, talking about the latest Dax Shepard episode or blasting Yung Gravy like we were 19 again.

No mountaintop revelations.
Just miles, smoke, and laughter.

That year blew by.

He was working retail then …capable of more, but stuck in survival mode. One day I said, “Why don’t you come work with us?”

It wasn’t strategic. It was simple: Let’s build something together instead of just talking about it.

And he did.

From friends to colleagues, we grinded it out in the trenches. Fast forward to today, and we helped build one of the largest companies in the appraisal industry.

But I always had a feeling he was passing through.

Some people are wired for something specific. You can see it on them. He’s one of those guys.

A master storyteller.
An includer.
Quick-witted but rarely cutting. Kind enough not to weaponize humor…but sharp enough that when he does, hilarity ensues.

So yeah, I was bummed when he gave his two-week notice.

Not because we wouldn’t work together anymore….but because I realized how sweet the time had been.

If you’ve followed The Slow Burn, you know I hate last chapters. I rarely finish them.

Who wants a good thing to end?

It’s easy to say, “It’s just another chapter.” In friendship, that’s true. But professionally, the book closed.

And that stung.

This morning I walked past his desk.

Cleared out.
Computer gone.
No coffee mug.
The “World’s Best Dad” banner removed.

For a moment, I felt that familiar resistance…the part of me that wants to freeze good seasons in amber.

But instead of sadness, I felt gratitude.

Encouraged.

Because the Lord gave me a seat at his table for a season.

To shape and be shaped.
To build.
To struggle.
To win.
To know him and be known by him.

That’s not small.

That’s sacred.

He took a role back in ministry. It’s what he was built for.

Some men build companies.
Some build people.

He can do both…but his wiring leans toward shepherding hearts.

And I respect that.

There’s a temptation to romanticize the beginning or resent the ending.

But what if the point is to enjoy the journey while it’s happening?

To sit in the cart.
To laugh too loud.
To have the hard conversations.
To build things.
To light another cigar even when life feels uncertain.

People aren’t forever.

We know that.
We say that.
But we rarely live like that.

The guys you build with.
The ones you recover with.
The ones who sit passenger seat while you’re figuring out who you’re becoming.

They won’t always be there.

Careers shift.
Callings evolve.
Seasons change.

Sometimes the ending isn’t dramatic.

Sometimes it’s just… time.

We mistake permanence for meaning.

But permanence was never the point.

The ride was the point.

Those Saturday mornings.
Those debates.
Those ash flicks out the cart.
Those honest conversations about fear, ego, faith, marriage, ambition, shame.

You don’t keep the person forever.

You keep the moments.

And the way you showed up together becomes part of you.

That part doesn’t leave.

He’s a real one.

And if this season taught me anything, it’s this:

Hold the fire while you can.

Because one day you’ll walk past an empty desk…

And instead of regret, you’ll want gratitude.

That you were there.
That you showed up.
That you didn’t rush it.
That you didn’t waste it.

People aren’t forever.

But the brotherhood forged in the smoke?

That lingers.

And that’s enough.