Shortly before the Colorado Vacation last summer a friend of mine was justly incarcerated and is now serving a strict probation that is almost a form of house arrest. Going periodically to visit him from the city provided me a great and relaxing getaway; he lives in our striking mountains, many states away from his family, under the yoke of a system whose modus operandi only seems to get the beginning right, without ever moving toward that clemency and healing any decent person would desire, even for an enemy.

That first vacation was one of the most miserably wretched physical experiences I had ever known. Recently divorced with five kids 8 and younger, I arrived with a flu that came and went like crashing waves. But even when the severe pain receded I was often too tired to carry my son—a mere a toddler—to wherever the next activity happened to be. I didn't smile much but was taken back by the many smiles that greeted me by this person or that person, many of whom I'd never met, who helped my girls get food on their plates and to their tables, babysat during the games, or carried my son at their breast or on their back. Even when I took a wrong turn and accidentally went with my kids on the trail for the long hike to the lake, missing the turnoff for the shorter one intended for kids, I was only met with more smiles and offers not to turn back, but to brave the arduous hike as everyone else carried, fed and played with my children up the mountain. Wearied as hell by a life that shunned dependence, I trudged uphill, stupefied by the fact that I could watch my kids laugh in the hands of others as I absorbed a view that seemed oddly new. I'd hiked in almost every major mountain range in Colorado and all the trails seemed to blur into a schema of trees and creeks, rock formations and lakes with bends that led on and on to more of the same interesting views. But that day trees weren't just brown with green—they were coming to life. The creeks and ponds and lake weren't just water, but seemed to reflect the joy I remembered from the time I was a child when my parents first took us out of Chicago and into the mountains for vacation.

As we were driving up again this year I told my kids vacation was like a small taste of heaven which led to many questions regarding the nature of that place. And instead of continuing as I may have a couple years before, telling them a bunch abstract truths about eternal bliss, I found myself asking them what their favorite things were. It was very fun, and I began to think of the joy, of working against myself so I wouldn't be the grump I had been last year. My compassion for them had deepened since the family became for them more of a shipwreck than ark, and I was determined that not only would they have a ton of fun this year, but so would I.

Without going into all the details of how the vacation this year was one of the best times I have ever known, I will say that for the first time since that great sorrow visited our family I heard my kids asking each day how much more time was left—not before mass ends or until we can get out of some place that had become a burden, but how much time was left until we had to leave for home. How much time was left, they were asking each day, because they didn't want it to ever end. And even the mention of going to mass was now not a burden. Eventually, when I said tomorrow was indeed the last day and we would have to go home, I noticed my two youngest daughters fell behind as we walked, conferring among themselves. They emerged from their meeting only to ask if I could ask everyone in CL if we could all “just stay for a couple more weeks”!

During this time I also mentioned to my friend Nava the situation of my incarcerated friend who had (at least temporarily) lost his family, almost all his friends and certainly his sense of dignity and self-worth. I told him how over the months I had become discouraged in trying to help in a situation that was clearly beyond my ability. How the phone calls were becoming a burden with repeated questions I was now too tired to understand, and much less answer. The visits I used to enjoy I hadn't made for a number of months, for they no longer fulfilled me. And then—as naturally as my kids had taken the hands of strangers up the trails—Nava suggested that we should go visit him right away! I had to ask if he really meant it, for he was suggesting quite nonchalantly that I, that we, should visit a place and a situation that was becoming for me a real hell. I remembered how I once enjoyed it; remembering the long, beautiful drives after a hard week of work, deep into that remote place and thinking that maybe there was a view around one of the many turns that I had not yet seen. Maybe the sun did shine on that cabin in which my friend has lived alone for well over a year, the same way it did that long year ago. But this was a new possibility borne of friendship, and a natural sense of duty to a brother.

The last night before we left we gathered with a guitar, beer, a mandolin and our songbooks. Somewhere in the middle of our singing, goofing around and singing, I found myself smiling and wondered if I might not be letting myself get too carried away. But there was a joy I hadn't experienced this way before and I let myself keep smiling as I sang louder. And even though we would be leaving the mountains in the morning, I couldn't help but think that soon I would venture back into those vast summits and canyons to visit a good friend, with a friend. And with this thought another came gently cooing to my heart: that this next adventure, into that lonesome region just might hold the real promise of becoming a small taste of heaven!