The Shield Isn’t Perfect — And That’s Why I Love It

Tuesday marks one year since the worst day of my life.

It’s an anniversary I never wanted. A date I wish didn’t exist. A day that split my life into before and after.

I’m dreading it.

I know what’s coming. The replay. The time stamps burned into memory. The ordinary moments that became sacred and unbearable all at once.

The text from Alex about school.
My short, distracted reply.
A conversation with a coworker about something that felt important at the time.
Watching him walk out the door.
Texting him, “Please be careful.”
Getting my car inspected.
Driving home, hoping his car would be in the driveway.
It wasn’t.

The knock on the door.

Seeing the troopers.

Knowing before they even spoke.

Collapsing on the floor after the words were said.

The frantic phone calls.
The disbelief.
The numbness.
The pain that felt like it swallowed the world whole.

I don’t want to relive that day.

But here it comes.

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Over the past few months, I’ve been working on something for Alex. A shield. Something to place at the site of the accident.

When I started the project, I had a clear vision in my head. It was going to be perfect — clean lines, straight edges, smooth finish. A wooden D20 carved so precisely it would look professional. Crisp. Flawless.

That’s not what I made.

The edges aren’t straight.
The lines on the D20 are crooked.
Some cuts are rougher than I planned.

At first, that frustrated me.

But somewhere in the process — covered in sawdust, sanding down uneven edges — something shifted.

I started to love the imperfections.

Alex wasn’t perfect.
I’m not perfect.
Love isn’t perfect.

And grief certainly isn’t.

The shield looks like it’s seen battle. Like it’s been used. Like it carries history.

And that feels right.

Because this year has been a battle.

Every day of it.

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When I look at the shield now, I don’t see flaws.

I see fingerprints.

I see the hours spent thinking about him.

I see the frustration, the sanding, the reshaping.

I see a father trying to build something tangible in the face of something unbearable.

It isn’t symmetrical. It isn’t polished to perfection. It looks like it’s been through something.

So have I.

Next week, I’ll put that shield in the ground at the site where my life changed forever. It will be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

But there’s something fitting about placing something imperfect there.

Because that’s what love looks like in the real world.

Not polished.
Not flawless.
Not clean.

But scarred.
Carved.
Battle-worn.
Still standing.

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Alex, you are loved.
You are remembered.
And even in the imperfections, you are honored.