I Was There

When I was a young boy,

my father took me into the city,
to see a marching band

This last Saturday, I attended a concert. If you're reading this, you probably already know this. And I had an experience that I will remember for my entire life. From the second I stepped out of the car until I collapsed into bed in the wee hours of the morning, I was on one hell of a ride. And honestly, I'm still kind of hyped from the energy of the entire thing. And the sensation that blows my mind can be summed up in three simple words: I was there.

As I get older and have more experiences, I have slowly collected "I was there" experiences. Some I knew were going to be big going in, and some I didn't even realize were significant until later. This thing, this event that lives in the minds of a lot of people lives in my mind differently because I was there. And maybe it's my FOMO talking, or maybe it's because I was born in 1994 and had lived through several history-book-worthy moments before my 30th birthday, but there is something cool about being able to say you were there. I'm sure I'll get tired of it someday, but today is not that day.

When I was growing up, like everyone else, I heard adults talk about interesting things from world events to cultural shifts and just cool performances. Being at something like Burning Man or remembering the Kennedy assassination was something interesting to me. I had my first "I was there" in 2001 when the twin towers collapsed, a day with ripple effects that have affected billions of lives. Everyone remembered that day when I was in school, and now? No one was there except the staff. Those kids, what's their "I was there?" Is it the COVID19 lockdown? The January 6th riots? Positive or negative, those cultural shifts immediately register (at least to me) as "This is something big, and I am here living in it." When I cleaned out my glove box, I found a letter from the company I worked for in 2020, stating that I was an essential  worker and was allowed to be out and about during the height of lockdown. I kept it. Why? I was there. It's a physical reminder that I was there.

An "I was there" doesn't have to be a big cultural shift, either. It can be something that, while not necessarily vital to world politics, means a lot to your subculture or fandom. One of my "I was there" moments was opening night of Avengers: Infinity War. I saw it when there were no spoilers to be had, in a packed theater. When the credits rolled, I have never heard that big of a reaction in a movie theater. People were cheering and pulling out phones to tell others that they needed to see this. I was born too late for the original Star Wars premiers, so I can only guess that this excitement and need to share the moment was similar for the growing geek subculture of the 70s.

And here we have, on August second, 2025, another "I was there." I attended My Chemical Romance's "Long Live the Black Parade" tour along with my best friend, Rachael. I was most certainly not the only one there. Globe life field was sold out with somewhere around 40,000 people and enough black eyeliner to supply the entire Broadway cast of "Sweeney Todd." Most of my fellow attendees had similar stories to me and my best friend, belting out the album when our parents weren't around and the songs were brand new. We remember when the band broke up, and when they got back together. And now, we are here to belt out these songs one more time, together, with the band playing live. How could I not be totally stoked?

If you've been to any big concerts, you know that the energy is something that you can't get anywhere else. The crowd's excitement all feeds into this intense atmosphere, and when the band is feeling it too, it feels like every nerve is on end, taking in every iota of every moment, and you cant help but sing, scream, raise your hands, and bounce with the music. From the first snare drums of the intro to the second the house lights came up, Rachael and I were on our feet, totally surrounded by and inhabiting this concert.

Photographic evidence of this incredible concert

I was there, but I was far from the only one. When I posted about the concert on my social media, several of my friends and acquaintances replied to say that they had been there, too. We had all existed in the same moment and hadn't even known it, and now we share that experience of being there.

I looked up a video of the concert that had been posted to YouTube because I was curious as to whether the wall of sound I felt was just because I was within it. Sure enough, almost as loud as Gerard Way at times, tens of thousands of humans from all walks of life, with one voice, singing clearly enough to make out the lyrics of "Welcome to the Black Parade." I have been in choirs since I was a kid, and I have heard groups of 200 that can't be that focused. And best of all, somewhere in that sound, about three-quarters of the way back, on the left, is me. You can't make it out, but like a snowflake in a blizzard, my voice is part of this incredible spectacle. I was there.

If that kind of borderline-overload intensity isn't for you, I get it. If huge crowds and loud noises make you want to curl up in a ball and die, that's fine. I call myself a sensation junkie because I love this kind of thing. But you don't have to be a sensation junkie to appreciate being "there." It's kind of hard to hide from living though something significant if you live long enough. Good or bad, there is something interesting about just being...there.

I guess this post is mostly a recognition of my "I was there" moments, and if you're reading this, I hope you think back on some of yours. I also hope you have some that you remember fondly, like an unforgettable show or cultural milestone. I know one note that will forever remind me that I was there.

*Piano plays a G*

The Best Part of My Job

I am a clinical lab tech at a fertility clinic. If you ask me about my job, I am more than happy to talk about it. To anyone. Ad nauseum. I have talked about my job at family functions, parties, pretty much anywhere you would ask someone about what they do for a living. When Alex and I were buying our house, I found out that our realtor had been through IVF and talked about my job with her. I love my job. But there is a small part of my job that is really special to me, and it’s not really something that comes up in conversation often. It kind of fits the Easter season, so I think it’s a good time to share it.

After an embryo transfer, patients wait ten days before coming in for a blood pregnancy test. For those ten days, we have no idea whether or not the transfer worked. That blood test is a huge moment for both the patient and the treatment team. We get excited when we see a first post-transfer HCG (the pregnancy hormone) on the schedule and we love to see the positive numbers on the analyzer.

Last year, sometime near Easter, I got one of those magic tests from one of my favorite patients. This husband and wife were always very kind to our staff and really gave the impression that they would be good parents. They had infertility factors that made pregnancy the old-fashioned way nearly impossible, but with a little help from modern technology, we were trying to make a pregnancy happen for them. I remember doing the sperm preparation on the day of the egg retrieval. I had seen the blood tests leading up to the embryo transfer, and I remember the sinking in my chest when the test came back negative. This was the first test after the second embryo transfer. My coworker had gone to lunch, so I was alone in the lab. I smiled as I put the blood on the analyzer, saying “come on, big numbers” under my breath. The machine hummed and clicked, and I went about my usual daily tasks. When I went back later, the result was ready. It was positive, and the number was high!

This is the moment I want to share. I saw the result on the machine. The result hasn’t been sent to the nurses, it’s not in the patient’s chart, no one else knows. For just a few seconds, I am the only person in the world who knows for sure that something wonderful has taken place. This reminded me of something. In John 20, on Resurrection morning, Jesus appears to Mary Magdalene. She is the first person to know that the tomb is empty not because someone has stolen the body, but because Jesus is alive. For just a moment, she is the only person in the entire world to know. My excitement over blood test results pales in comparison to Jesus’ resurrection, but I knew exactly what I had to do once that number popped up on the screen. I sent the result to the chart for the nurses, and got on a chat to send a message to the embryologists. I told every coworker I saw, and in no time at all, the whole clinic knew.

How much faster must Mary have hurried to tell her friends? She probably couldn’t keep from telling anyone and everyone who would listen. How can you keep such good news to yourself? This is the joy that infuses Easter celebration. The joy of the resurrection that is the center of all Christianity, the resurrection without which my faith would be in vain.

I will never tire of seeing those positive blood test results, and I hope that I never tire of the joy of Christ’s resurrection. And in case you were wondering, that pregnancy that prompted this post? It turned out to be twins. They arrived healthy and adorable a few months ago. I love my job. 

Happy Easter, I wish you all the joy of Mary Magdalene on Resurrection morning.

The Strangest Heirloom

 My grandmother Dolores Friesen passed away over a year ago now. Her estate has been divided between my mom, my aunt, and my uncle. But from this, I received an unusual heirloom, and the story, though not particularly interesting, is kind of worth sharing.

I was getting ready to visit my family over Christmas, and in one of my conversations with my mother, I mentioned that I was thinking of getting a kindle to take advantage of some of the really cheap books that were available. She mentioned that she still had Grandma’s kindle and that it hadn’t been used in a year, but if it still worked, I could have it. It hadn’t been touched because my mom had her own Kindle, so it made sense for me to take it.

My grandma Dolores loved to read. She always had a book going, and when she got older the Kindle was a great option because she could increase the print size as needed. She used the Kindle so much that she got a second one so that one would always be charged. So, when I left Nebraska after my visit, I brought a gently used, purple-cased 8th generation Kindle Fire.

Some kids inherit photo albums and china, I get an e-reader. To be fair, I do also have some more traditional things from my grandma, like my silverware (which I love). But this strangest of all heirlooms is just as special to me. I remember seeing it plugged in and laying on the arm of her chair, as much a part of the furniture as the TV stand or the side table.

When I got to my house in Texas, I plugged in the long-dead tablet before going to bed. The next day, I opened the front of the purple case and hit the power button. The device came to life like it always had. I tapped the “Kindle Books” icon and for a moment, I froze. 

There it was, the last book that my grandmother had read on this Kindle over a year ago. The print was comically large and the screen too bright, but there it was. It was a book called Knife Edge, a crime thriller, nothing earth-shattering. But at that moment, I thought about how this Kindle came to me. I know that at some point, my grandmother was reading this book, and at this point, she put it down. And never picked it up again. This book will remain unfinished forever, the last book she read. She couldn’t have known, and she definitely never thought that her granddaughter would be the next to open the book. 

I wouldn’t have just opened the book she was reading when she was alive, but here I am. It feels intimate, like I got some special insight into her last days on this side of Heaven. And this isn’t even any particularly special book. It wasn’t a favorite book, it wasn’t anything she wanted to pass along. It’s like seeing the last grocery list a person made, it’s just what was there. There’s something surreal about it.

And I’m here having this experience over a tablet, of all things. A piece of technology that will outdate and break entirely too soon, something that no one expects to pass on. My grandmother’s Kindle? Really? That just sounds weird to say. But it’s not the circuits and diodes, the battery and processor that make this kindle special to me. It’s the hours that my grandmother spent reading and playing games on it. And knowing my Grandma Dolores, she would want me to use it.

I logged out from the long-unused Amazon account and logged in to mine. I turned down the brightness and reduced the print size, then set it to dark mode because that’s how I like it. It’s my Kindle now, but it will always remind me of my grandma. A strange heirloom for sure, but one that feels very fitting for the age of technology in which we live. The print is small and the books are different, but I’ll keep the case. She picked it, and I think that her Kindle should stay in that case. And, to be perfectly honest, I like the purple.

Thank you for reading. Like I said, it’s kind of an odd story, but it’s also kind of beautiful.