Last week, I attended the memorial service for a mentor who changed my life.
Ed served 28 years in the military before we met. He brought into business the kind of calm that comes from living through things most people only read about.
One afternoon, he asked about my military service.
I told him about being a young Air Force intelligence specialist in 1979, tasked with preparing a top-secret status briefing for the commander of Tactical Air Command after the failed hostage rescue mission in Iran.
Then Ed quietly shared his own story.
He had been there, escaping Tehran after the mission was scrubbed.
The event I knew only as a classified briefing had been part of his lived experience.
I remember sitting there stunned. Honored.
But the conversation that changed my life came later.
I was on assignment when I made a terrible decision.
I drove drunk.
The consequences were immediate and deserved.
The shame arrived even faster.
I delayed telling anyone as long as I could.
Eventually, I had to call Ed.
I was certain he would let me go.
Because that’s what I believed I deserved.
Instead, he said: “I’ve led men for over 30 years. If you think you’re the first person I’ve ever dealt with who made a stupid mistake, you’re making another stupid mistake.”
Then he helped me make a plan.
He took assignments that increased his own travel burden so I could keep working until my license was reinstated.
But the most important thing he gave me wasn’t logistical help.
It was grace.
And at that point in my life, grace was something I couldn’t give myself.
I was deeply ashamed—not just of the DUI, but of what it seemed to say about who I had become.
So ashamed, in fact, that I didn’t speak publicly about that DUI until 2023—nearly two decades later.
Ed refused to reduce me to my worst decision.
Looking back, I can see how much of the stability and balance I built traces back to that moment.
Sometimes that’s how our next chapter begins.
Not with a breakthrough.
Not with forgiveness.
Just with someone standing beside you long enough for you to believe you can start again.
At his memorial, I stood among his family and fellow veterans as the honor guard presented the folded flag, fired the traditional three-volley salute, and Taps echoed across hallowed ground.
I found myself thinking about the kind of man he was.
A man who had dedicated his life to service and family.
A man who could have just let me go.
But showed me grace instead.
Some leaders command respect.
Others help rebuild lives.
Ed did both.
— Mark Wigginton
Midlife Guide | Next Chapter Navigator
📬 MarkW@FocusingOnResults.com
🌐 www.focusingonresults.com
🔗 Connect with me on LinkedIn
P.S. If this message resonated with you, it might speak to someone else too. Forward it to a friend who’s ready for their next chapter—you never know what kind of shift a few words of encouragement can spark.
Unsubscribe · Preferences
