Permission to Rebuild

“Christmas this past year was terrible,” was the way my call with Mark started. He and I go way back, to my days living in Seattle when our kids were born around the same time, and our families celebrated special occasions together.

Those memories were seemingly erased as he continued.

“My wife and I are in the process of a divorce.” The confession didn’t come as a complete surprise. “The boys and I spent Christmas Eve together, and then they were with her on Christmas Day—I was alone.”

And then the story took a turn. Being newly single and a little unorganized, Mark had forgotten to go grocery shopping before the holiday.

“I was hungry mid-afternoon and went out to get something to eat. Nothing was open—I must have driven around for an hour,” he went on.

His adventure fruitless, he returned home, dug through his pantry, and found a single can of chili. He heated it up and ate it directly out of the saucepan. Quite the Christmas feast.

What struck me wasn't the chili. It was the image of my friend driving around on Christmas Day, looking for somewhere—anywhere—to go. The streets empty, his heart empty, then returning to a vacant house and realizing the holiday he had always known was gone.

“That will never happen again,” he said, determined.

It was a watershed moment in an era of loss, discovery, and turning the page. In 2018, Mark had lost his job as a financial advisor. A thirty-year career suddenly hit a brick wall.

Within months, which must have felt like decades, he began to rebuild. Catching on with another firm, he started the arduous process of convincing clients to transfer their assets. Not all did. 

As he navigated the next year of his evolving career, he began to realize that a fresh start could be a good thing. His marriage had been fraying for years, held together largely by routine and responsibility with the presence of his children at home. Once the boys headed off to college, the hidden truth became increasingly difficult to ignore.

Mark’s professional transition gave him the courage to address his marital woes. When counseling didn't work, he and his wife mutually decided it would be best to move on. This just happened to be the first Christmas since that decision.

As I listened, I realized the story wasn't really about Christmas dinner at all. Rather, it was about what happens when life forces a reset. A lost job, a marriage that had run its course, an empty house on the holidays—most people see those moments as sad, disappointing endings. Mark had begun to see them as permission to start over, to rebuild.

“That will never happen again,” he repeated, not with bitterness or regret but with the conviction of someone who had discovered that beginning again is possible.

For Mark, a can of chili on Christmas Day may have been the low point.

It also proved to be the turning point.