Red Triangles, Rice Cookers, and Resurrection: A Dad’s Easter Reflection

I write these Sunday reflections after Mass—and this Easter Sunday, the readings hit especially close to home. Between Peter’s passionate testimony in Acts about Jesus’ resurrection (Acts 10:34a, 37–43) and Paul’s urging in Colossians 3:1–4 to “seek what is above,” I found myself thinking about new beginnings. Not the kind that involve a magical angel chorus and a glowing tomb, mind you—but the kind where a dad and his adult son learn how to talk again… through texts, smashed potatoes, and a shared love of YouTube cooking videos.

Let me back up.

Donna, my late wife, was the CFO and COO of our family empire. I was the CEO, but not the kind that made decisions. I didn’t even know how much money I made. If I wanted to buy something (yes, usually a tool), I had to pitch my case to Donna like she was on Shark Tank. She’d consider it, then let me know if it fit in the budget. Usually, it didn’t—but occasionally, I got a yes, especially when she understood it had a purpose, like her sewing gadgets did.

She also ran the house, the schedule, the kids. I helped, sure, but she was the compass. After she passed, you might think I’d naturally step in and grow closer to the boys. Instead, I found myself drifting. My job still required me to be in California for a week or two each month. When I was home, I was working, grieving, and barely keeping the house from collapsing into a Lord of the Flies situation.

Each of the boys was different in how they grieved, how they connected. Nick, the oldest, talked with me like an adult. Jake, the youngest, was still in middle school, still forming who he was. We invented a thing where I’d “put on my mommy hat” when he needed me to slow down and actually listen instead of Dad-barking orders.

But Joe—the middle one—was a mystery. I’d text him something deep, he’d reply with a thumbs up. I’d race upstairs thinking we were finally going to talk… and he’d clam up. Eventually I learned the trick: just stay behind the keyboard. He could say things over text that he couldn’t in person. That became how I got him to open up.

And then came the EX into my life. You know that chapter of life where you try to start over, so you focus all your time and effort w/ them. Between navigating a new relationship and trying to figure out my MOGAD diagnosis and treatment (spoiler alert: getting poked with needles a lot), I was—if I’m being honest—more focused on her and my health than on the boys. They were grown, mostly independent, and I let myself believe they were fine. But really? I just didn’t know how to show up differently.

Fast forward to this year. I needed to take Ohana down to North Carolina for a lithium battery upgrade. I figured I’d go solo. But the breakup with the EX had left a crater, and I knew the loneliness would be brutal. I never took Ohana out without the EX, so it would be hard for me. Joe was between jobs and had a free month—so he agreed to join.

And what a month it was.

We sailed, we fixed things, we navigated the ICW together. Joe is sharp, technical, and sees patterns faster than I do. He even taught me how to remember which side the red triangle markers go on (tip: “Mountains are west, triangles are peaks, keep ‘em on the west side of the channel”). It was like watching a mirror version of myself.

He cooked, too. A lot. Introduced me to the glorious rice cooker and got me to order a wok. We made combo egg fried rice (the Tupperware full of cold rice in my fridge is now a permanent fixture) and even did smashed potatoes. He taught me how to make pizza from scratch. I’m still dreaming of doing my own white mushroom gourmet version. And we binge-watched Uncle Roger on YouTube like it was the Food Network Olympics. I now hear his voice in my head every time I crack an egg or touch a packet of MSG. (“Hiyaa, no colander??”)

But the biggest surprise of all? I got to know Joe—not as my kid, but as a man. I got to see who he is when he’s not hiding behind a screen. I heard about his girlfriend (he’s completely smitten), watched how he shares the quirks and joys of his life, and realized… I’d missed a lot. But it’s not too late.

And that’s where the Easter readings come full circle.

Easter is about resurrection. Yes, the miraculous kind where death is defeated—but also the smaller, everyday kind. The resurrection of relationships. The rebirth of trust. The rediscovery of love that’s been buried under years of silence, grief, distraction, and yes, rice cookers.

This past month, I experienced something sacred: I got to resurrect a bond with my son. I got a second chance. And I plan to keep going—Nick and I are planning a fishing week on the bay soon, just the two of us, fully stocked by the folks at Angler’s Bait & Tackle on Route 50.

Maybe Colossians was right. Maybe seeking “what is above” sometimes looks like fishing trips and pizza dough. Maybe bearing witness to new life isn't just about what happened in a tomb 2,000 years ago—but what happens on a sailboat in North Carolina when a father and son finally, finally, find their rhythm.