Start with the end in mind | 4.5 minute read

I met John Creighton when I was a teenager, dating a woman he didn’t think I’d last with. More than 25 years later, I’m proud to call him my father-in-law.

John taught me things my own father never could.

He helped me build a basement apartment, from planning and designing to wiring and plumbing. He built a sliding barn door with me. He even installed an outlet on the brick face of the basement wall so we could hang Christmas lights.

He put a second story on his house. Turned his bungalow cottage into a three-story home — big enough for his wife, his kids, their spouses, and six grandkids.

Whenever we visit the cottage, he greets us with a big smile at the top of the hill, helps us carry our stuff down, offers a beer from his keg, and chats into the night. Capped off with a sip of whiskey or cognac before bed.

As an engineer, he fixes things endlessly and effortlessly. Last summer, he rigged up a pulley system to pull a tree stump out of my yard, used his tractor to build a beach for his grandkids, and helped my son whittle down a twig into a Harry Potter wand.

After a trip with his wife through the southern U.S., where he stopped in Nashville to watch his daughters run a half-marathon, he walked into the hospital due to shortness of breath. John and I are both kidney transplant recipients and cancer survivors, so we’re used to hospital stays. We both worked from beds often.

This past Saturday, fourteen of us shared Easter dinner with him in the hospital’s fourth floor atrium with 20 ft ceilings of glass overlooking the city.

He walked us out before sending his last message to the group:

Thank you all. That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. Out very soon. All the kids together is always special.

The next day, he passed away. Suddenly. Tragically.

All the feelings. I feel them all.

Fissures and cracks in the rock of our family, exposing the gold within.

And here’s what’s wild — no one’s talking about his career. Not his oil and gas work. Not the deals he made.

They’re talking about his kindness. His helpfulness. His child-like joy flying down a waterslide.

In his later years, John was known for striking up conversations with strangers. He found random pickup hockey games and made lifelong friends.

On that last road trip, he was in a hotel room and decided he wanted some sun. He sat on the bench outside, soaking in the warmth, beside a stranger.

Before long, they shared a beer together.

That’s John.

The Pebble

The challenge

Write your own obituary and use it as a guide for going forward. Here’s John’s for reference. It sounds morbid, but it isn’t.

“You too are going to die, and that’s because you too were fortunate enough to have lived.” - Mark Manson

This can help you get started:

What does your obituary say today?
What do you wish it said?
What needs to change?
What’s your legacy?

Then, reverse-engineer your life from that vision. Define success on your terms, not society’s.

Live toward that version of you — the one who helps, the one who shows up, the one who matters.

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