The Boosters That Burned Away

December 17, 2025

We all have moments in life when the cost is not measured in dollars, nor even in time alone, but in years, in lifetimes of relationships that cannot survive the ascent. Scripture reminds us, “For which of you, wanting to build a tower, doesn’t first sit down and calculate the cost” in Luke 14:28. I believed I had counted the cost. I did not understand that the heaviest price would eventually be paid in love.

Two relationships stand above all others, two that Lettermen of the USA ultimately consumed.

The first was a brotherhood forged on the turf of Bryant-Denny Stadium and sealed on the third floor of Bryant Hall. He was my teammate, my roommate, my brother in every way but blood. We endured the grind of three a days, the roar of the A Day crowd, the ache of losses, and the quiet anticipation of victories yet to come. For thirty three years that bond held firm through marriages, children, triumphs, and tragedies. Our friendship embodied Proverbs 17:17, “A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a difficult time.” I believed nothing could break what we had built in crimson jerseys and late night conversations about life after football.

The second was a nineteen year romance, imperfect, on again and off again, yet constant in the moments I needed her most. In 2006, when my father died and the ground seemed to vanish beneath my feet, she steadied me. She walked beside me through the lonely valley of grief, living out the promise of Psalm 34:18, “The Lord is near the brokenhearted, he saves those crushed in spirit.”

For nearly two decades she was woven into the fabric of my life, love and conflict, reconciliation and love again. In all of it, through the breaking and the mending, we kept finding our way back to each other. As Ecclesiastes 4:9 and 10 reminds us, “Two are better than one because they have a good reward for their efforts. For if either falls, his companion can lift him up.” She lifted me when I could not stand.

Both of them poured themselves into the early and stressful burn of this mission. They believed in Lettermen of the USA when it was nothing more than a grieving man with a handful of autographed footballs and a restless conviction to honor veterans. They listened to late night calls about another wounded warrior in crisis. They forgave missed birthdays, canceled plans, and the slow realization that they were sharing me with a calling that would not loosen its grip. They carried the weight when the organization was still fighting gravity.

As the years passed, the demands only intensified. Travel became constant. The emotional burden of absorbing veterans’ pain grew heavier. The pressure to keep the doors open never relented. Gradually and unintentionally, distance began to creep in. Conversations tightened. Resentment found space to grow. I was absent in body, and even when I was present, my heart was often somewhere between airports and emergency calls. Scripture speaks plainly, “No one can serve two masters” in Matthew 6:24. I tried to divide myself, and in doing so, I diminished what they deserved.

In time, both relationships reached their breaking point. The weight could no longer be carried. One ended quietly, worn down by accumulated distance. The other ended explosively due to years of stored grief releasing at once. I did not recognize that their season in my life, at least in its former form, had come to an end.

Through prayer and reflection, I understand now that they were my solid rocket boosters.

Like the twin boosters that lift a shuttle from earth, they provided the overwhelming force required to break free from gravity. For a critical window of time they burned with extraordinary intensity, giving everything they had so the mission could rise. Then, by design, they were spent and released. They were never meant to remain attached for orbit.

My teammate who shared my room in Bryant Hall and my dreams on the field gave thirty three years of fiery thrust. The woman who carried me through the valley of my father’s death gave nineteen years of heart and endurance. Without them, Lettermen of the USA would never have cleared the tower. The shelters, the care packages, the restored dignity offered to more than fourteen hundred veteran families would not exist without the fire they helped ignite. In their own ways, they laid down portions of their lives so this work could live.

I deeply grieve them both. Some nights the silence where their voices once were feels almost unbearable. Yet even in the ache, I hold to the promise of Romans 8:28, “We know that all things work together for the good of those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.” I do not claim to understand every reason, but I choose to trust the One who does.

I have come to accept the sacred reality of my calling. Not every relationship, no matter how strong or long or vital, is designed to remain in orbit. Some are built for launch. Honoring what they gave means blessing their descent, even as the mission continues upward.

And as difficult as it is, God does not waste pain. He refines it, redeems it, and redirects it for his glory. As Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians 4:17, “For our momentary light affliction is producing for us an absolutely incomparable eternal weight of glory.” What feels unbearable now may yet become fuel for something eternal, something far greater than I can see today.

For now, the tower still stands. The mission still climbs. And the fire that carried it skyward will never be forgotten.

“Teammates and roommates forever: Darryl Fuhrman (#66) and Ward Murphy (#51) share a memorable moment on the Sun Bowl turf in El Paso, Texas, 1986 – where the bonds of brotherhood and the spirit of Alabama football shone bright.”

“Room 312 Bryant Hall, 1986: Teammate Ward Murphy (#51) on the classic long-cord phone, beneath the ‘ Super Bowl champions, Chicago Bears poster – pure dorm life for University of Alabama football players.”

“Spring 2006, Tuscaloosa: Darryl Fuhrman and Susan Cormany in the heart of azalea season at her mother’s home – timeless joy under Alabama pines.”

2006 at the Rule Electric Co-op show: A special moment with Susan and her daughter Eliza coming to see me while I worked the booth – my son Miller proudly in the background amid the equipment and displays.”

“From our Christmas event in 2007: This sketch of Susan and me, full of seasonal warmth, now rests on my mother’s fireplace – at 94, she keeps our story close, a daily heart on the mantel that connects past holidays to present gratitude.”

“Solid rocket boosters: They burn with fierce, selfless intensity to lift the mission off the ground—through grief, doubt, and gravity’s pull. But by design, they expend themselves and fall away, never meant to reach orbit. Grateful for the thrust they gave, even as the silence of their absence echoes in the climb ahead.”