A while ago I went on a training run with my wife to get ready for my first 5k race in over a year. It felt great to get back out on the road, and the run was pretty uneventful.

Later that night, we headed to a friend's house, and when I looked down, panic set in. My wedding ring was missing from my hand. I checked my pockets; nothing. I quietly walked outside to retrace my steps, and still nothing. When was the last time I'd had it? How could I lose the one thing that symbolized this important commitment in my life?

During our training run the weather had been cool, my hands sweaty. Somewhere, during the four miles of sidewalks, intersections and city streets, my wedding ring had slipped off.

When I run, I really like to run through the woods as opposed to on the streets. I just like being with nature and running over and around tree roots instead of flat pavement. There was a 3.5-mile route I had learned that went around my school. I usually ran the same loop, sometimes backwards to mix it up. Every time I would run, though, I would pass another path I’d never tried that branched off into the woods. For a long time I would just run the same route, over and over again, always feeling an inner tug toward the other trail. I would always think to myself, “I like where I’m at. I know where I’m going; I’m comfortable with it. If I take that path, I could get lost. That other trail could be longer or more difficult.”

I grew up in east Texas. Texarkana, to be precise. If I were to sum up my east Texas experience for someone unfamiliar with its culture and people, I would simply tell them about Gary Mills. He was a man who worked for my dad. Sort of. Gary worked when Gary wasn’t in jail.

Gary Mills owned a van that he’d bought at a pawn shop. Now, only in the piney woods of eastern Texas and portions of rural West Virginia can vehicles be acquired from pawnshops, for like two dollars. These are my people.