When people learn that I have a full-on, legitimate Irish pub in my backyard, their first reaction is usually bewilderment, followed quickly by a deep curiosity. Then, when they see some photos and I explain what happens inside, they often want one of their own. The idea of a private backyard pub lands especially strongly with men. Often, people need to come and visit to truly understand what it is and how it works. Once they come inside and start to see it, curiosity sets in. Inevitably, the conversation shifts to the question of why. “Why did you do all this? And is your wife okay with it?”

It is no secret that friendship seems to be on the decline in this first part of the 21st century. According to a 2021 survey from the Survey Center on American Life, only 38% of Americans report having five or more friends. In 1990, the year I graduated from college, that number was 63%. Men seem to be suffering the most. Only 21% of men reported receiving any emotional support from a friend within the past week. Today, one in seven men report having no close friends at all.[1] I cannot say that one day I decided to build the pub to directly address this epidemic of loneliness. Its evolution was far more natural and organic. But this epidemic has certainly weighed heavily on my heart for a long time.

Born from Suffering

Long before the pub became a thing, it started with a couple of chairs on the side of our house. This modest, entirely unremarkable place somehow developed into a spot where people would come to sit quietly and talk about the challenges and heartaches of their lives. Sometimes it was a place of laughter and fun, but more often it was a place for thoughtful reflection, encouragement, and deep interpersonal encounters. For many years, I would sit there alone at night and post reflections on social media based on things I was hearing and contemplating.

To understand the genesis of the pub, however, you have to understand the backstory. Our family history is inextricably tied to my ongoing 22-year journey of medical challenges. It began with a cancer diagnosis in 2003. That lymphoma was supposed to be relatively easy to eradicate, but for some reason, it just didn’t want to leave quietly. Ultimately, it took five protocols of chemotherapy, six weeks of daily radiation, and two brutal stem cell transplants requiring months of hospitalizations and quarantine. I underwent 19 bone marrow biopsies and five surgical biopsies. Since then, I’ve had 23 other surgeries indirectly related to cancer, and about two dozen additional hospitalizations. I still average one or two per year. Throw in a devastating accident that broke my kneecap in half (requiring two surgeries) and a host of side effects—including tinnitus, chronic fatigue syndrome, recurring viral attacks, chemo-induced cognitive impairment, and radiation-induced cardiotoxicity that led to a heart attack and the placement of three stents in my arteries in 2021, and you start to get a picture of what my wife Margy and our five children have endured with me.

All of this helped make the pub what it is today. For over two decades, in our darkest hours of suffering, our family, friends, and neighbors consistently rallied around us in amazing ways. We’ve been the beneficiaries of countless meals, rides, free childcare, and miscellaneous acts of love.

Shortly after my initial diagnosis, the house we had leased for seven years was being repurposed, and we needed to find a new place to live. Not making much money at the time and facing a daunting and potentially fatal illness, we were in a difficult position. Providentially, there was an affordable house for sale in an up-and-coming neighborhood, but it needed a lot of work. It had good bones and a warm and positive history, but was a true fixer upper. Think weeds, neglect, clutter, and deferred maintenance. To illustrate this, one of the conditions of the sale was for the seller to remove the Volkswagen Beetle embedded in the ground in the backyard before we closed the deal.

Amidst our cancer battle, taking on a project like this was a daunting task. But our community rallied. Led by a saintly Holy Cross brother, over 200 people worked for three and a half months to get our house ready while I was receiving chemotherapy and radiation. Margy was often at my side during treatments, so my sister Mary, along with neighbors and friends, including the Sisters of St. Francis of Perpetual Adoration, temporarily “adopted” our children and joyfully cared for them. When we took our car into the mechanic, instead of fixing it he went out and bought us a new one. Let that sink in: our mechanic bought us a car. Years later, when that one broke down, a family friend bought us a brand-new minivan. People sent us anonymous gifts of every imaginable kind. I would never be able to remember and list all of the various ways our community blessed us during those dark times.

When my cancer came back for a third time in 2007 and I was forced into six months of isolated quarantine, the community organized a fundraiser at our local high school that raised $85,000—the exact amount needed to cover our expenses. Four hundred and fifty people attended.

If we lived another 10,000 years, we could never repay these people. Our gratitude is profound and overwhelming. This is a kind of gratitude that demands a response. Our pub ministry grew directly from this wellspring of love.