Health Setback Forces a Retreat Stardate 04.04.2026
This morning, I was treated to breakfast in bed.
Not because it was planned. Not because it was a celebration. But because my body needed a pause.
Something caught up with me near the end of my shift yesterday and made it clear that retreat was the wise choice. I went home early. I skipped Good Friday services. I canceled cardio tennis this morning. And I spent 11½ hours in bed letting my body do what it was asking me to do — recover.
Today will be slow.
Intentional. Gentle.
My hope is to have enough strength later to install the cabinet doors on the new shelves in the basement. But even that will depend on how I feel. There’s no forcing anything today.
And strangely, there’s peace in that.
I’m off today and tomorrow, which feels like a gift. Space to heal without pressure. Space to listen instead of push.
It’s not easy for me to retreat. I like momentum. I like movement. I like checking things off the list.
But sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is step back and let our bodies catch up with our intentions.
“He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, He restores my soul.” — Psalm 23:2–3
They see the suffering. The betrayal. The cross. And they struggle to connect that to anything good.
But what Jesus did on this day over 2,000 years ago stands as the ultimate act of love. Through His suffering came the opening of a door that none of us could open on our own. What looked like loss became the pathway to life.
That’s why it’s good.
Last night, I listened closely as my pastor led the Holy Thursday service. The theme was simple: service. Just as Jesus washed the feet of His followers, we are called to serve others with the same humility and love.
That message stayed with me.
Because I’ve been watching something quietly come full circle in my own life.
About a year ago, I met the person who oversees the Children’s Miracle Network connection at the University of Iowa Stead Family Children’s Hospital. At the time, it felt like a simple conversation — a seed planted for something that might happen someday.
Now, that “someday” is beginning to take shape.
I’m preparing to introduce a coloring book created specifically for patients at the hospital. A small offering meant to bring comfort and distraction during difficult days.
A few weeks ago, my pastor mentioned that part of his calling is visiting these same patients, representing Jesus in their rooms. And as it turns out, my original contact is connected to this same circle of chaplains and caregivers.
Even more surprising, the very group that gathers funds to support this work is now helping spread the word about the coloring book.
And I wasn’t even in the room when these connections came together.
Others were speaking. Doors were opening. Threads were weaving.
I’m simply watching it happen.
On Good Friday, I’m reminded that sometimes God is working behind the scenes long before we understand the pattern. What once looked like separate conversations, separate ideas, separate people are revealing themselves to have been connected all along.
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him.” — Romans 8:28
Just as Jesus opened the door to Heaven through His sacrifice, I’m watching doors open here on earth through quiet acts of service and faithfulness.
I’m thankful for Good Friday.
I’m thankful for momentum in this mission.
And I’m thankful to be walking this journey one step at a time.
I’ve been thinking about that line this Holy Thursday — the day Jesus knelt to wash the feet of His followers. A simple act of service that confused some of them at first. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t feel right. Until He explained the purpose.
Then they understood.
Sometimes renewal doesn’t look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like humility. Like service. Like quiet obedience to what is right in front of us.
And somehow, through those small acts, something inside us becomes new.
I’m especially thankful today that He has made me new in more ways than I often recognize.
Speaking of new things, I’ve been noticing a gentle wave of renewal happening in everyday parts of my life.
At my day job, our department is getting a physical makeover. Walls are shifting. Workspaces are expanding to accommodate growth. There’s fresh energy in the air as we prepare for what’s coming in the months ahead.
At home, the cabinet project my wife entrusted to me is nearing completion. On Saturday, I’ll install the doors — the final step in a project that has required patience, focus, and steady effort. What began as a pile of parts is turning into something useful and beautiful.
On the courts, my tennis teammates and I are preparing for our pursuit of a state championship and whatever may lie beyond that. There’s excitement there, but also camaraderie. Shared purpose. The joy of working together toward a common goal.
And this weekend, we’re looking forward to time with family.
None of these things are dramatic on their own.
But together, they feel like evidence of something deeper.
Renewal doesn’t always arrive as a lightning bolt. Sometimes it comes as a series of small improvements, quiet responsibilities, and simple acts of service that slowly reshape our days.
“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has gone, the new is here!” — 2 Corinthians 5:17
Holy Thursday reminds me that becoming new often begins with serving others right where we are. Not waiting for big moments. Not searching for grand gestures.
Just kneeling in front of the life we’ve been given and tending to it with care.
And living there comes with consequences that quietly compound over time. Stay there long enough, and you may one day look up to find that some of your dreams have slipped quietly out of reach. What once felt like possibility slowly turns into regret.
If you’re longing for a greater sense of fulfillment, you might consider trying a small experiment.
Take a breath.
You may even feel your mind trying to distract you from reading the next few lines. That’s normal. The brain is very good at protecting familiar patterns.
So here’s the promise you make to it:
I’m not going more than two steps beyond my comfort zone today.
That’s all.
My life has been a long series of small experiments. Many of them. Some worked. Some didn’t. But most of them required only one or two steps beyond what felt comfortable at the time.
Over the years, I’ve trained my brain to trust this process. I don’t ask it to leap. I don’t demand drastic change. I simply nudge it forward — gently, consistently.
This keeps the internal fire alarms from going off.
The goal is not disruption. The goal is discovery.
Before taking those two steps, pause and look at what you are already doing inside your comfort zone. Ask yourself:
Is there a better way to do this? What activities are quiet time wasters? What small new activity could I try today that might improve the quality of my life?
The questions don’t need to be complicated. The answers don’t need to be dramatic.
They just need to move you slightly forward.
What I’ve learned is this: the longer you live just two steps beyond your comfort zone, the more natural growth begins to feel. Change stops feeling threatening and starts feeling possible.
Here’s the simple prompt I use when starting a new experiment:
For the next 30 days, I will take two steps outside my normal pattern of behavior each day.
Be specific. Vague intentions don’t produce meaningful change.
I prefer doing this in the morning, when my mind is rested and less resistant. And I always write the experiment down. Documenting the process allows you to see the quiet progress that’s easy to miss day to day.
Keep this up for a year, and you may look back and barely recognize yourself.
Not because you forced change.
But because you gently invited it.
“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.” — Zechariah 4:10
Small beginnings. Two steps. One experiment at a time.
Bones: “In plain English, Spock — small steps still get you somewhere.”
I’ve learned that growth doesn’t require dramatic leaps. Most of the time, it just requires the courage to step slightly beyond what feels familiar, and the patience to repeat that step tomorrow.
I’m grateful for the reminder that progress can be gentle.
Last night’s pickleball committee meeting at the Rec Center was productive. Plans are steady for the fundraiser on 4/17, and for the first time in a long while, it feels like we can see the finish line coming into view for September. After three years of effort, setbacks, adjustments, and perseverance, there’s a quiet sense that the pieces are finally fitting together.
But the most meaningful part of the evening wasn’t on the agenda.
It happened after the meeting ended.
My accountability partner, Joni, who faithfully drives a long distance to be part of this group, stayed to talk. Jodi, one of our co-leaders who is pouring her whole heart into this project for the sake of our community and future generations, joined us. The three of us stood there for nearly an hour, sharing pieces of our stories that don’t usually make it into formal meetings.
There was no whiteboard. No notes. No timeline.
Just honesty. Gratitude. And a deep sense that this work has changed us as much as it will bless others.
When we finally walked out to the parking lot, I grabbed a copy of the coloring book from my vehicle and handed it to Jodi. She smiled and asked if I would autograph it.
It was a small moment.
But it didn’t feel small.
Something about that exchange felt like a quiet marker in the journey. A recognition that we are no longer just volunteers working on a project. We are people who have walked through something together. The kind of togetherness that only comes from shared struggle, shared hope, and shared belief in what could be.
I drove home with a calm I haven’t felt in a long time.
Not excitement. Not adrenaline.
Peace.
The kind of peace that comes when your faith, your effort, your relationships, and your purpose all begin pointing in the same direction.
I slept deeply last night.
That may not sound spiritual, but it is.
Sometimes the clearest sign that your life is coming into alignment is not what you feel while awake — it’s the rest you experience when you lay your head down.
Easter is this Sunday. A season of renewal. Of hope. Of life emerging from places that once looked finished.
And here we are, three years into a project that often felt uphill, finally able to see the ridge line ahead.
What I’m learning is this:
The most important work often happens after the meeting is over.
In parking lots. In unplanned conversations. In the quiet moments when people let their guard down and speak from the heart instead of the agenda.
Those are the moments where connection deepens. Where trust grows. Where God does His finest work — not in the spotlight, but in the spaces in between.
“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9
Last night felt like a glimpse of that harvest.
Not because the work is done.
But because the people doing the work are now bound together in a way that only perseverance can create.
Spock: “Captain, it appears the most significant progress occurred after official proceedings concluded.”
Bones: “Funny how the real healing never happens in the exam room, isn’t it?”
Sometimes the most meaningful progress in our lives doesn’t show up on schedules or agendas. It happens when we slow down long enough to truly see each other. Last night reminded me that while projects may bring us together, it is shared humanity that keeps us walking forward side by side.
Tonight, our pickleball committee gathers to prepare for something bigger than a meeting.
We’re coming together to plan a fundraiser that will take place on Friday night, 4/17, at the Sundown Bar & Grill here in Williamsburg.
At first glance, it might look like a simple local event. A few people meeting. Some auction items. A night of laughter and friendly bids.
But underneath it all is a shared dream.
We’re working toward a goal of building four outdoor pickleball courts at the Williamsburg Recreation Center. Courts that will serve families, neighbors, retirees, kids, and anyone who simply wants a place to move, gather, and enjoy community together.
What moves me most is watching how this is coming together.
A few of the ladies on the committee are doing the heavy lifting. Quietly organizing. Coordinating. Calling. Planning. Their energy reminds me that the heart of any community project is rarely loud. It’s steady. Faithful. Persistent.
It’s the small, consistent effort that makes the big things possible.
“Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9
That verse feels especially fitting right now.
Because this isn’t just about courts. It’s about what happens on those courts. The conversations. The laughter. The friendly competition. The sense of belonging.
It’s about creating a space where people can show up, be active, and be together.
If you’re local, I hope you’ll consider joining us on 4/17. Come for the fun. Stay for the purpose. Bid on some wonderful auction items. Encourage the people who have been working behind the scenes to make this possible.
Spock: “Captain, the objective appears to be recreational infrastructure.” Bones: “Spock, it’s never just about the court. It’s about the people who gather on it.”
Sometimes the smallest community efforts create the greatest places for connection.
Mission Log: Grateful for neighbors who step up, for shared dreams, and for the reminder that good things grow when people work together.
Thank you for being part of this journey. May your day be filled with small acts that build something lasting.
March Madness is winding down. Our men’s basketball team fought valiantly yesterday and came up short in the Elite 8. Congratulations to our neighbors to the east, the Illinois Fighting Illini men's basketball, who now advance to the Final Four.
What matters most to me isn’t the outcome. It’s the family time we shared along the way.
It’s not often our teams do this well, and this season gave us a reason to gather, cheer, laugh, and ride the emotional ups and downs together. We watched a first-year coach do something that few leaders manage to do so quickly: cultivate winning habits at an elite level.
That idea stays with me.
Because that’s the core of who I am. I love bringing out the best in others. I love watching habits form that quietly shape outcomes long before the scoreboard reflects them. I’m already looking forward to next season.
Speaking of new seasons, yesterday I did something a little outside my comfort zone. I spent five hours building cabinets in our basement. All that remains are the doors, which I’ll install later this week.
As I worked, I was reminded of visiting my cousins as a child. One room in their home had wall-to-wall shelving with cabinet doors — a room that looked remarkably similar to something my wife has always dreamed of having. It’s funny how memories from fifty years ago can guide your hands today.
I gave myself a small pat on the back when I finished. Not out of pride, but gratitude. This small success is preparing me for a much larger project I’ve been dreaming about for years. Like most dreams, it required me to overcome some real obstacles before I could even begin.
Stay tuned.
Today is Palm Sunday.
This day is deeply personal for me because of the stories I’ve been sharing about how I came to know Jesus. I understand that some people may struggle to make sense of what I describe. Truthfully, I still do at times. God’s ways are not our ways, and much of what Jesus did while walking this earth runs counter to what we might expect from the Creator of the universe.
What stands out to me as we enter Holy Week is something that happened just before Palm Sunday.
Jesus and His followers were on a boat. He fell asleep. A storm moved in, and the disciples were certain they were going to die. They woke Him, and He calmed the storm. When they reached shore at the region of the Sea of Galilee, a man possessed by demons came running toward Him from the caves.
Jesus healed the man. Clothed him. Restored him.
And then He did something unexpected.
He told the man he could not come along.
Instead, He gave him a mission: go home and tell others what the Lord had done for him.
This man — once isolated, feared, and broken — became the first known storyteller for Jesus in that region. When Jesus later returned, people were waiting because they had heard the man’s story.
“Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” — Luke 8:39
I think about that often.
The man didn’t attend a class. He didn’t receive formal training. He simply told his story.
As I prepare my heart this week for the Resurrection, I’m reminded that this is what I’ve been doing too. Sharing stories. Not because I have everything figured out, but because something changed in me, and I can’t help but talk about it.
Some people may observe the changes in my life and not fully understand them. That’s okay. I don’t fully understand them myself. I just know I’m all in.
Spock: “Captain, the man’s qualifications were… unconventional.” Bones: “Sometimes the best witnesses are the ones who’ve got the most to be grateful for.”
I’m learning that we don’t need perfect understanding to share what God has done. We simply need a willing heart and an honest story.
Mission Log: Grateful for family, for small projects that prepare us for bigger ones, and for the quiet calling to share what we’ve seen and experienced.
May your day be filled with peace, reflection, and quiet gratitude.
A couple of nights ago, we gathered at our youngest son’s home for a Sweet 16 family moment we won’t soon forget. The basketball rivalry between the Iowa Hawkeyes men's basketball and the Nebraska Cornhuskers men's basketball goes back generations in our state. It’s the kind of history that shows up in good-natured teasing, raised voices at the television, and shared laughter no matter the outcome.
The game didn’t start the way we hoped. In fact, we never even led until the final two minutes. Several friends later told me they turned it off when Nebraska jumped out to a ten-point lead early. They assumed they knew how the story would end.
They missed something special.
They missed the slow, steady comeback. They missed the quiet belief building possession by possession. They missed the moment when the impossible started to feel possible.
Tonight, our attention turns east toward the Illinois Fighting Illini men's basketball. They’re the #3 seed in our family bracket and just knocked off the #2 seed. Earlier in the tournament, our team eliminated the #1 seed at the buzzer with a three-pointer that sent us all out of our seats.
Now, here we are.
Cinderella. The #9 seed. Forty minutes away from the Final Four.
A new coach with a proven track record stands at the helm, and our family can hardly wait for tip-off.
But as I think about these games, I realize the lesson reaching beyond the court has very little to do with basketball.
It has to do with people.
I’ve been paying closer attention to my teammates at my day job and the groups I network with. I’m noticing a pattern that is hard to ignore:
Past performance is the best predictor of future performance.
Not talent. Not intentions. Not talk.
Patterns.
The small things people do repeatedly tell you exactly what they will do when the pressure is on.
That’s why the small things matter so much.
That’s why I’m leaning into this idea of becoming 1% better each day. Because when the big moments arrive — the final two minutes of the game, the unexpected challenge at work, the opportunity you didn’t see coming — you don’t rise to the occasion.
You fall back on your habits.
I once heard a story about why David picked up five stones before facing Goliath. Legend says Goliath had four brothers. David didn’t prepare for just one battle. He prepared for whatever might come next. He practiced his skills daily so that when the giant appeared, confidence wasn’t something he had to manufacture in the moment.
It was already there.
“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.” — Zechariah 4:10
Those friends who turned the game off early believed the outcome was already decided. They judged the future based on the scoreboard in the first few minutes.
But the players on the court kept playing. Possession by possession. Stop by stop. Shot by shot.
Small faithfulness.
Tonight, I’m hoping for another family moment we can cherish. But even more than that, I’m grateful for the reminder that life works the same way as these games.
Stay in it. Do the small things well. Trust the habits you’ve been building.
Spock: “Captain, the outcome was statistically improbable given the early deficit.” Bones: “That’s because you can’t measure heart with numbers, Spock.”
I’m learning that heart is built long before the scoreboard makes sense. One small choice at a time, one percent better each day.
Mission Log: Gratitude for family, for faith, and for the reminder that steady faithfulness often writes the best endings.
Thank you for walking this journey with me. May your day be filled with quiet confidence and small, faithful steps forward.
Before I begin today’s reflection, I want to wish my sister a very happy birthday down in Arizona. March has always felt like our family’s version of March Madness. So many birthdays. So many new babies joining the extended family. So much life happening all at once.
Yesterday added another memory to that list.
I asked my boss if I could leave a little early so I could join my family at our son’s home to watch opening day for the San Diego Padres. By the time I arrived in the third inning, things were not going well. The Detroit Tigers had exploded in the first inning. It felt like we had walked into a storm already in progress. Final score: 8–2.
But something interesting happened.
Nobody cared.
We were together. Laughing. Talking. Watching. Enjoying the moment for what it was instead of what we hoped it would be.
That’s when my son gave one of those summaries that only sons can give.
“Dad, the team is for sale. Maybe a new owner will open his checkbook and add what we need. Besides, there are 161 games left. Let’s turn our attention to the Hawkeyes. Sweet 16. Single elimination. We haven’t been here since before I was born. Both teams have new coaches. One of us is going to the Elite 8 tonight.”
And just like that, our family double-header began.
We turned our attention to the Iowa Hawkeyes men's basketball facing their long-time rivals, the Nebraska Cornhuskers men's basketball.
For 38 minutes, either Nebraska led or the game was tied. Every time Iowa tied it, Nebraska answered. Three-point shots were falling on both sides, reminiscent of the long-range magic we’ve watched from Caitlin Clark over the past few years.
Then, with just over two minutes remaining, Iowa took its first lead of the entire game.
And then came the moment none of us will ever forget.
Nebraska accidentally had only four players on the court during an inbounds play under their own basket. Our players on the floor saw it immediately. They began pointing frantically downcourt to a wide-open teammate past mid-court.
The pass was thrown.
Boom.
It felt like a Hail Mary in basketball form.
The lead widened. The clock ticked down. Final score: 77–71.
We were on our feet, shouting like children.
My son turned to me and said, “Dad, this is a top three moment in our lives.”
We stayed for the post-game interviews. Both coaches spoke with deep respect for one another. When Nebraska’s players were asked about the four-man breakdown, their coach stepped in, took full responsibility, and praised his team for reaching the Sweet 16 — something no Nebraska team had done before.
That moment stayed with me.
Leadership.
Ownership.
Belief.
Here is Iowa with a first-year coach who had never coached at this level before. Not hired because of pedigree, but because of belief — belief in his ability to bring out the best in his players.
And here we are witnessing something that feels like the beginning of a legacy.
Iowa has long been known for wrestling. For football. The women’s team gave us one of the greatest players the game has ever seen. And now the men’s team is being called the Cinderella story of the tournament.
All because someone believed in the right leader.
All because a group of young men believed in that leader.
All because, for 40 minutes, they refused to stop believing.
“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9
As for our family, we will be back together on Saturday, watching history continue to unfold.
Win or lose.
Together.
Captain’s Addendum
Spock: “Fascinating, Captain. A team’s belief in its leader appears to alter statistical probability.”
Bones: “I’d say it’s less about probability and more about heart, Spock.”
I smiled at that exchange in my mind.
Because yesterday wasn’t really about basketball or baseball.
It was about family. Leadership. Belief. And the joy of witnessing something together that we’ll talk about for years to come.
Have you ever wondered why long-term goals can feel so exhausting before you even begin?
I have. And I’ve come to realize the biggest obstacle was never my schedule, my resources, or even my circumstances.
It was my own brain.
My brain does not like sudden change. It resists. It throws up caution flags. It whispers, This is risky. This is uncomfortable. This is too much.
Those internal conflicts can be draining. They create friction before momentum ever has a chance to build.
Over time, through trial and error, I found a way to work with my brain instead of against it.
The key was learning to introduce bite-sized prompts.
Small changes. Gentle adjustments. No alarms triggered.
Think of it like dating. You don’t spill your entire life story on the first date. You take your time. You build trust. You allow the relationship to deepen naturally before sharing your biggest hopes and dreams.
The same is true with bold goals.
If I tell my brain I’m going to train for an Ironman, it panics.
If I tell my brain I’m going for a short walk, it shrugs.
One small step. Then another. Then another.
Each day, improving one percent.
It’s like flying under the radar. No red alerts. No resistance. Just quiet consistency.
Eventually, something remarkable happens.
Your brain stops fighting you.
It starts trusting you.
It becomes your ally because you’ve proven you’re not trying to force growth faster than its built-in safety system can handle.
I’ve discovered my brain loves consistency more than intensity. It responds to steady rhythm. Predictable effort. Gentle progress.
That’s where real change lives.
“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.” — Zechariah 4:10
Small beginnings are not insignificant. They are the doorway to lasting transformation.
If you’re feeling stuck, overwhelmed, or frustrated with slow progress, consider shrinking the prompt you’re giving yourself.
Spock: “Captain, it appears the human brain resists abrupt deviations from established patterns.”
Bones: “In plain English, Spock — the man’s saying don’t scare yourself half to death trying to improve too fast.”
Spock: “A measured approach appears… most logical.”
Michael smiled at the exchange.
I’ve learned that growth isn’t about heroic leaps. It’s about faithful steps. Quiet steps. Steps so small they almost feel insignificant — until one day you realize you’ve traveled a great distance.
Thank you for walking this road with me. May today be one small, faithful step forward.
And it all started with a simple idea from a group of 4th and 5th grade students who wanted to help patients at the University of Iowa Stead Family Children’s Hospital.
They didn’t overthink it. They didn’t wait for permission.
They held a bake sale.
The kids raised $300 on their own. Then Kiwanis stepped in and matched their effort, doubling the impact. From there, something special began to unfold.
Their advisor, Miss Joni—who also happens to be my accountability partner—shared an idea with them. She told the kids she knew a way to turn their donation into something meaningful for the patients: coloring books.
She reached out to me and asked if I could work the numbers based on their original $300.
The kids had already decided something important.
The matching funds would go toward buying food for the local food pantry.
Kids helping kids… in more ways than one.
Yesterday, they voted.
Fifty coloring books.
But they didn’t stop there.
One of my teammates at my day job, Derek, stepped in and donated all the crayons needed so each child receiving a book would have everything required to bring it to life.
Then the students added one more layer.
They decided to make 50 handmade bracelets to include with the books.
Not because they had to.
Because they wanted to.
I find myself sitting in awe of what is happening.
What began as a simple idea is now becoming something much bigger.
A movement.
Jesus teaches that whatever we do for the least of His children, we do for Him. And right now, these patients are being seen… by other children.
That matters.
More than we realize.
The kids have even expressed a desire to be part of delivering the coloring books to the hospital. Miss Joni will explore what’s possible, understanding that privacy matters and proper guidelines must be followed.
Even so, their hearts are in the right place.
And that’s where real change begins.
For me, this marks an important moment.
The hand-off is complete.
This is no longer just my project.
Others are carrying it now.
And they’re doing it beautifully.
During the month of May, all funds raised will be donated at my day job, where additional matching support will help extend the reach even further.
To these students… and to the advisors who guided them:
Thank you.
You didn’t just raise money.
You created something meaningful.
You reminded all of us what generosity looks like in its purest form.
You are my heroes.
I’m ringing my Clarence bell for each and every one of you.
Yesterday brought a few quiet moments that stayed with me.
A colleague at my day job asked me to bring in a couple of copies of Where in the World is Wilson? Another reached out to share that the kids she volunteers with are preparing to make a decision about how they want to help patients at a local children’s hospital.
It’s humbling to watch this unfold.
What started as a simple idea is now beginning to move beyond me. I’m doing my best to create a path—a way to get Wilson out into the world and into the hands of those who might need a little encouragement.
And something unexpected is happening along the way.
What I thought would primarily reach patients is also reaching healthy kids.
They’re connecting with it.
They’re carrying it.
That’s been something I didn’t fully anticipate.
A couple of people also asked me how I find inspiration to write each morning.
That question gave me pause.
Because the truth is… it doesn’t always come from where people expect.
Sometimes it comes from quiet reflection.
Sometimes it comes from the past—stories of family, moments that shaped who we are, and the paths that led us here. I’ve shared pieces of that journey, including stories about ancestors who played a role during the early formation of our country.
But not every story is meant to be told.
There’s a line I’ve been learning to recognize more clearly:
The difference between what we’re called to share… and what we’re entrusted to carry.
That realization played a role in my decision to shift from memoir into fiction when I wrote The Caveman in the Mirror. Not because the stories weren’t real—but because not all real things are meant to be placed into the public space.
Some things are meant to be held with care.
Protected.
Respected.
Because trust matters.
And when someone shares something with you—whether it’s your own story or someone else’s—you begin to understand that writing isn’t just about expression.
It’s about stewardship.
There’s a verse that has been sitting with me as I reflect on this:
“Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much.” — Luke 16:10
That feels especially true in this season.
The more I write, the more I realize that not every moment is meant to become a story.
Some are meant to shape us quietly.
Some are meant to remain between us and God.
And some… are meant to be shared when the time is right.
As I look ahead, I’ll be hosting a series of livestreams to share more about the stories behind my projects—how they came to be, and what they’ve meant along the way.
Not everything.
But enough to help others understand the journey.
Captain’s Addendum
Spock studied me for a moment. “Captain, it appears you are learning to distinguish between information and responsibility.”
Bones gave a slight nod. “Just because you can tell a story doesn’t mean you should.”
A volleyball fell out of a family van and dribbled into my life at a time when I felt completely stuck. I was dealing with a severe case of writer’s block, unsure of what to do next or where the story was headed.
Then Wilson showed up.
What began as a simple, almost comical moment turned into something much more. He became my traveling companion. Everywhere we went, people smiled. Conversations started. Walls came down. And somewhere along the way, those smiles began lifting my own spirits.
Wilson didn’t just give me a story.
He gave me momentum.
But then, just as unexpectedly as he arrived…
I lost him.
That loss hit harder than I ever anticipated. What started as something light and playful turned into something deeply personal. I felt it. The absence. The silence. The weight of it.
And for a while, I sank.
Until something happened that I still can’t fully explain.
Along a quiet trail near Blarney Castle, I saw it—a red volleyball, floating gently in the river.
In that moment, everything shifted.
It wasn’t the same Wilson. But it didn’t need to be.
Because what I realized in that moment was this:
Wilson was never just something I carried.
He had already become part of me.
And from that point on, the journey changed.
The coloring book is now one week old.
And I find myself sitting in a place of quiet amazement at what’s already unfolding.
Lives are being touched.
Conversations are happening.
Doors are opening.
But more importantly, something deeper is becoming clear:
This is no longer just my project.
When something is real… other people begin to carry it.
I saw that clearly when I learned about thirty elementary school students who held a bake sale to raise money for patients at a children’s hospital. They didn’t have to do that. No one told them to. They simply chose to help.
And then something even more powerful happened.
Kiwanis International stepped in and matched their $300 with another $300—doubling the impact and expanding what those kids had already started.
Kids helping kids.
It doesn’t get much better than that.
And the story keeps growing.
A friend from my day job donated crayons—simple, thoughtful, necessary—so the children receiving these coloring books would have everything they need to bring the pages to life.
Piece by piece.
Person by person.
The story is moving forward.
And my role is becoming clearer.
All I need to do now… is complete the hand-off.
Not control it.
Not force it.
Just place it into the hands of others and trust where it goes next.
There’s a verse that feels fitting as I reflect on all of this:
“Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others.” — 1 Peter 4:10
That’s what this feels like.
A gift, once held tightly…
Now being passed on.
Captain’s Addendum
Spock studied the situation carefully. “Captain, it appears the object you once carried has now become a shared experience among many.”
Bones smiled. “In plain English… it’s not yours anymore. And that’s a good thing.”
Last Sunday, I barely made it home before a blizzard rolled in—shutting down highways and interstates and forcing everything to a standstill. I stayed put, waiting for the roads to reopen, which didn’t happen until noon the following day.
Yesterday, the temperature reached 89 degrees.
Not a trace of the storm remained.
It felt like more than a shift in weather.
It felt like a shift in season.
Spring Break brought a quieter energy to the courts. Our pro was away on vacation, and our cardio group was about half its usual size. With fewer people and no structured drills, the atmosphere felt… open.
Unscripted.
And for whatever reason, I decided to do something simple.
I went to my car and grabbed the coloring book.
I wanted to introduce Wilson to my tennis friends.
No big plan. No agenda.
Just a moment.
What followed was something I couldn’t have planned.
I set up three informal livestreams right there at the facility. Nothing polished—just real conversations, unfolding as they came. The smaller group made it easier. More personal. More connected.
By the time the third livestream began, something even more unexpected happened.
Teesa, the owner of North Dodge Athletic Club, agreed to join me for an interview.
As we talked, I found myself walking through the journey—how Wilson came into my life, the adventures we shared, and the day I lost him.
Somewhere in the middle of telling that story… the emotion caught up with me.
It wasn’t planned.
It was just real.
When the interview ended, Teesa asked if I would pose for a photo with the coloring book for next month’s newsletter.
Then she extended an invitation.
She offered me the opportunity to set up a table during one of her upcoming tournaments—so members and families could discover the story and connect with the books.
I didn’t see that coming.
And I didn’t make it happen.
It simply unfolded.
Standing there afterward, I felt something I’ve been noticing more and more lately—
Gratitude.
Not the kind that comes from achieving something big…
But the kind that comes from recognizing something meaningful is quietly taking shape.
Friends showing up. Conversations opening doors. Moments turning into opportunities.
Even the livestreams—once something that felt uncomfortable—are beginning to feel more natural.
Not perfect.
Just more me.
There’s a verse that comes to mind as I reflect on all of this:
“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” — Isaiah 43:19
That’s what this feels like.
Something new.
Not forced. Not rushed.
Just… emerging.
Like spring after a long winter.
And maybe that’s the lesson in all of this.
We don’t always recognize the moment when things begin to change.
Sometimes it looks like a smaller group at the courts.
Sometimes it starts with a simple decision to grab something from your car.
Sometimes it’s just being willing to show up—without needing to know exactly what will happen next.
And then, before you realize it…
You’re standing in the middle of something meaningful.
Captain’s Addendum
Spock observed quietly. “Captain, it would appear that unstructured environments have increased the probability of meaningful outcomes.”
Bones smirked. “Translation—you stopped trying to control everything… and things started working.”
Before I get too far into today’s reflection, I want to pause for something important.
Two of my siblings were born on this day—different years, same date.
Happy birthday.
Your brother is thinking of you this morning. I’ll be reaching out later today to share my love, but I didn’t want the moment to pass without saying it here first.
Now, as I settle into this golden hour, a simple question has been resting on my mind:
Am I really living in the moment?
If I’m being honest, that hasn’t always been easy for me.
There were seasons in my life when I spent far too much time looking backward. Replaying moments. Digging up memories. Holding onto regrets—mistakes I wished I could undo, opportunities I let slip by, relationships that changed or faded.
Other times, I found myself living too far ahead.
Chasing goals. Thinking about what’s next. Planning, preparing, trying to get somewhere other than where I was.
And somewhere in between the past and the future…
I missed the present.
Maybe you’ve felt that too.
Because the truth is, both directions can quietly take something from us.
The past can hold us. The future can pull us.
And before we realize it, the moment right in front of us slips by unnoticed.
But this morning feels different.
There’s a calm clarity in recognizing something simple, yet powerful:
I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.
Right here.
This day in front of me feels rich—not because everything is perfect, but because everything I need for this moment is already here.
There’s something freeing about that.
It softens the pressure.
It quiets the noise.
It reminds me that life isn’t waiting somewhere else—it’s happening now.
So I find myself asking you the same question I’m asking myself:
Is there something in your past that’s still holding your attention?
Is there something ahead of you that’s pulling you out of today?
And if so… what would it look like to gently return to this moment?
Not forcefully. Not perfectly.
Just… intentionally.
There’s a verse that comes to mind as I sit with this:
“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” — Psalms 118:24
Not yesterday.
Not tomorrow.
This day.
That feels like the invitation.
As I wrap up my golden hour, I’m preparing to head to cardio tennis and spend time with friends on the court. The weather is supposed to reach record highs today—one of those unexpected gifts that shows up early in the season.
And I don’t want to miss it.
Not by being distracted.
Not by being somewhere else in my mind.
Just by being present.
Fully here for whatever the day brings.
That’s the goal.
Not perfection.
Presence.
Captain’s Addendum
Spock looked at me thoughtfully. “Captain, it would appear that your greatest challenge is not time itself, but your relationship to it.”
Bones gave a slight grin. “In other words… you’ve been everywhere but where your feet are.”
I had a quiet moment yesterday at my day job, right at the beginning of my shift.
A long-time member asked how our pickleball fundraising efforts were going back in my hometown. It felt like a simple question—one of those everyday conversations you don’t think much about at first.
But something in me nudged a little deeper.
I shared a preview of what’s next. Not the full picture—just enough to explain the heart behind it. The coloring book. The vision. The hope of getting something meaningful into the hands of people who need it most.
That’s when the moment shifted.
He told me he was meeting with the CEO of the university today.
And just like that… the conversation took on a different weight.
I handed him the proof copy I had with me.
No pitch. No pressure. Just a quiet hand-off.
And now, that book—and the story behind it—is walking into a room I won’t be in.
It’s a humbling thought.
Later that evening, I hosted a simple Facebook livestream to share yesterday’s vintage blog story. Nothing polished. Just a few friends showing up, listening, engaging.
It reminded me of something I’m starting to understand more clearly:
Impact doesn’t always come through big moments.
More often, it moves through quiet ones.
A conversation at the start of a shift. A book placed into the right hands. A small group of people showing up to listen.
That’s where doors begin to open.
This morning, golden hour came a little later for me. I slept in—something I don’t always do—but something I probably needed. The past 72 hours have been full, especially with the launch of the coloring book.
Even in the slowing down, there’s a lesson.
Not every step forward has to be fast.
Sometimes growth happens in the pause… in the recovery… in the quiet space where we can reflect on what’s unfolding.
And right now, something is unfolding.
The trio of Irish books—once just an idea during a season of writer’s block—is now moving in ways I never could have planned.
Not because I forced it.
But because I stayed with it.
There’s a verse that comes to mind:
“Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will be established.” — Proverbs 16:3
That feels true today.
What started as a small step forward has become something that’s beginning to carry itself.
And maybe that’s the reminder we all need:
We don’t always get to see where the path leads.
But we can trust the step in front of us.
And when the moment comes… we make the hand-off.
Captain’s Addendum
Spock observed quietly. “Captain, it appears the transfer of your work has initiated outcomes beyond your immediate control.”
Bones smirked. “In other words—you handed it off, and now it’s out there doing its thing.”
I nodded.
Because that’s exactly how it feels.
Not everything we start is meant to stay in our hands.
Some things are meant to be carried forward by others.
