Stardate 02.09.2026
One top priority for the week: Sunshine. ☀️
The forecast calls for highs of 70–77º in Florida. My wife and I will visit friends, play some pickleball, and soak up beach time.
Stories this week will be short and sweet. Replies to comments may be delayed, so thank you for your patience. There may be a few surprises on my partially constructed Substack page if you want to visit me on my cyber front porch. Click here to see what I'm working on.
May you live long and prosper.
Stardate 02.08.2026
There was a young king named Solomon who inherited his throne after his father, King David, died. He was stepping into enormous shoes, facing responsibilities far beyond his years.
God appeared to Solomon in a dream and offered him anything he wished. Solomon’s response, paraphrased, was not bold or ambitious—it was honest:
“I am only a little child and do not know how to carry out my duties… Give your servant a discerning heart to govern your people and to distinguish between right and wrong.”
I may not be a king, but I understand what it feels like to stand in an overwhelming moment.
Like Solomon, I needed help. Truthfully, I lacked hope. I froze when my family broke apart and my dad moved away. In my despair, I asked God to remove me from this world altogether. There was silence. No thunder. No immediate rescue.
So I asked for something else.
I asked for wisdom—not to lead a kingdom, but to survive.
As I step into the shoes of a senior citizen, I’m beginning to understand what that prayer truly meant.
Wisdom is not about knowing more.
It’s about listening better.
Looking back, I see that as a lost teenager, I wasn’t asking God for wisdom so I could be impressive or accomplished. I was asking to be faithful. I was asking to be shown how to keep going when the road ahead felt impossible.
And God answered—not all at once, but over time. Quietly. Patiently. With a wisdom that revealed who I was through His eyes, not my circumstances.
“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault.”
— James 1:5
Join me here: https://substack.com/@michaelmulliganlivelong
Bones: “You’re telling me wisdom isn’t about answers, Michael—it’s about learning how to listen?”
Spock: “Precisely, Doctor. Logic begins with humility.”
Michael’s reflection:
Solomon asked for wisdom so he could serve others well. I asked for wisdom so I could survive. Both prayers came from the same place—recognizing our limits and trusting God to meet us there. Over time, I’ve learned that wisdom doesn’t rush in with explanations. It walks beside us, teaching us how to endure, how to listen, and how to remain faithful one quiet step at a time.
Mission Log:
Wisdom grows slowly, but it grows surely when we ask with an honest heart.
Thank you for walking with me today. May this reflection stay with you in prayer or quiet thought, and may you recognize the wisdom already unfolding in your own life—one percent better, one day at a time. 🖖
Stardate 02.07.2026
Something unusual is unfolding in my life right now—so unusual that I completely overlooked an important anniversary. Two days ago marked the moment when the grim reaper came close, revealing himself in a way that brought me face-to-face with mortality. In that encounter, I found myself living in what feels like bonus time. I will never again take life for granted.
You might wonder what’s been distracting me from defining moments of the past. Let me share a few things: people are entering my life at a pace that feels almost divine, as if God has a transporter room honing in on my coordinates. It’s stunning—like moments traveling at light speed.
As St. Patrick’s Day approaches, less than 40 days away, the baby coloring book stands ready to join its Irish siblings. This trio of books, all born on St. Patrick’s Day, symbolizes a fresh start and new beginnings.
Amidst all this excitement, there’s something even greater brewing in my mind—something I’m letting simmer before I share it with the world. Not even my wife knows yet. It’s better to keep it close, to avoid jinxing it. The idea came to me within the last 48 hours, likely sparked by the day a large van t-boned me and left me temporarily sidelined. Yes, I’m maximizing every moment of this bonus time.
I thank God for each day He grants me. When the moment is right, I will reveal what I’m calling Project X. If you are the praying type, I appreciate your prayers.
Thank you, and may you live long and prosper.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
— Psalm 23:1
Bones: “Michael, are you telling me you had a brush with the grim reaper and still found time for a coloring book launch?”
Spock: “Doctor, it seems the captain’s resilience is as remarkable as his sense of purpose.”
Bones: “I’ll be damned if that doesn’t sound like a miracle.”
Michael’s Reflection:
What I’ve learned is that even in the face of uncertainty, every moment is a gift. It’s in these moments that we discover the true value of life and the strength of the human spirit.
Join me here:
https://substack.com/@michaelmulliganlivelong
Thank you for sharing this journey with me. May it inspire you to cherish each day and embrace the blessings of life.
🖖
Stardate 02.06.2026
Do you remember that scene in Cast Away when Tom Hanks wakes up and realizes Wilson is drifting away?
That moment lodged itself deep in my heart. My pulse raced. Tears streamed down my face. Even now—twenty-five years after the movie first hit theaters—I can feel it like it happened yesterday.
Maybe that’s why my heart skipped a beat the day a volleyball with Wilson’s face on it was returned to lost and found at my day job.
No one claimed him.
When I heard he was headed for the trash compactor, I spoke up—loudly. And just like that, Wilson was mine.
Once I adopted him, he went everywhere with me. It was like having a new puppy… but easier. No messes. No late-night walks. No early-morning wakeups. Just presence.
Wilson became my new best friend.
When the pandemic halted my travels, I did the next best thing I could for my travel buddy.
I FedExed him to New York City.
A dear friend, Erin, was battling cancer. Wilson showed up for her the same way he had shown up for me—with quiet companionship, emotional support, and steady presence. I could see it in her eyes when she sent me a photo of herself, Wilson, and her real-life pet gathered together.
Sadly, Wilson dribbled out of my life forever when Erin passed away.
I slipped into depression. And it wasn’t until I entered therapy that I learned something important: it’s okay to grieve something like this. Even something others might not understand.
Wilson was gone—but somehow, his spirit wasn’t. Maybe it was the memories. Maybe it was love refusing to disappear.
Some time later, while walking along a river on the way to Blarney Castle in Ireland, something caught my eye.
A red volleyball.
It was drifting alongside the path, as if placed there on purpose.
The sight jolted me like a bolt of lightning. A flood of memories rushed in. Moments later, I kissed the Blarney Stone—legend says it gives you the gift of gab. That red volleyball felt like the exclamation point at the end of the sentence.
Suddenly, inspiration returned—charging like the bulls through the streets of Spain.
Olé.
I went home from that pilgrimage with my writing mojo packed neatly in my suitcase.
What I learned is this: losing Wilson helped me explore the deepest crevices of my heart. Inside those dark caverns, I faced other losses too. And I learned something else—there is recovery.
I’m still learning that now.
The good news? There is joy in sharing what those losses have taught me. There is life after death. And there is always more of the story to come.
Come back on St. Patrick’s Day, and I’ll share the rest.
Have a great day.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
Bones: “Michael, are you telling me you mourned a volleyball like a fallen crewman?”
Spock: “Doctor, attachment is not illogical when it reflects genuine connection.”
Bones: “I still say Starfleet doesn’t prepare us for this.”
Michael’s Reflection:
What I know now is this—grief doesn’t ask permission. It simply shows up where love once lived. And if we let it, grief can become a teacher rather than a thief.
Join me here:
https://substack.com/@michaelmulliganlivelong
Mission Log
Some losses never leave us—but they can still lead us forward.
Thank you for carrying this story with me today. May it rest gently with you, wherever you are, and may it open a quiet space for healing and remembrance.
🖖
Stardate 02.05.2026
I was having breakfast the other day when I watched a short video about storytelling. It stuck with me: every story has a hero, a villain, and a guide. And the most important part? Knowing your place as the guide.
It made me reflect on life. The “heroes” are not me—they are the people around me, each facing their own challenges and decisions. The “villains” are not monsters—they’re distraction, confusion, and the noise that can pull focus from what really matters.
My role isn’t to fight their battles. It’s to show the path, offer tools, and help them see what’s possible. Sometimes that means sharing a tip, a habit, or a routine. Sometimes it means sitting quietly and listening.
Being a guide isn’t flashy. It isn’t loud. It’s steady. It’s faithful. And the reward comes quietly, in seeing someone move forward on their journey with clarity and confidence.
Scripture reminds us:
“Where there is no guidance, a people falls, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety.”
— Proverbs 11:14
Showing up as a guide—without taking over—can be the most powerful way to help someone grow. It allows them to step fully into their story while giving you a chance to model faith, patience, and purpose.
Bones: “So you’re the guide now?”
Spock: “Doctor, he has merely recognized his role in the narrative. Nothing more dramatic is required.”
Bones: “I liked him better when he fought the monsters.”
Michael: Guiding isn’t about control. It’s about presence. Tools, tips, encouragement—they’re all part of the path. But the hero must walk it themselves. That’s where real growth happens.
Join me here: https://substack.com/@michaelmulliganlivelong
Stardate 02.04.2026
Today is a day off from my day job.
Tonight, I’ll return to the tennis courts—still smiling after a win against the second-place team in our Men’s 55+ league. But before any of that, I’m meeting a friend who recently called, nearly bursting with excitement about his first book.
We’re meeting in the magical forest—also known as my home studio.
Though he’s never been here before, he understands me better than most. At one point he joked,
“You live in a magical forest surrounded by magical creatures.”
I loved that. Because he’s right.
Many are curious about what I do—and why I do it—especially when they learn I’ve had no formal training and spend a lot of time fumbling forward.
Do you know anyone who has written over 6,000 stories without fully knowing what they’re doing?
Better yet—do you know anyone willing to sit on a front porch and welcome perfect strangers who happen to wander by?
I’m brand new in this cyber neighborhood called Substack, and most of my real-life friends don’t quite know what this place is yet. Meanwhile, here I am—sitting on the porch, taking it all in. I’m genuinely in awe of the neighborhood.
I’m grateful for every small sign of life so far. A thumbs-up. A quiet reader. A passing wave.
One friend recently asked why I’m not spending more time on the louder platforms where “everyone” seems to be. I told him I was looking for something different—something more intimate.
A place where nobody knows my name, but they’re curious about my calling.
Here, there’s no judging.
No preconceived limits.
No pressure to perform.
I’m free to create.
Free to listen.
Free to meet people from all walks of life.
The forest feels mostly empty right now—and that’s okay.
I’m hopeful this will be a place where relationships grow slowly and meaningfully. For now, I’ll keep sitting on the porch, ready to engage whenever a new visitor shows up.
If you’re one of them—thank you for stopping by.
Scripture reminds us:
“The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
— Psalm 121:8
Bones: “Michael, you sure this is the best use of your time—just sittin’ around waitin’ for folks to wander by?”
Spock: “Doctor, it appears the captain understands that meaningful encounters cannot be rushed.”
Bones: “Hmph. I still don’t trust forests.”
Michael’s Reflection:
I’m learning that I don’t need to chase people down. If I stay present, tend the porch, and keep the light on, the right conversations arrive in their own time.
Join me here:
https://substack.com/@michaelmulliganlivelong
As the day unfolds, I’m grateful—for the quiet, for the forest, and for the courage to remain open.
Gentle closing question:
Where in your life might a small, welcoming porch be enough for today?
🖖 Captain’s Note:
“Our calling is not to write perfect words, but to reveal perfect grace through imperfect moments — one percent better, one day at a time.”
Stardate 02.03.2026
There’s a song that plays quietly in the background of my mornings—not on a speaker, but in spirit.
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.
Not as a warning about becoming less human, but as a thank-you for the routines that help me live more fully human.
The older I get, the more I realize how much energy gets wasted on preparation. Decisions before the day even begins. What to wear. What to take. When to go. By the time some people start their day, they’re already exhausted from choosing.
So I’ve chosen not to choose.
I wake up without an alarm clock now. Somewhere along the way, my body found its own rhythm. That alone feels like grace. No jolt. No scramble. Just awareness.
My clothes are already laid out. Yesterday’s version of me took care of today’s version of me—and I’m grateful for that small act of kindness.
My supplement stack is already waiting on the dining room table. No cabinets to open. No decisions to make. Just a steady handoff from habit to health.
When I turn on the shower, I don’t wait for comfort. I step in immediately, even when the water is brutally cold for that first minute. Especially then. That shock wakes something up inside me—endorphins released, clarity restored, courage practiced early. The discomfort pays dividends for hours.
And on workdays, I leave the house at exactly 8:08 AM.
Not 8:07. Not 8:10.
8:08.
These routines may look rigid from the outside, but they’ve done the opposite inside me. They’ve created space. Space to think. Space to pray. Space to notice what actually matters.
Scripture reminds us:
“Let all things be done decently and in order.”
— 1 Corinthians 14:40
Order doesn’t remove wonder. It makes room for it.
The song Mr. Roboto plays with the fear of losing ourselves to automation. I get that. But I’ve found that when routine serves intention—and intention serves love—structure becomes a servant, not a master.
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.
Thank you for handling the small things
so I can stay present for the important ones.
Bones: “Michael, you’re tellin’ me you jump into an ice-cold shower on purpose?”
Spock: “Doctor, the captain appears to value long-term benefit over short-term comfort. A most… logical adaptation.”
Bones: “I liked him better when he complained.”
Michael’s Reflection:
What I’m learning is this: discipline isn’t about becoming mechanical—it’s about becoming dependable. When my mornings run on rails, my heart is free to wander where it’s needed most.
Join me here:
https://substack.com/@michaelmulliganlivelong
