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.
