A Blessing for New Beginnings

I’ve been thinking a lot about my own big shift with my daughter heading off to university, but I know I’m not the only one feeling it. Change is in the air; kids leaving for college, teachers prepping classrooms, parents stocking up on school supplies. And let’s not forget… football season is kicking off. Go Hawks!

I pulled a book off the shelf this morning and read through an old favorite from John O’Donahue. This particular entry is from his book titled, To Bless the Space Between Us and is a blessing for anyone stepping into something new.

For a New Beginning

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the gray promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life’s desire.

Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

Analog Notes

I may owe my daughter an apology.

The other day, she proudly showed me the stack of fresh notebooks she bought for her university classes. I smiled, then suggested she might not need them. “You’ll probably want to use your laptop to capture, store, and organize your notes digitally,” I said, picturing the convenience of searchable files and cloud backups.

She just shook her head. “I like handwriting my notes,” she replied.

At the time, I chalked it up to personal preference. But now, after reading Why Writing by Hand Is Better for Memory and Learning in Scientific American, I’m realizing she might be onto something.

But when taking notes by hand, it’s often impossible to write everything down; students have to actively pay attention to the incoming information and process it—prioritize it, consolidate it and try to relate it to things they’ve learned before. This conscious action of building onto existing knowledge can make it easier to stay engaged and grasp new concepts.

So maybe my daughter’s notebooks aren’t a throwback to the past. Maybe they’re a smart tool for her future.

And maybe the next time I think I have all the answers, I’ll take a note (by hand of course).

From Strollers to Moving Bags

Time doesn’t always move the way we think it does. Sometimes it drifts, quiet and unnoticed, until one day you realize years have slipped by while you were busy living small, ordinary moments.

I was out walking the other night, taking my usual loop around the neighborhood, when a couple came toward me pushing a stroller. Not the upright kind with snack trays and dangling toys, but the kind that holds a car seat, clicked into place so the baby faces the parent. The baby was fast asleep, completely unaware of the world rolling past.

I smiled, and they smiled back. I passed them with the kind of glance you give when you recognize the chapter someone’s in because you’ve lived it too.

Because I used to be them.

Not in some sentimental, metaphorical way. Actually. Literally.

I walked this same loop with a stroller. I walked it with babies who spit out pacifiers and pulled off their tiny socks like offerings to the pavement, who giggled at passing dogs and flailed their little arms at birds in flight. I walked it with toddlers who had more questions than the world had answers. I walked it in flip flops, in boots, in the kind of weather that turns your breath into fog.

And now, next Friday, I’ll pack up my youngest child, no longer small and no longer sleeping in a stroller, and drive her across the state to move her into her university dorm room.

It catches in my chest, how quickly it all passed. As if those years were just one quiet loop around the neighborhood.

Of course, they weren’t. They were school projects, gluten-free birthday cakes, and slime-making marathons. They were camping trips, piano lessons and soccer games, cross country meets and quick stops at Big Foot Java for energy drinks. They were laughter (and sometimes arguments) so loud it rattled the walls, and quiet dinners when no one quite knew what to say. They were a thousand Wednesdays and Thursdays that added up to something holy.

I think we imagine life will be made of grand events, but it rarely is. Most of it is made in small portions. Like manna. Just enough for today. No leftovers, no storing it up for tomorrow. Just this moment, this mile, this meal. Forever is composed of nows, as Dickinson put it. And I think she was right.

And while it’s true that I wish it hadn’t gone by so quickly, I also know I wouldn’t trade any of it. Even the hard parts, even the quiet frustrations and missteps. Because all of it was threaded with grace.

There’s a verse I’ve always loved, tucked away in Ecclesiastes: “God has made everything beautiful in its time.” That word in matters. Not after its time, or looking back on its time, but in it. Which means there was beauty right there in the middle of the mess and motion, even when I couldn’t see it yet.

I see it now.

So no, I didn’t miss it. Not all of it. I held many of those moments close in my heart. I whispered thanks under my breath more often than anyone knew. I tried to walk slowly through the middle, not just race toward the finish line.

And here I am again, walking. But now the scenery looks different. The stroller has been traded for six extra large zippered moving bags. The baby has grown into a college student with ideas and dreams and an Amazon wish list.

Still, I believe there are more moments to come. A new season full of firsts. Of new kinds of walks and talks and quiet miracles. Maybe even a few that will take place around this same neighborhood loop.

The road to Emmaus comes to mind. That quiet walk where Jesus showed up beside two weary travelers, unrecognized, until their eyes were opened. I think about that sometimes. How He walks with us, unnoticed, through the ordinary. Through neighborhoods and nightfall, through coming and going, through strollers and zippered moving bags alike.

Maybe that’s what I’m learning. Or maybe it’s what I keep learning as I get older. That the sacred is almost always hidden in the slow, unnoticed steps. That the miracle is in the middle.

So I’ll keep walking. One loop at a time.

Confirmed, But Not Really

In April, my daughter committed to a university in a relatively small college town. Knowing how quickly accommodations fill up around important events like move-in weekend, I booked a hotel room right away. Three nights, confirmed through Expedia. I’ve had that confirmation since April.

Today, I got a reminder about the upcoming stay and decided to call the property with a quick question. I’m glad I did. They told me they had no record of my reservation.

I explained that I booked through Expedia. Still nothing.


After going through the frustrating experience of Expedia’s virtual agent, I finally got in touch with a real person. They were able to confirm that the hotel could now see my reservation, but only for one night instead of the three that were originally confirmed. When I asked how that could happen, they explained that it’s common when properties overbook their inventory through third-party sites. Basically, the hotel hedged its bets that some people might cancel, and I ended up thinking I had a confirmed reservation when I didn’t.

So, since April, I’ve been walking around with the false belief that we had a place to stay for one of the most important weekends of our daughter’s life.

And now? There’s no availability left in town. At best, we’ll be staying 45 minutes away and commuting in all weekend.

Frustrated doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I’m curious; has this happened to anyone else? Is this just a third-party booking issue, or does it happen even when booking directly? I’m seriously considering skipping Expedia for good after this.

Four-Day Work Week

Boston College researchers studied dozens of organizations around the world that trimmed their workweeks to four days (with no pay cut) and found remarkable results:

  • Productivity held steady or improved
  • Employees felt less stress and burnout
  • Companies saw lower turnover and better recruiting

The secret? Less time wasted on low-value tasks (like endless meetings), more focus, and a third day to live life (run errands, rest, create, breathe).

Turns out, when you trust people and redesign work intentionally, they don’t do less. They do better.

The five-day grind isn’t sacred. It’s just tradition.

Personally, I think companies would be far better off investing their energy into thoughtfully implementing a four-day week than clinging to rigid return-to-office mandates.

A Father's Day Meditation

Father’s Day always feels like a knot I carry in my chest.
Not unbearable, just there—
tight with memory and mystery.
Because I didn’t grow up with a dad around.
Not really.
He was gone when I was still small enough to believe
that everyone had someone to build their pinewood derby car with.

So when I became a father,
I walked into it with empty hands.
No blueprint, no model—
just love, a little fear, and a prayer
that grace could build what history left undone.

With my three kids,
it’s been everything—
laughter echoing down hallways,
arguments over nothing and everything,
trips to the ER,
inside jokes that still make us laugh,
text messages that leave a lump in my throat.

I’ve watched them come alive—
in their passions, their questions, their becoming.
And I’ve watched them come undone.
Sometimes both in the same week.

There’s a kind of dying that comes with parenting—
the slow surrender of control,
of certainty,
of being able to fix what hurts.
You watch them become their own people,
and you ache—
not because you want them to stay small,
but because you love them so fiercely,
you feel it in your bones.

But there’s joy, too—
the quiet kind that sneaks up on you.
When you catch a glimpse of their courage.
Or watch them comfort a friend.
Or hear them speak truth with a voice
that’s somehow both familiar and entirely their own.

I’ve made mistakes.
Things I’d do differently if I had the chance.
But I also know this:
love covered more ground than I thought it would.
God filled in more cracks than I ever could.

These days I pray more.
Not just the “protect them” prayers,
but the “form them” ones—
shape them, Lord,
even if it’s hard.

And somewhere in the quiet,
I hear the echo of the Father I never had
but always needed—
the one who never left,
never flinched,
never withheld.

So today,
I hold the ache and the hallelujah.
I carry both.
Because being a dad
has wounded me in the holiest of ways.
And it’s also lit up corners of my heart
I didn’t know existed.

What a gift.
What a wonder.
What a grace.

An interruption well lived

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I’ve been thinking about interruptions all wrong. I tend to get frustrated when life throws unexpected detours my way—plans get derailed, schedules shift, something or someone demands my attention when I’d rather be doing something else. I catch myself thinking, If I could just get past this distraction, I could really get on with life. But what if these aren’t just interruptions to life? What if they are life?

C.S. Lewis wrote, “The truth is, of course, that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one’s real life—the life God is sending one day by day.” That quote hit me hard when I came across it this week. Because if I’m honest, I spend a lot of time resisting the very moments that make up my actual, lived experience. I have a tendency to see real life as something just beyond my reach—waiting for me once I finish my to-do list, once I solve this problem, once I feel better, once I get past whatever today’s inconvenience happens to be. But what if this—the mess, the unpredictability, the unplanned conversations, the detours, this sickness and pain—is exactly the life I’m meant to be present for?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot in light of my recent hospital visits and medical issues. None of that was part of my plan. It was inconvenient, frustrating, even a little scary. I wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else. But looking back, I can see that those experiences weren’t just obstacles to get past—they were moments that shaped me. The forced stillness, the conversations with doctors and nurses, the unexpected grace of people showing up for me—those weren’t just disruptions; they were reminders of what really matters.

Jesus seemed to understand this better than anyone. So many of the moments that changed people’s lives happened in what looked like interruptions. He was on His way somewhere when a woman reached out to touch His garment. He was traveling when a blind beggar cried out to Him. He was teaching when children ran up, and instead of shooing them away, He welcomed them. From one perspective, His whole ministry was just a series of interruptions. But He didn’t treat them as distractions from His real work—He made them His real work.

Lately, I’ve been participating in a Bible study at church where we’ve been working through the book of James, where he urges believers to “Consider it a great joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you experience various trials,” (James 1:2). That’s a radical statement—joy, in trials? But James isn’t saying we should force a smile through hardship. He’s pointing to something deeper: the idea that trials refine us, shape our character, mature us in our faith, and deepen our dependence on God. Maybe these so-called interruptions—these unexpected moments of difficulty—are actually the very means by which God is forming something in me that wouldn’t exist otherwise.

So what does that mean for me? For you? I don’t have an easy answer. But I wonder how different life might feel if I stopped resenting and resisting the things that disrupt my plans and started receiving them as invitations. Invitations to grow, to listen, to be fully where I am instead of wishing I were somewhere else. Invitations to trust that even in the moments that feel inconvenient or frustrating, something meaningful is happening.

I don’t have this figured out. I still get impatient. I still wish things would go the way I expect and desire. But I’m trying—trying to hold my plans more loosely, to embrace the interruptions instead of resisting them. Because maybe, just maybe, they’re not interruptions at all. Maybe they’re the very moments through which God is teaching me joy.

We can't schedule our crises

Most of the time, we go about our lives without needing a doctor or a counselor—until suddenly, we do. An injury. A health scare. A mental health crisis. And in that moment, you need help. Right now.

I just went through this myself. I spent time in the hospital, and while they triaged the situation, there’s still so much that needs to be done for me to get back to a place where my daily life isn’t negatively impacted. I’m ready to do the work, to take the steps toward healing. But as I’ve reached out to specialists and providers, I’ve hit a wall—their schedules are packed. The soonest appointments are months away.

It’s a frustrating, even hopeless, feeling. When you’re in pain or struggling, you want to take action. You want to move forward. But instead, you wait. And it makes me wonder—why is it like this? Why is the moment we realize we need care the same moment we discover how hard it is to get? And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?

My first instinct is to call the referring doctors and ask if anything can be expedited. But then I stop and wonder—would that just mean bumping someone else further down the list? Someone who’s just as desperate for relief as I am? Is my pain, my need for care, more important than theirs?

Is this just a simple supply and demand issue—too many patients, not enough providers? Or is there something more? I don’t know the answers, but I do know that waiting is hard.

Hope is enough for today

Hope is a powerful thing. As someone traveling the road of faith, I’ve long understood its importance, but today I was reminded just how tangible it can be.

At a doctor’s appointment, after a rough six days, we discussed a new plan—one that included different medication my doctor believed would better manage my pain. She explained why she thought it would be more effective, and I noticed something: even though I hadn’t started taking it yet, even though we don’t know for sure if it will work, just hearing that there was a next step—just the hope of relief—shifted something in me. My pain didn’t change in that moment, but my outlook did.

It struck me how often hope works this way. It doesn’t erase the struggle, but it changes how we carry it. Sometimes, just knowing there’s a path forward makes all the difference.

An immovable tradition

“The habit quickly morphed into an immovable tradition, with Ken joking that a school-style written note of absence is necessary for anyone who dares bail without good reason, although one member of the group is legitimately absent this week due to a holiday.” (David Spereall, BBC Yorkshire, The Mates Who Have Met for a Pint Every Thursday for 56 Years)

This is a short excerpt from an article about a group of men who have met together weekly for 56 years. The phrase that really captured me in the quote above is the fact that these men (who are now in their 80s) have had an “immovable tradition” for that long. And it is that immovable tradition that has cultivated what must be (aside from their spouses) the most significant relationships they have.

I enjoyed reading the article but I have to be honest; I found myself feeling exposed and maybe even a little jealous. I wished that I had those types of relationships in my life. The reality is that I find myself in my mid-50s not really having any friends. Sure, I know a lot of people that I’m friendly with and I enjoy their company when I see them but there isn’t anyone who is my default, “let’s go hang out and grab a meal or go for a hike” type of guy. And I don’t have anyone like that reaching out to me. Back in the day when my kids were younger and we were always so busy as a family with the kids’ activities, I didn’t really notice it. But, now that the kids are older and pursuing their own interests independently from us, I’ve been faced with the stark reality that I haven’t really cultivated any friendships over the past 20 years.

I need to consider what I do about that. I’ve tried reaching out to a couple guys in the neighborhood over the past year to connect for coffee or to grab some food. They seemed open to the idea but the thing I run up against is that most people already have their groups established and it’s difficult to break through the established circle of friends. At this point, my only social outlet is as a couple with my wife. I certainly don’t mind that and the couples we get together with all enjoy each other. But, while the ladies have deep connections and spend lots of time together, we guys only connect when the wives pull us together. We never get together just us guys.

But, I can’t feel too sorry for myself. Because as I take stock, I have to acknowledge that I do have my own immovable tradition. For the past 18 years, I’ve connected with a friend for coffee every week. Well, almost every week. Sometimes travel and work schedules or the occasional illness get in the way. Over the years we’ve met on different days, at different times, and at different locations. Currently, we meet every Friday at 8:30 a.m. at our local coffee shop. It’s something I look forward to as it’s one of my only outlets for true connection. An opportunity to get out of the house (a nice break for someone who works from home), enjoy a good cup of coffee, have interesting and sometimes challenging conversations, and at the end I leave for home feeling known. For now, maybe that’s good enough.