If the Marlboro Man Could Sing, He’d Be Alan Jackson

Somewhere between the Marlboro Man and modern masculinity stands a tall, quiet Georgian named Alan Jackson. The Marlboro Man didn’t talk much. He stared into the horizon. He let the wind do the storytelling.

Alan Jackson? He let the steel guitar do it. I’ll confess something that may revoke my country card: I was never a huge Alan Jackson fan in the beginning. I respected him. I nodded along. But I didn’t feel him.

That changed when he started collaborating with people I already loved — Jimmy Buffett and later Zac Brown Band. There’s a story from the “Chicken Fried” tour days. Jackson walked onto the Zac Brown Band’s tour bus carrying an expensive bottle of something brown and confidence-infused. He handed it over and simply said, “Boys, you did good.” Then he left.

That’s it. No speech. No spotlight grab. No social media post. Just affirmation, bottle, exit.

The boys reportedly sat there stunned. “That was Alan Jackson.”

That story has always felt very Marlboro Man to me. Strong. Sparse. Secure.

Then came the collaboration with Zac Brown that got me. “As She’s Walking Away.” When Jackson sang that verse about the young man watching the girl he loves walk out the door because he couldn’t find the courage to speak… I grinned. Not because I had mastered that moment. Because I hadn’t.

Greg did not have consistent success with the ladies for much of his life. There were more than a few beautiful women who exited rooms without ever knowing they had been silently admired. My heart often failed to relay instructions to my brain, which in turn failed to inform my mouth. Communication breakdown. Across-the-room paralysis. Low self-esteem

And every time I hear that song, I think of one particular room. It wasn’t a bar in Georgia. It was a classroom at Christ the King School.  Third grade. Four desks grouped together like destiny. Her name was Julie C.

That was the first time I fell in love. Third grade love — the pure kind. The kind built on pencil boxes, shared glances, and absolutely no strategy. She left CKS after that year. Gone. Like many childhood crushes, she became a memory filed under “What If.”

Fast forward to junior year at Missouri State University. Fraternity rush event. 1983-ish.
Adult beverages involved. I saw her name tag from almost across the room. Julie C.

We exchanged pleasantries. Polite at first. Then easier. Then, more relaxed as the punch bowl theology took effect. For most of the evening, we were positioned almost poetically across the room from one another. Eventually, I gathered the courage. I asked her to dance. Here’s where reality stepped in wearing heels.

By this time in life, I had officially topped out at 5’5”. Julie, meanwhile, had grown into a statuesque young woman who could likely see the horizon the Marlboro Man had been staring at all those years.

She giggled, kindly, not cruelly, and said, “Greg, this isn’t going to work.” And that was that. No dramatic exit. No slammed door.  Just physics and polite honesty. We went our separate ways.

And every time I hear Alan Jackson sing about the young man who waits too long, who watches her walk away without ever saying what needed to be said, I smile. Sometimes the story isn’t about regret. Sometimes it’s about the courage it took to stand up at all.

The Marlboro Man never showed us rejection. He never showed us awkward dance floors. He never showed us the moment when your confidence meets reality and reality wins. But country music does.

That’s why Alan Jackson matters. He gave voice to the quiet men. The late bloomers. The across-the-room admirers. The ones who finally stand up — even if it doesn’t work.

Masculinity isn’t silence. It’s not just windblown stoicism and distant horizons. Sometimes it’s a 5’5” man asking a taller woman to dance anyway. Sometimes it’s bringing a bottle onto a bus, saying “You did good,” and walking out. Sometimes it’s smiling decades later when a song reminds you that at least you tried before she was walking away.

 

Learning the Gospel without realizing it’s being taught or "let me explain soteriology!"

I have spent decades telling children to use kind words. Share. Apologize properly (from the heart). Try again. Raise your hand. Lower your voice. Somewhere between “walk, please” and “that is not how we treat people,” it dawned on me that I have been teaching the Gospel for years without announcing it.

Now, before anyone gets nervous, I am not suggesting we trick children into theology like we’re hiding vegetables in brownies. I’m not running some spiritual bait-and-switch operation. I’m not luring anyone in with recess and surprising them with Romans.  

I promise you this is not another onomatopoeia post. I get it. I get it. Build the readership. Do not relinquish it. This is not me saying, “Let me explain soteriology.” First of all, no one has ever gathered around a kitchen table hoping someone would say that sentence. If I ever opened a blog post with “Let me explain soteriology,” even my own family would pretend the Wi-Fi went out.

Let me spare you the thesaurus: it simply means the doctrine of salvation. See? We were fine until I said “doctrine.”  Jesus, interestingly enough, never began a conversation that way. He didn’t say, “Gather round, fishermen. Let’s unpack atonement theory.”  Instead, He said, “There was a man who had two sons.”

Somehow, through stories about seeds and sheep and stubborn brothers, people absorbed eternity without realizing they were in a theology lesson. That’s what fascinates me. 

Children do not wake up wondering about doctrinal frameworks. They care about fairness. They care about who gets picked. They care about whether someone said they’re sorry and meant it. They care about who sits alone at lunch. When you teach a child to tell the truth even when it costs them something… when you teach them to forgive before they feel like it… when you insist that the kid who rolls his eyes still deserves dignity… You are not just maintaining classroom order. You are planting something older than the classroom.

I know this because that’s how it happened to me. I do not remember the first time someone explained GRACE to me in theological terms. I couldn’t diagram it for you. I probably would have spelled “soteriology” with an extra vowel.

But I remember watching adults apologize.  I remember teachers who could have embarrassed a student publicly, and didn’t. I remember priests who were gentle in confession long before I understood what MERCY meant.

Long before I knew the word “Gospel,” I knew what it felt like. That might be my point. Adults aren’t much different from children. We resist being instructed. We bristle at being corrected. We scroll past anything that smells like a lecture.

But we lean in when we see patience. We soften when someone extends mercy. We notice when kindness costs something. The culture argues loudly about religion.  Very few people argue with compassion. Very few people object to integrity. Very few people recoil from someone who keeps their word.

Maybe the Gospel is not always first taught in sermons. Maybe it is transmitted in kitchens. In carpools. In faculty lounges. In text messages that say, “I was wrong.”

Maybe the most powerful way to form hearts is not by announcing, “Today we will be covering salvation,” but by creating spaces where forgiveness is normal, generosity is assumed, and dignity is non-negotiable.

Maybe the quiet miracle is this: People can learn the Gospel without realizing it’s being taught. Not because it is hidden. But because it is lived. 

If a child grows up knowing how to forgive… how to tell the truth… how to stand up for the kid who sits alone… how to apologize without excuses… how to stay when leaving would be easier… then one day, when they finally hear the word “Gospel,” it won’t feel foreign. It will feel familiar.  That familiarity might just be the Holy Spirit’s handwriting — written long before anyone ever said, “Let me explain soteriology.

Growing Up in the '60s and '70s (or How Am I Still Alive?)

Growing up, we did not have rubberized safety surfaces. We had gravel, more specifically, asphalt.

Because nothing builds character like falling off a jungle gym and being told, “You’re fine,” "rubs some dirt on it," while actively bleeding.

Playground equipment that spins is most commonly called a merry-go-round. That sounds delightful. What we had was a manually operated centrifugal device powered by the strongest kid in grade school who had just discovered torque.

The goal was simple: spin it until someone achieved low orbit. If you flew off and hit the ground, you were not a victim. You were entertainment. Then there were the twelve-foot metal slides. In July, those were less playground equipment and more branding irons. You committed at the top and accepted whatever skin sacrifice was required at the bottom.

And of course, lawn darts. For the uninitiated, these were metal-tipped projectiles marketed as a wholesome family yard game. Somewhere in America, a committee approved that sentence. In Greg Anderson’s backyard, however, lawn darts evolved. We were the cast of the Hunger Games pilot.

We would stand a few paces apart. One would lob the Jart high into the air, attempting to land it as close as possible to the other’s feet without impaling each other. If you jumped out of the way — or even flinched — you were whipped with a pussy willow branch.

I would like to pause here and say this was a bad idea. It was a terrible idea. At the time, it felt like a test of passage conducted with yard equipment. 

I once had a Jart pass through my shoe, between my toes, by what I can only describe as the grace of God and poor aim. It pinned the earth where my foot had been a fraction of a second earlier. I did not flinch. Not because I was brave. Because I had already been on the receiving end of that pussy willow branch more than once… and being impaled did not seem significantly worse.

Context matters.

Also, in those days, we wore our shorts like that cop in the TV comedy Reno 911! — aggressively short and offering very little in the way of protection. There was no tactical fabric. No knee-length modesty buffer. Just thigh, courage, and questionable decision-making.

We drank from the garden hose. We rode in the back of pickup trucks. We built bike ramps out of scrap wood that had no business supporting human ambition. We wanted to be Evil Knievel. 

We left the house at 9 a.m. and returned when the streetlights came on. No helmets. No sunscreen. No hydration strategy. No Lunchables to hold us over. Somehow, we survived.

Now, this is usually where someone says, “Kids today could never.” That’s lazy. Kids today are navigating things we never had to face — digital minefields, social pressures at scale, a world that records every mistake.

But I do wonder if what shaped us wasn’t the danger itself. It was the freedom. We were allowed to test gravity. We were allowed to feel the sting of poor judgment. We negotiated risk without adult arbitration. We learned early that the world does not soften itself for you.

When you flew off the merry-go-round, you got up. When the slide burned, you adjusted your angle next time. When a lawn dart nearly ventilated your foot, you reconsidered your hobbies. Slightly. Risk taught us consequences. Consequence taught us awareness.

Awareness slowly became wisdom, or at least a better aim. I am grateful for safer playgrounds. I am grateful that lawn darts are no longer a standard feature of suburban childhood.

But I am also quietly grateful for gravel. For scraped knees that didn’t require paperwork, every boo-boo is an "Incident Report" today, or backyard stupidity that somehow matured into resilience.

We were raised on metal, momentum, and mild negligence. And somewhere between the spinning discs and the airborne projectiles, we learned something important: Life will not always be padded. You will not always be supervised.

Sometimes courage looks less like fearlessness and more like standing still, and praying a Jart lands just a little to the left. Now pull yourself up by your bootstraps, rub some dirt on it, and get back in the game!

"Curiosity Over Credentials: My Return to Creative Blogging"

Today, I revisited WordPress, the place where I first launched my OG blog, The Examined Life, many years ago. As I set up a new account and selected interests, likes, or loves (topics that interest me), I chose "creative writing" as my focus. It struck me how deeply I still love words—not because I’m an expert, but because they ignite something within me. Today, I wrote about onomatopoeias—those tiny words that echo the very sounds they describe. It reminded me that, like a short, crisp "pop" or "buzz," every small step in creative practice counts, even if I never become a master.

I’ve always considered myself a Renaissance man—a lover of many curiosities, a jack of all trades, unfortunately, a master of none. But, as I think about taking my blog to the next level, it’s clear that WordPress offers so much more eye candy than Google’s Blogger ever did—more design, more flexibility. 

Yet, even as I dream bigger, I know I can’t rush. I don’t want to seem like I’m drinking my own Kool-Aid or getting too far ahead of myself. I’m still building a readership, still learning to write. I want to keep the humility that brought me here—the openness to experiment, to share my jumbled thoughts, and to remind myself (and my readers) that life is a curious echo—some big, some small. And every word, every step, is worth exploring.

Thank you for joining me on this journey. I cherish the feedback. I embrace the encouragement. I even grow from the critique, because I can’t grow if I am not challenged. Thank you for caring. I appreciate you.

Inclusion - Giving Students What They Need to Succeed

I officially surrendered my man card the day I said, “I do,” back in 1987. Apparently, there are no returns. Yesterday I wept in my office. Not the dignified, single-tear kind of weeping. I’m talking full-on, reach-for-the-Kleenex, thank-God-the-door-is-closed weeping. We had just told a parent—whose child is on the spectrum—that we believe in her son, and we want him to stay at our school.

Those words cost us something. They cost planning. They cost resources. They cost energy. But they didn’t cost us our mission.

And here’s the irony: this conversation came on the heels of another one where I had to tell a “potential family” that we didn’t believe our school was the right fit for their children. Same day. Same office. Same principal. Two completely different outcomes.

If you’ve ever wondered whether there’s an internal battle between a principal’s head and heart, let me assure you—it’s not theoretical. It’s daily. And sometimes it’s exhausting.

Like most of my blogs, there’s a back story. Inclusion isn’t just a buzzword to me. It’s personal. My grandson Cole is on the spectrum. My great-nephew Lucas has Down syndrome and is out there living life with joy that could evangelize a stadium. These aren’t case studies. They’re my people.

Recently, I saw a reel about the Rockwood School District featuring a former student of mine—an absolute rock star of a teacher—and her son, “Super Cooper,” who helps the assistant principal with bus duty every afternoon. I don’t know who needed that video more—me or the algorithm—but I felt it in my chest.

Because here’s the truth: when the conversation turns to special needs, I clock back in.

I try to clock out. I really do. My official school hours run roughly 7 a.m. to bedtime. Weekends are for parish events… unless we’re out of town… unless something comes up… which it always does. I tell myself I’m “off duty,” but if someone brings up inclusion at a funeral reception? Game on.

That happened last week. Between condolences and catching up with old grade school and prep school buddies, the topic shifted to special needs, someone’s deceased brother, a grandchild on the spectrum, and programs in parish schools. And I could feel the fire in one friend’s voice as he talked about the miracles happening through inclusive efforts in Catholic education.

That’s when I stop talking about academics and start talking about souls. Not methodologies. Not paperwork. Not funding formulas. Souls. This wasn’t about educational theory. It’s about whether we truly believe every child is made in the image and likeness of God—or whether that’s just something we print in the handbook.

I’ll be honest. There are still educators who quietly (and sometimes not-so-quietly) wonder if students with significant IEPs and extensive modifications are “fair” to the rest of the class.

When I hear that, my blood pressure does things that would concern my physician. My response is usually simple: “Take your glasses off and read the board from the back row.”

When you admit you can’t, I’ll hand them back to you. That’s not cheating.  That’s not lowering the standard. That’s giving you the tools you need to see.  If we’re willing to hand a child glasses, why wouldn’t we hand them the academic, social, or behavioral supports they need to flourish?

Inclusion doesn’t weaken a classroom. It humanizes it. Children who grow up learning beside classmates with different abilities don’t become resentful. They become compassionate. They learn patience. They learn creativity. They learn that strength doesn’t always look like straight A’s and varsity letters. They learn the Gospel without realizing it’s being taught.

Yes, programs like FIRE in Kansas City and One Classroom in St. Louis have helped schools make this possible. Grants matter. Training matters. Support matters. I’m grateful for the ways the Archdiocese of Kansas City–St. Joseph and St. Louis are leaning into this mission.

But what moved me to tears today wasn’t a program. It was a parent sitting across from us, bracing for bad news. It was the pause before we spoke. It was the moment her shoulders dropped when she realized her son wasn’t being shown the door. It was the sacred privilege of saying, “We see him. We believe in him. He belongs here.”

I don’t cry because inclusion is easy. I cry because it’s worth it. There will always be tension between prudence and compassion. Between capacity and calling. Between what makes sense on paper and what feels right in prayer.

But if we are going to call ourselves Catholic educators—if we are going to talk about human dignity, community, and the Body of Christ—then sometimes we have to live it in ways that stretch us. Sometimes that means saying no. Sometimes that means saying yes. Sometimes that means a middle-aged principal sitting in his office, dabbing his eyes, grateful that he gave up his man card decades ago.

Because if loving and fighting for kids like Cole, Lucas, Super Cooper, and the little boy in our office today costs me a few tears?  I’ll pay it every single time.

When Words Go Boom: Celebrating Onomatopoeia and Other Overachievers

 Onomatopoeia.

There. I’ve opened with it. No warm-up stretch. No phonetic foam rolling. Just straight into the deep end of the English language pool where consonants gather like unsupervised middle schoolers at a dance.

Onomatopoeia.

A word that sounds like what it is—boom, buzz, clang—yet looks like someone dropped a Scrabble tray and said, “Yes. That. That’s the spelling.”

English is the only language that can make you feel literate and illiterate in the same sentence.

Take oxymoron. Which sounds like either:

1. A medical diagnosis.

2. A breakfast cereal.

3. Something you accidentally say in a faculty meeting.

“Jumbo shrimp.”
“Pretty ugly.”
“Act naturally.”

Or my personal favorite: “Military Intelligence.”

And then there are those words that feel like they were designed specifically to appear on the Miller Analogies Test, lurking between “photosynthesis” and “existentialism,” waiting to humble a confident seventeen-year-old.

Sesquipedalian.
Which, ironically, means “given to using long words.”
It is the linguistic equivalent of a peacock wearing a top hat.

Epistemology.
A word that makes you question knowledge while simultaneously questioning your GPA.

Anachronism.
Which sounds like a dinosaur but is really just your dad using “groovy” in 2026.

Synecdoche.
Bless you.

The thing about these words is that they are magnificent. They are verbal fireworks. They are the cathedral ceilings of conversation. No one needs them to survive. But when they appear—correctly, confidently—they elevate the whole moment.

English doesn’t just give us vocabulary; it gives us personality tests.

Are you a “moist” person?
A “plethora” enthusiast?
Do you drop “ubiquitous” casually into a staff email?
Do you secretly practice spelling “rhythm” in your head when you’re stopped at red lights?

Let’s talk about “rhythm.”
A word that bravely said, “Vowels are optional.”

“Queue.” A word that is 80% silent and 100% smug.

Then there’s “colonel”, pronounced “kernel.”
Because English once decided phonics was more of a suggestion.

Even “onomatopoeia,” the hero of our opening line, feels like it should require a permission slip to attempt. Yet once you say it—once you lean into its rolling syllables—it feels like you’ve just performed verbal gymnastics without pulling a hamstring.

These words aren’t just difficult. They’re delightful. They remind us that language is alive. It has a history. That it wandered through Latin and Greek and French and thought, “I’ll take that. And that. And I’ll pronounce it differently just to keep things interesting.”

We groan about spelling bees. We joke about autocorrect betrayals. We blame the British. (Lovingly.) Somewhere between “hyperbole” (not pronounced hyper-bowl, no matter how much we wish it were) and “mnemonic” (which begins with a silent letter just to test your faith), there is joy.

Because mastering a word, feels like claiming a small square of intellectual real estate. It’s satisfying. It’s nerdy. It’s a tiny fist pump in the privacy of your own brain. Maybe that’s why those Miller Analogies words still echo in memory. Not because we use “epistemic” at the grocery store. But because wrestling with language is part of growing up. It stretches us. It humbles us. It makes us laugh at ourselves.

Onomatopoeia. It sounds like rain on a tin roof. It looks like a typo. It feels like victory when you spell it correctly on the first try.

If you didn’t spell it correctly on the first try? Well. That’s what autocorrect is for. (Which, incidentally, I had to retype three times while writing this.)

Bless Your Heart… The Charm of Southern Sarcasm

I follow a "Lady" (EZSNB) on Facebook who has elevated the Southern art of insult into something that feels… almost pastoral. She never outright calls anyone stupid. She just escorts you gently to that conclusion.

Now let me be clear: I am not encouraging insults. I am a Christian. I am an educator. I have spent decades telling children to “use kind words” while simultaneously thinking thoughts that were… not kindergarten-approved.  But I do admire creativity.

When someone blurts out, “You’re stupid,” I instinctively recoil and say, “Pray tell — did you just say the S-T-E-W-P-U-D word? In this establishment? During business hours?” Spell it wrong. Look scandalized. Adjust your glasses. It buys everyone a moment to recover their sanctification.

Because while we should never attack someone’s dignity, there are moments in life when something has gone profoundly, impressively, almost artistically wrong. And in those moments, the South has given us options.

There’s the industrial-strength comparison:

• “You’re as useful as a screen door on a submarine.”
• “You’re as confused as a GPS with commitment issues.”
• “You’re about one crayon short of a full sermon illustration.”

That last one may or may not have been inspired by faculty meetings.

Then there are the directional challenges:

• “You couldn’t organize a one-car parade.”
• “You’d get lost in a revolving door.”
• “You don’t know whether to wind your watch or bark at the moon.”

And because I work in education, I have developed a few school-specific versions:

• “That decision would not pass peer review.”
• “That was not your valedictorian moment.”
• “You just turned a pop quiz into a case study.”

See? We’re not calling names. We’re narrating events. I’ve also grown fond of what I call the encouraging insult:

• “Well… that was brave.”
• “I admire your confidence.”
• “You really committed to that, didn’t you?”

Nothing stings quite like affirmation delivered at a 12-degree head tilt. But here’s the important part. The difference between humor and harm is love. In Proverbs, we’re told that “a gentle answer turns away wrath.” It does not say, “A perfectly crafted roast will bring revival.”

We can be clever without being cutting. Because let’s be honest: I have personally been

• a bubble off plumb,
• a flickering porch light,
• and at least twice, a full sack of hammers.

I once made a decision so questionable that even my latte looked at me differently the next morning.

I have sent emails that should have come with a theological disclaimer and a 24-hour waiting period.

If life were graded on a curve, I’ve definitely benefited from grace. That’s the key. The goal isn’t to perfect the art of creative insult. It’s about maintaining joy without sacrificing kindness.

If you can say it with a smile and the other person knows you love them, it lands like a nudge. If you say it with contempt, it lands like a brick. Christians should not be in the brick-throwing business.

So perhaps our rule of thumb is this: If you wouldn’t say it in front of your grandmother, your pastor, or a second grader with a smartphone… reconsider. Or at least rephrase.

Because somewhere between “You’re stupid” and “Bless your heart” lies the narrow road of sanctified sarcasm. Walk it carefully. And if you wander off?  Well…

That just might not be your sharpest knife moment. Bless your heart!

 

Funeral for a Friend

Last week I drove West towards KCMO for the funeral of a grade school, high school classmate and friend. Patrick was one of those steady presences from childhood, the kind of person who occupies a permanent room in your memory, even if life scatters you to different cities and decades.

The funeral was held at Christ the King Church in Kansas City. It was reverent. Intentional. And, for many of us formed in post–Vatican II Catholicism, it felt like stepping into a time capsule. The priest celebrated Mass facing the same direction as the congregation: toward the altar and the back wall. Communion was received kneeling, on the tongue, along an altar rail. There was no Sign of Peace. The homily was not a eulogy. It was not even particularly biographical. At one point, Father referenced a biology frog, a classroom image used to illustrate a theological truth, rather than recounting Patrick’s life story. 

And for a moment, I felt the tension rise in the pews.

After Mass, a high school classmate, Paul, now a convert to Judaism, approached the priest. He had flown in from California and was candid: why travel across the country to hear about a frog when we came to celebrate the life of a great friend? Why no stories? Why no legacy? Why no eulogy?

The priest replied simply: that is not allowed in the Catholic Church. I bit my tongue.

I have attended hundreds of Catholic funerals. I have heard priests tell stories. I have heard sons, daughters, siblings, and friends speak beautifully and at length. One funeral in particular, James Gunn, Sr. comes to mind where four children spoke for 20–30 minutes each, weaving together a tapestry of memory and tribute to their father.

So, which is it? Is an eulogy allowed? Or not? The answer is both simpler and more complicated than we might think.

Officially, the Catholic Church teaches that the homily at a Funeral Mass is to focus on Scripture, on Christ’s death and resurrection, and on prayer for the deceased, not on a eulogy. The emphasis is theological, not biographical. The Mass is offered for the repose of the soul. It is worship directed toward God. That was the instinct at Christ the King. The parish regularly celebrates the Traditional Latin Mass. The tone is intentionally reverent, restrained, and vertical, oriented toward heaven. In that liturgical spirituality, the funeral is not primarily a celebration of a well-lived life, but an intercession for a soul entrusted to mercy.

For those formed in that tradition, telling stories during Mass can feel like shifting the spotlight from God to the individual.

For many American Catholics formed after Vatican II, however, funerals have evolved. The Church’s theology did not change, but the pastoral expression did. White vestments became common. The language of “celebration of life” entered our vocabulary. Brief remembrances, and sometimes extended ones, became part of the lived experience of Catholic funerals in many parishes.

So, when my classmate asked his question, he wasn’t being irreverent. He was reacting out of love. He wanted Patrick remembered. Named. Celebrated. And in that moment, I realized we were witnessing not a violation, not a rebellion, but a contrast of emphases.

The older liturgical instinct says: Pray for the soul.  The newer pastoral instinct often says: Celebrate the life. Both flow from love. They simply express it differently.

The irony was not lost on me that the priest, a married convert to Catholicism and former Lutheran pastor, represented something very post–Vatican II in his personal journey, while celebrating a pre–Vatican II liturgical style. If you were writing a screenplay, you might not dare script that combination. Yet there it was: a married Catholic priest offering a Requiem-style funeral with no eulogy and a biology frog in the homily. Catholicism is nothing if not layered.

As I reflect on it now, I think the frog actually makes sense. Patrick’s life, like all of ours, was part of something larger. A created order. A grand design. The priest’s point, however unexpected, was likely theological: that life itself, in all its fragile complexity, points beyond itself.

Still, I understand why some of us wanted stories. We wanted to hear about the kid we knew.
The friend we laughed with. The man who left a mark. And yet, perhaps the quiet restraint was its own form of reverence.

Because at the altar, the Church insists on something bracingly countercultural: even the most beloved life is ultimately placed in God’s hands, not on display before an audience.

The stories? They came later. In the gathering spaces. In the hugs. In the long conversations after Mass. Around tables. In the parking lot. At the BAR on Strawberry Hill, where we got our intake of Vitamin G! That is where Patrick’s legacy was told and retold.

And maybe that, too, has wisdom in it. The liturgy was prayed. The people remembered.

I don’t write this to critique the parish or to defend it. I write it because the experience revealed something about how differently we can encounter the same Church. For some, reverence is kneeling at a rail. For others, it is speaking a brother’s tribute. For some, the frog was a distraction. For others, it was a metaphor for creation and eternity. For all of us, though, the reason we gathered was the same: love for a friend.

Love is what traveled from California, from Houston, from St. Louis, from decades past. It filled the pews whether stories were spoken or not. Patrick was prayed for. Patrick was remembered. Patrick was loved. Perhaps, in the mystery of Catholic worship, in Latin or English, facing east or facing the people, shouldn’t be a “thing”!  In the end, the Church did what she has always done at a funeral: she prayed. Not to erase a life, but to entrust it. Not to diminish a story, but to place it inside a larger one. Patrick’s biography lives in us, in laughter, in memory, in the complex chess matches, in the way certain names still feel like childhood. The liturgy, however, pointed beyond biography to eternity. And maybe that tension, between memory and mystery, is not something to resolve, but something to hold.

USA! USA! And the Brothers Who Made Me Cry

 

I shed a tear at the end of the USA men’s hockey gold medal game.  Alright, more than one.

It wasn’t just about the win. It was about what the win meant. Forty-six years between gold medals has a way of collapsing time. When the final horn sounded, I wasn’t just watching a team celebrate in 2026 — I was seventeen years old again, sitting in front of a television in Kansas City watching the Miracle on Ice unfold.

Back then, I didn’t understand Cold War politics or why beating the Soviet Union mattered on a global stage. I only knew that something impossible had happened. A group of young Americans, led by Herb Brooks — forever immortalized by Kurt Russell in the movie Miracle — had stunned the world. That moment lodged itself somewhere deep inside me. To this day, I can’t hear the word “herb” on a cooking show without smiling.

The last time the United States won Olympic team gold in men’s hockey, I was a high school senior. I had no clear vision for my future, other than a strong desire to put distance between myself and Kansas City — and, if I’m honest, between myself and my parents. That gold medal felt like proof that reinvention was possible. That you could skate toward something bigger than where you started. That belief mattered.

Watching this year’s team, I felt that same surge of pride, but layered with something deeper.

When the players carried out the #13 jersey honoring Johnny Gaudreau, the tears came again. They came even harder when his children joined him on the ice for the photo. These men — built for collision, trained for violence on skates — showed something far stronger than toughness. They showed tenderness. They wrapped their arms around one another, around children who have already lost too much, and they stood beneath the American flag not just as champions, but as brothers.

That image will stay with me longer than any highlight reel.

There was also something profoundly moving about legacy. Brock Nelson’s gold medal wasn’t just his own. His grandfather and great-uncle won gold in 1960. His uncle, Dave Christian, was part of the 1980 Miracle on Ice team. In 2026, Nelson added another chapter to a family story that spans generations. That’s not just sport; that’s inheritance. That’s history passed down at dinner tables and backyard rinks.

And then there were the brothers — Matthew and Brady Tkachuk, Quinn and Jack Hughes — sharing the ice, sharing the moment. What must it feel like to win Olympic gold with your brother standing next to you?

Brotherhood has always been a tender subject for me.

I first learned its meaning in San Antonio with my Kappa Sigma fraternity brothers. They filled a space I didn’t fully understand at the time. Later, as a Sir Knight in the Knights of Columbus, I gained another band of brothers — men who chose one another through shared faith and service.

Then life surprised me. In my mid-50s and early 60s, DNA confirmed what I hadn’t known: I had true blood brothers, Darrell and Jeffrey. To discover family later in life is both disorienting and healing. It restores something you didn’t realize was missing.

This past weekend in Kansas City, reconnecting with Tim, Doug, Paul, Barry, Blair, Jasper, and Patrick D’Arcy — who deserves credit for pulling our small band back together — reminded me that brotherhood doesn’t evaporate with time. It deepens. It weathers. It waits patiently for reunion.

Even Molly, honorary status granted without hesitation, fits into that circle.

Maybe that’s why I cried.

Because 46 years doesn’t just measure time between championships. It measures the distance between who we were and who we’ve become. It measures the miles I once put between myself and home. It measures the unexpected grace of second chances — in sport, in friendship, in family.

I once thought strength meant leaving.

Now I understand that strength often looks like returning. Like reconnecting. Like standing shoulder to shoulder — whether on the ice or in a pew or around a bar table in Kansas City — and realizing you were never skating alone.

So yes, I shed a few tears.

For 1980.
For 2026.
For Johnny.
For brothers found and brothers chosen.
For the kid who wanted out.
And for the man who finally understands why home still matters.

USA. USA.

And thank you for the memories.

You Can’t Go Home Again… Or Can You?

I just spent 36 hours back in Kansas City. The reason wasn’t a reunion tour or a victory lap. It was a memorial. A friend succumbed to cancer. The kind of gathering no one wants, and yet, the kind that gathers what matters.

As I walked into the church, I half expected a soundtrack to start playing. Maybe something like “Homeward Bound” by Simon & Garfunkel — “I’m sitting in the railway station…”  Longing to be someplace familiar.

Instead, I found myself sitting beside Tim and Molly, grade school friends I hadn’t sat next to in almost 50 years. Later, Rockhurst brothers Doug, Paul, Barry, and Blair, men I hadn’t seen in 46 years. We hugged. We shook hands. We tipped a pint for our friend. It felt like last week.

As I drove down State Line, Ward Parkway, Wornall Road, the old melody rose in my head: Take Me Home, Country Roads — John Denver. “Almost heaven…”

Kansas City may not be West Virginia, but memory has its own geography.

I drove past my childhood home. It looked better than when I lived there. Fresh paint. Strong. It survived church parking lot expansion like it had something left to prove.

The church had undergone renovations too — new lines, updated spaces — but somehow it still felt like home.

And for a few sacred hours, I did too.

For a long time growing up, I didn’t.

I was the dirt-poor Hispanic kid trying to find footing among privilege. Self-esteem wasn’t something I carried confidently; it was something I negotiated daily.

But sitting there now, decades later, those old insecurities felt smaller.

Not erased.

Just quieter.

Maybe that’s what Bruce Springsteen meant in My Hometown — when he sings about driving past the textile mill and watching things change. Home isn’t frozen in time. It evolves. And so do we.

There’s a reason Bon Jovi gave us both sides of the debate. In one breath, Who Says You Can't Go Home. In another, the haunting truth that maybe you can’t. Because you can revisit geography. You cannot relive chronology.

The hallways feel smaller. The faces carry lines. The laughter has depth to it now — shaped by careers, children, loss. Even joy has wrinkles. You don’t go back. You just see more clearly.

As we merged onto Interstate 70, I glanced at Tina beside me for the last 43 years of my life. She is not nostalgia. She is home.

We stopped in Mid-Missouri at the newly built home of our son and daughter-in-law. Four grandchildren filling rooms with motion and noise and promise.

We spent time with our grandson, Cole, today. He is home too.

Which makes me wonder… What is home? A street name? A brick building? A pew? A memory? A melody? Or is it people? Maybe home is wherever you are fully known. Maybe home is where the shame loosens its grip. Maybe home is where you feel whole.

For 36 hours, I was home in Kansas City. Not because nothing changed. But because I had. And as the skyline faded in the rearview mirror, I realized something quietly powerful: Home isn’t where you started. Home is where love has met you: past, present, and still ahead.

And somewhere between the pews, the pint glasses, the highways, and the grandchildren, I could almost hear it again — not as a plea this time, but as a quiet truth: Country roads… take me home.

Only now I know — I’m already there.

 

 

Too Much Time on My Hands (And Apparently, Too Many Words)

I spent ten hours driving over a 36-hour stretch.  Those of you who know me understand that it is not just windshield time — that is, thinking time. Dangerous thinking time. Or as Tommy Shaw sang with Styx, “too much time on my hands.”

Some people decompress on long drives.
I apparently write entire blog series in my head. Between great playlists, recapping the KC trip, honoring a fallen friend, reconnecting with grade school and high school classmates, and thanks to Tim O’Boyle, getting a healthy dose of “Vitamin G” and by walking the campus and church that shaped me, my brain was on fire. Posts. Paragraphs. Headlines. Philosophical musings.

If I don’t start typing them soon, they’ll vanish the same way I forget why I walked into the kitchen in the first place.  One of those mental drafts kept circling back to something simple:

Words matter.

Recently, I’ve noticed a subtle shift. When I say “Thank you,” I often get an “Of course” instead of “You’re welcome.”

Curiosity got the better of me (as it usually does). When I ask about it, the response is something like, “It’s just what I’ve always said.”  But there’s something deeper happening.

Some communication folks suggest that “You’re welcome” can unintentionally minimize the value of what we just gave — as if we were obligated. Phrases like:

• “Of course.”

• “It was my pleasure.”

• “You can always count on me.”

…carry a slightly different weight. They acknowledge generosity. They affirm value. They suggest intention.

Words may seem small, but they shape how the world experiences us. They can elevate our presence — or dilute it.

I’ve believed for years that words matter. In professional settings, I choose mine carefully. I try not to overstate. Not to overpromise. Not to leave openings for regret. Being well-spoken isn’t manipulation; it’s awareness. When we master our words, we influence how the world responds to us.

My mind drifted back to my first principal assignment (2001–2006). My pastor at the time — a gregarious Irishman — used to tell me I needed to “dumb down” my newsletters.

“Sturgill,” he’d say, “people are pulling out a thesaurus to read this. You’re not in West County anymore.”

I was offended. I remember thinking: just because a community isn’t high SES doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of growth. Words stretch us. Exposure stretches us. We rise when challenged.

Which brings me to a kindred spirit: Tony Randall.

He loved words almost as much as acting. He talked about building vocabulary intentionally — chasing new words like treasure. And I get that. Completely.

Words can make us laugh.
Words can make us cry.
Words can send us to war.
Words can make us fall in love.

Rudyard Kipling called words “the most powerful drug of mankind.”

If that’s true, I’m a hopeless addict. And I hope to get you hooked too.

English is staggeringly rich — over a million words. Yet the average adult uses somewhere between 30,000 and 60,000. Imagine the nuance we’re missing. The shades of meaning. The precision.

You can say “sky.” You can say “heaven.” In some languages, that distinction doesn’t even exist.

So how do you grow your vocabulary without sounding like you swallowed a dictionary?

Here’s the simple formula:

1. Try to get the meaning from context.

2. Look it up.

3. Dig into the roots.

4. Learn the prefixes — they’re cheat codes.

5. Use the new word immediately.

That’s it. You’re on a treasure hunt now. Before you roll your eyes and accuse me of turning this into an English seminar — this isn’t about sounding smarter. It’s about being clearer. Sharper. More intentional.

Aristophanes said, “By words, the mind is excited, and the spirit elated.”

That was 2,400 years ago in Athens. Still true on a Missouri highway with ten hours and a playlist. So yes — words matter.

What we say. How we say it. What we choose not to say.

And if I’ve learned anything from long drives and longer thoughts, it’s this:

Guard your words. Grow your words.
Because they are building something — whether you mean them to or not.

From Dust… and Fish Fry Smoke

Today I walked forward, like millions of others, and felt the cool grit of ashes pressed into my forehead. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Not exactly a Hallmark greeting.

Ash Wednesday isn’t subtle. It doesn’t whisper. It brands you. Publicly. Visibly. It reminds you that no matter how many radio spots your parish fish fry lands, no matter how polished the cafeteria floors look, no matter how many AI-generated land sharks named Sharkey are guarding the bar… we are dust. Dust has a way of clarifying things.

Lent is more than giving up chocolate! Lent is the Church’s 40-day pilgrimage into the desert — patterned after Christ’s 40 days of fasting and temptation before His public ministry began.

It’s not self-help. It’s not a diet plan. It’s not “Catholic New Year’s Resolutions.”

It’s preparation. Preparation for the Cross. Preparation for the Tomb. Preparation for Resurrection.

The Church, in her wisdom, gives us three pillars to lean on:

• Prayer – Leaning toward God instead of leaning on our own understanding.

• Fasting and Abstinence – Creating hunger in the body so the soul wakes up.

• Almsgiving – Turning outward toward those in need.

The liturgical color turns purple. The “Alleluia” goes silent. The Gloria steps aside. The tone shifts. Even the Church lowers her voice.

In 2026, we begin on February 18 and walk steadily toward:

• Palm Sunday – March 29

• Holy Thursday – April 2

• Easter Sunday – April 5

But those dates only matter if the journey does. Here’s the honest truth: preparing for Lent is complex in parish life. Rectories scramble to add Stations of the Cross on Fridays. Music directors plan for the Triduum. Volunteers coordinate fish fries. Committees beautify halls, repaint walls, and polish floors.

Then there’s the bar.  Ah yes — the Fish Fry Bar Crew. Their request for AI artwork was simple and specific: “Less fish. More alcohol.” Because let’s be honest, the biggest donations often happen within arm’s reach of a tap handle. What is a Catholic event without alcohol? Am I right?

Our parish fish fry routinely ranks in the Top 5 in St. Louis. Media mentions. Radio spots. Crowds that spill into parking lots. These good people pour themselves into making sure the parish and school are sustained and thriving. 

The irony isn’t lost on me: While we’re frying cod and stocking kegs, Lent quietly asks: Have you prepared your heart?

The danger in all preparations, whether for Easter or for life, is that logistics can crowd out holiness. You can repaint ceilings and forget repentance. You can perfect signage and neglect silence. You can build a sacred space and forget to clear one inside your own chest. Today, with ashes on my forehead, I felt the weight of that ancient reminder:

Dust.

Legacy looks different when you remember you are dust. Not depressing. Clarifying. The desert strips you down to what matters.

No applause. No fish fry trophies. No mascot costumes. No curated images.

Just you, God, and the quiet echo of your own heart.

What I’m Not “Giving Up” This Year. This year, I’m less interested in surrendering chocolate. I’m more interested in surrendering sharp words. Pope Leo recently challenged the faithful to fast from something far more dangerous than meat:

• Refrain from words that offend or wound.

• Disarm your language.

• Avoid harsh words and rash judgments.

• Refuse slander.

• Do not speak ill of someone who is not present to defend themselves.

That kind of fasting burns. It’s easier to skip soda than to skip sarcasm. Easier to avoid sweets than to avoid superiority. It is easier to give up chocolate than to give up the need to be right. That’s desert work.

On my desk sit symbols of our faith, Step Up Close to Jesus station books, and other reminders of where this road leads. A few feet away? Lenten Practice of the Day (footprints) themed worksheets, Fish fry generated artwork, Stations of the Cross-planning notes, etc. In this case, both matter. Community matters. Celebration matters. Fundraising matters. Hospitality matters.

But none of it means anything if the season doesn’t change us. Lent is not about deprivation.

It’s about alignment. It is not about gloom. It is about clearing space for glory.

Ash Wednesday confronts us with our mortality. Easter confronts us with our hope. Between them lies the desert time. So, as you step into these 40 days: May your fasting be honest. May your prayer be quiet and real. May your almsgiving stretch you. May your words be gentler. May your heart become a sacred space. And when the desert sun feels intense…sunscreen is optional.

Grace is not.

Blessings on your Lenten journey, my friends.

You Still Got It (And I Just Want It Back)

I’ve never been accused of being overly romantic. No one ever described me as the guy who made hearts skip a beat or knees go weak. I wasn’t the slow-motion hallway entrance. I wasn’t the varsity quarterback with a soundtrack. I was more of a dependable background character with strong opinions and questionable dance moves. 

Valentine’s Day, if we’re being honest, can be brutal. For some, it’s roses and reservations. For others, it’s a magnifying glass held over loneliness. It can feel a lot like Christmas or New Year’s Eve when you don’t have someone to hug at midnight. The world pairs off. Restaurants glow. Social media becomes a highlight reel of candlelight and captions.

And if you’re alone? It can feel like you missed the draft. Throughout the years, I fell head over heels more times than I care to admit. And if we’re being completely transparent — most of those young ladies were out of my league. Like… varsity traveling overseas league. I knew it then. I still know it now. Which is why, if we’re telling the truth on this Valentine’s Day morning, I sometimes shake my head and think: I got lucky. Mrs. Sturgill? She was Way out of my League. 

Before that chapter… There were others. And when those relationships ended, it didn’t feel poetic. It didn’t feel like “when one door closes, another opens.” It felt like someone walked out of my life carrying a piece of my heart in their coat pocket. 

I know that sounds like a country song. That’s because it is. This post was born of one line I heard this morning from artist Brett Young: “You still got it… and I just want it back.” There’s something about that lyric that hits different once you’ve lived a little.

Because here’s the question no Hallmark card answers: When someone walks away with a piece of your heart… do you ever get it back, or do you just learn to live slightly asymmetrical?

We tell young people, “You’ll move on.” We tell friends, “There are plenty of fish in the sea.” We tell ourselves, “Time heals all wounds.” But does it restore the missing pieces, or does the heart do something stranger? Maybe it grows new tissue around the empty space. Like a lizard losing its tail — the body adapts. It regenerates. The new tail isn’t the same, but it works. It balances. It carries on.

Maybe the heart does that. Maybe it doesn’t get the old piece back. Maybe it grows wiser muscle instead. Scar tissue isn’t weakness; it’s reinforcement.

Valentine’s Day anxiety isn’t just about being single. It’s about memory. It’s about the what-ifs. The almosts. The ones who were never ours to begin with. It’s about that moment you realize love doesn’t always return what it borrowed.

Maybe there is a quiet grace in all of it, every time someone walked away with a piece of my heart…I didn’t end up with less. I ended up different.  A little humbler. A little sharper.  A little more aware that love isn’t earned by league placement.

And somehow the heart keeps beating. Stronger, even. If you’re alone this Valentine’s Day, here’s what I’ll say:

You are not behind. You are not undrafted. You are not incomplete. You are simply mid-chapter.

And if your heart feels like it’s missing pieces, don’t panic. It knows how to rebuild. It always has. And sometimes you wake up one day next to someone who makes you whisper, “I have no idea how I pulled this off.”

Happy Valentine’s Day.  

Friday the 13th: The Day We Love to Fear

There are 365 days in a year. Only one of them makes people pause before booking a flight, signing a contract, or walking under a ladder. Friday the 13th.

It rolls around once or twice a year — statistically ordinary, emotionally radioactive. Since August 13, 1962, there have been roughly 109 Friday the 13ths. Not rare. Not mystical. Not cursed. And yet… We still flinch. Why?

Long before horror movies and hockey masks, the number 13 was already in cultural trouble. In Christian tradition, 13 sat awkwardly at the table of the Last Supper — one more than the “complete” number 12. Twelve tribes. Twelve apostles. Twelve months. Twelve signs of the zodiac.

Thirteen felt like excess. Like imbalance. Like something sneaking in after the doors were locked.

Entire buildings still skip the 13th floor. Airlines quietly renumber rows. Hotels dodge the label entirely. Not because of math. Because of memory. 

Friday carries its own baggage. In Western Christian tradition, Friday is associated with crucifixion and suffering. Medieval folklore often tied Fridays to misfortune. Add centuries of storytelling and repetition, and you get a day subtly tinged with unease.

Now combine the two: a number associated with disruption and a day associated with sorrow. That’s not superstition. That’s branding.

Every so often, something tragic lands on a Friday the 13th, and the myth breathes again.

• The Bhola Cyclone struck Bangladesh on November 13, 1970.

• The Andes plane crash occurred on October 13, 1972.

• The Costa Concordia capsized on January 13, 2012.

• The coordinated attacks in Paris occurred on November 13, 2015.

• Tupac Shakur died on Friday, September 13, 1996.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: tragedy does not check the calendar first. We do.

When something awful happens on a Friday the 13th, the date gets bolded. When something wonderful happens, we rarely connect the dots. The superstition persists because our brains favor patterns over probabilities.

There's Psychology behind a “Cursed” Day. There’s even a name for fear of Friday the 13th: paraskevidekatriaphobia. It sounds dramatic. Almost theatrical. But psychologically, it’s simple:

• Humans are wired to detect patterns.

• We remember emotionally charged information.

• We ignore the hundreds of uneventful Friday the 13ths.

In a 400-year calendar cycle, Friday the 13th appears 688 times — about 1.72 times per year. Not rare. Predictable. Mathematically inevitable. But superstition doesn’t run on math. It runs on narrative.

Then Hollywood poured gasoline on folklore. The Friday the 13th film franchise turned a date into a brand. Jason’s mask became a symbol of dread. The calendar itself became cinematic suspense. Once fear has a soundtrack, it sticks.

So… Is It Unlucky? Statistically? No. Psychologically? Absolutely. Because Friday the 13th isn’t about the day. It’s about control. It’s about the uncomfortable reality that life doesn’t guarantee safety — and sometimes we’d rather blame a number than admit randomness.

Superstition gives chaos a costume. It lets us say, “Ah, of course. It’s Friday the 13th,” instead of, “Life is unpredictable.”

Here’s what’s fascinating: For every tragic Friday the 13th, there were weddings, births, promotions, reconciliations, and breakthroughs. Thousands of ordinary miracles. We just don’t headline them. Maybe the real myth isn’t that Friday the 13th is cursed. Maybe the myth is that dates hold power at all. Because at midnight, when Thursday becomes Friday the 13th, nothing cosmic shifts.  Only our expectation does. And sometimes expectation is the most powerful superstition of all.

If you’re reading this on a Friday the 13th… Go sign the contract. Take the trip. Make the call. The calendar doesn’t decide your fate.

You do.

Come to Me: Finding Rest in the Work of Catholic Education

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” – Matthew 11:28

There are days when being a Catholic school principal feels like standing in the center of a storm.  The students are lively, bright, and occasionally exhausting. Teachers bring their own passions, challenges, and expectations. Parents, with love and sometimes anxiety, voice their concerns and hopes. And then there are the parish's stakeholders, their vision, guidance, and traditions, all weighing in.

Every day, it seems like every person has a voice… and every voice comes with an expectation.  It is tiring work. More than tiring, it can be heavy on the soul. And yet, we do it anyway. Why? Is it from faith?

Certainly. Faith is the bedrock of Catholic education. It reminds us that we are not alone in this work, that every decision, every conversation, every challenge is framed within something far larger than ourselves. But faith isn’t always the immediate boost we feel at 8:00 p.m. after a long day of meetings, lesson plans, and emails.

Is it from the end results? Perhaps… but here’s the paradox: most educators never truly reap what they sow. The students whose lives we touch, the seeds we plant, the habits we nurture—they often take years—or decades—to bear fruit. And often, it’s the administrators or teachers who come after us who get to witness the harvest.

That’s the quiet humility of this vocation: to labor faithfully without guarantee of recognition, without guarantee of visible results, without guarantee of applause.

Matthew 11:28 isn’t a call to abandon the work; it’s a call to rest in the midst of the work. It’s an invitation to bring the weight of the day—the frustrations, the doubts, the exhaustion—to Christ. To remember that the mission is not ours alone. The Spirit is active in ways we cannot always see.

Rest doesn’t mean everything stops. Rest means we remember where our strength comes from. From faith that each moment matters, even when unseen. From the knowledge that the values we instill—love, compassion, curiosity, courage—are seeds that grow in God’s time. From the community: the teachers, the colleagues, the friends, the mentors who remind us we are not carrying the burden alone.

Catholic education is about faith in action. It’s about planting seeds even when the harvest is invisible. We shape young hearts. We model love for God and neighbor. We uphold truth, discipline, and dignity. And sometimes the fruit will emerge long after we have stepped away.

But let’s be honest—this isn’t unique to education. Nurses, first responders, social workers, caregivers, artists, counselors, volunteers, and countless others pour themselves into work that often goes unseen, unrecognized, or underappreciated. They, too, plant seeds without always knowing how or when the harvest will come. We serve a God who sees every effort, knows every struggle, and values every faithful step—even the ones no one else sees.

And that is enough. Because we serve a God who sees every effort, knows every struggle, and values every faithful step—even the ones no one else sees.

Finding Strength in the Daily Grind. If you are a principal, a teacher, a staff member, or anyone walking in the sometimes lonely, sometimes joyful work of education, bring your weariness to Christ. Lay your burdens down. Rest in the knowledge that your labor is not in vain.

Matthew 11:28 is more than an invitation; it’s a promise. A promise that even in the most exhausting days, even when the harvest is invisible, we are not alone. Somehow, in that rest, we find the energy to rise, to continue planting, and to keep shaping lives in faith, hope, and love.