Tonight We Ride: A Lighthearted Look at the Magi, Their Myths & Their Surprisingly Eventful Road Trip

 

Every so often, a goofy graphic pops up, and I immediately think, Yep. That’s a whole blog right there. That’s precisely what happened when I saw three extremely chill, sunglass-wearing Magi riding camels like they’re about to open for ZZ Top. It got me thinking: Who were these guys really? Where did they come from? And did they actually look this cool? Spoiler: probably not. But let’s explore it anyway.

Who Were These “Wise Men” Actually? Historians call them Magi (plural of Magus), which in ancient Persian tradition meant “priests, astrologers, scholars, or guys who knew just enough astronomy to be dangerous.”  Think of them as the ancient Near East’s version of a cross between NASA, The Weather Channel, and Cliff Clavin from Cheers.

We don’t even know if there were three. The Gospel never gave a headcount. Three gifts? Yes. Three dudes? That’s an assumption we’ve all just run with because it makes for symmetrical Christmas pageants. Truth is, there could’ve been two, or twelve, or a whole caravan of star-chasers with matching bath robes.

Where Did They Come From? “Orient” in the classic carol didn’t mean China or Japan. In older language, it meant “east”, likely: Persia, Arabia, or Babylonia.  So imagine a long, dusty journey with a lot of sand, a lot of complaining, and someone constantly asking, “Are we there yet?” in Aramaic.

Did They Actually Ride Camels? Probably. Camels were the original SUVs of the ancient world: all-terrain, long-range, zero-maintenance, and terrible gas mileage. But they could have also been on horses or donkeys. Or occasionally ships; Sting’s “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In” doesn’t specify that the Wise Men were on them. That carol is more a metaphor than a maritime documentary.

How Long Did It Take Them? Not a day. Not even close. The star wasn’t a neon arrow hovering over a Bethlehem Airbnb. Most scholars estimate their journey took months, maybe over a year. By the time they arrived, Jesus may have been a toddler, just old enough to toddle, grab your beard, and wipe His nose on their robes. Which means nativity sets are cute but not totally accurate. Don’t worry. You can still keep yours. I’m not asking you to rearrange the Baby Jesus’ entourage. Hell, I don’t know if this stuff I’m spewing is accurate or not; I’m just spitballing here!

The Gifts: Kind, Symbolic, and Expensive Enough to Pay Some Bills: Gold. Actual gold. Not “gold-toned.” Not “gold leaf.” Real metal. Could it help Mary and Joseph financially? Absolutely. Could it bankroll a couple of years in Egypt while they ducked Herod’s search party? Very likely.

Frankincense. A pricey aromatic resin used in worship. In modern terms, the ancient equivalent of gifting someone luxury essential oils that actually do something.

Myrrh. A burial spice. Sort of the “Thanks, I think?” of baby shower gifts. It symbolized Jesus’ future sacrifice, but giving burial ointment to a newborn takes cajones.

Together, the gifts meant: Royalty. Divinity. Destiny. Also, financial stability.

And Now the Big Question: What If There Were Three Wise Women?

The legendary alternate version. According to popular humor:

• They would have asked for directions.
• Arrived on time.
• Cleaned the stable.
• Helped deliver the baby.
• Brought casseroles, diapers, and practical gifts found on the registry.
• Consider negotiating with the innkeeper for better accommodations.

Let’s be honest, they probably would’ve fixed the whole Bethlehem housing crisis in an afternoon. And Mary may have left that encounter saying, “Those gals? They GET me.”

When the Magi arrived, were the Angels and the Shepherds still there? Probably not. The shepherds were in a night-of situation. The Magi were a “we’ll get there when we get there” situation. The idea of one big, synchronized nativity party with sheep, camels, angels, and wise guys all packed into a stable is adorable, but historically highly unlikely.

Could the Magi Have Helped the Holy Family Find Better Lodging? Honestly? With all their status and influence, they probably could’ve at least scored: A guest room, a stable upgrade, or a one-night comp at Bethlehem’s version of a Motel 6. But to be fair, after months on the road, even the Wise Men were probably one wrong turn from losing it. Bethlehem, in peak census season, was the Super Bowl of hotel shortages. Don’t expect Tom Bodette to leave any lights on!

So, Why Does Any of This Matter? Because the Magi remind us of the universal, diverse, multicultural heart of Christmas: People from different lands, following a strange celestial signal, traveling far outside their comfort zones, simply to honor something holy, hopeful, and new.

And because the story is just fun. It’s mysterious. It’s quirky. It’s full of unanswered questions. Sometimes the best tales are the ones we’re still talking about 2,000 years later. The Magi’s story is equal parts history, myth, theology, and road-trip comedy. And the Tonight We Ride graphic captures it perfectly, three travelers with grit, purpose, and an almost rock-band level of swagger. If they looked like that, no wonder Herod was intimidated.

Why I Love Christmas (Even Though It Makes Absolutely No Sense)

Let’s be honest: it makes zero sense that I love Christmas as much as I do. I’m not a shopper. I’m not a zealot. I’m not someone who decorates the house so aggressively that planes mistake it for a runway. And I’m not the person who thinks “Black Friday Doorbusters” are a spiritual experience.

And yet… come December 1st, I turn into a walking Hallmark subplot. People ask, “Why do you love Christmas so much?” And I try to answer, but what comes out is usually a mix of nostalgia, theology, and emotional confetti.

So let me break it down the only way I know how: with humor, honesty, and the faint smell of gingerbread trauma. Christmas is stitched into my DNA; blame nature, nurture, and possibly spiked eggnog. I can’t escape it. The second I see twinkle lights, something ancient and sentimental in me wakes up like: “Ah, yes, time to believe in miracles again. Also, where’s the cinnamon?”

Meanwhile, the commercialization of Christmas makes me twitch. I’m spiritually allergic to inflatable yard decorations taller than my house. But give me a quiet church pew, a choir singing a hymn from 1854, or memories of the Plaza lights in KCMO, and suddenly I’m thinking: “Humanity isn’t so bad! We might make it!” Basically, Christmas bypasses my brain and goes straight to the part of my soul labeled “soft.”

I love Christmas because, once a year, people behave slightly better. It’s the season where even grumpy strangers attempt kindness, as if the universe is conducting a social experiment: “Let’s see if these humans can go 30 days without committing emotional warfare.”  And sometimes, we pull it off.

Families attempt peace treaties. Neighbors nod pleasantly instead of glaring. Random people donate money, food, jackets, or patience.

For 11 months of the year, hope feels complicated. But in December? I’m convinced we might earn that “season of miracles” branding. Call it optimism. Call it foolishness. Call it the Christmas spirit sneaking into my bloodstream like a holiday ninja. But I genuinely believe people can be better… if they just give this season a fighting chance.

I’m not a religious zealot; I prefer the term “festive diplomat.” Yes, I’m Catholic.
No, I’m not here to smack anyone with a Nativity set and shout doctrine at them. I’m the opposite. I believe in religious tolerance, learning from other faiths, appreciating what each tradition brings to humanity, and never weaponizing a hymnal.

Christmas, to me, isn’t about rules. It’s about resonance. The music, the candles, the stories, they hit me in a place that has nothing to do with dogma and everything to do with being human. And honestly? This world could use a little more humanity.

Christmas amplifies the version of myself I hope exists year-round. You know the version of you that appears only around the holidays?

The one who’s: generous, reflective, forgiving, less likely to yell at drivers, and more likely to cry at a sentimental commercial involving a puppy!

Yeah. That version of me shows up like clockwork. Christmas basically upgrades my personality like a software patch: Sturgill 2.0, now with 30% more hope and 40% fewer complaints.

I don’t love Christmas because it changes me. I love it because it reminds me of who I want to be the rest of the year. But sometimes I forget between February and tax season.

So why Do I love Christmas? Because it brings out the possibility that humanity isn’t a lost cause after all. Because it gives us a glimpse of what the world could look like if we slowed down, softened up, and stopped acting like we’re late for everything all the time.

Because it turns music into magic. Because it turns strangers into neighbors. Because it turns memories into meaning. Because it turns ordinary days into something extraordinary. Because it whispers, “Try again. Tomorrow will be better.”

And honestly, that’s worth celebrating every year.

 

Christmas Music: Why We Love It, Who Wrote It, and Why A Priest Friend Is Still Wrong!

 

Every year, I get into the same debate with a certain priest in my life. He swears he “just doesn’t get it.” “Why do people love Christmas music year-round? It’s the same hymns we’ve sung for centuries! Nothing changes.” And every year I respond with all the diplomatic grace the Lord has gifted me: “Father, you’re wrong, maybe you should change the radio dial (is that still a thing?).”

Because while the sacred hymns don’t change (and thank God for that), Christmas music is one of the most constantly evolving genres we have. It changes faster than political opinions at Thanksgiving dinner. Britney has a Christmas album. Jimmy Fallon has a SiriusXM Christmas Channel. Even “Chandelier” Sia put out an entire Christmas record with songs that sound like the soundtrack to Candy Land on espresso. So no, the playlist isn’t stuck in 1850. Not even close.

Christmas music comes in two flavors:

Sacred
The stuff we grew up with in church. Jesus, Mary, shepherds, the whole nativity set. These songs stay the same because they should. They’re rooted in faith, tradition, and big C Catholic theology.

Secular / Cultural / “Holiday” Music
Everything else! This side is where creativity, chaos, and commercialism live together in a festive neighborhood. This is where Mariah Carey wakes up every November 1st, stretches her vocal cords, and becomes the Queen of Christmas like she was born in a manger with a microphone. I’m still bummed that Amy Grant lost that Christmas title!

This is where the Jonas Brothers flirt with snowflakes. Where John Legend mixes Santa Claus with smooth crooning and the occasional baby Jesus cameo. This is where Third Day gives us Christian rock Christmas bangers that somehow still fit on office Christmas playlists alongside Michael Bublé. Christmas evolves, friends. It evolves fast.

Many Classic Christmas Songs Were Written by Jewish Songwriters. Now this is where it gets fun, and confusing, depending on who’s singing in your choir. Some of the greatest Christmas songs in American history were written by Jewish composers.

• White Christmas (Irving Berlin — Jewish)
• Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (Johnny Marks — Jewish)
• Let It Snow (Jewish writing duo)
• The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting…) (Mel Tormé — Jewish)
• Silver Bells (also Jewish)

I can hear this Priest friend of mine already having heart palpitations. Were these attempts at commercial exploitation of Christmas? Or… genuine contributions to the cultural holiday spirit? Honestly: probably both. And that’s what makes them beautiful.

Most Jewish composers weren’t writing about Christianity; they wrote about what everybody could feel: snow, nostalgia, longing, home, romance, and the glow of the season. In other words, they captured the emotional heart of the holiday, even if they didn’t share its theology. And that’s okay. That’s actually wonderful.

It’s multiculturalism at work, long before I had a word for it. Straight No Chaser has entire comedic riffs about being Jewish during the Christmas season (“It’s not fair!”). Adam Sandler gave us the Hanukkah Song, which, let’s be honest, sits in the same cultural gray zone as “Is Die Hard a Christmas movie?” And all of these “adjacent holiday” moments enrich rather than diminish the season.

I love Christmas music, sacred and secular, because it reflects the beauty of our differences. I can adore the Nativity hymn sung in Latin on Christmas Eve, and also blast All I Want for Christmas Is You during Advent without needing absolution.

I’m Catholic. I’m a 4th Degree Knight of Columbus. I believe in the faith I profess. But I also think God works through: culture, humor, diverse voices, artists who don’t share my theology, and music that meets people where they are.

The Christmas season is one of the few times when Christians sing with non-Christians, when sacred and secular overlap, when faith meets festivity, and when everybody participates. That’s part of its magic.

So, when Father tells me he doesn’t get why people listen to Christmas music year-round, I gently remind him: People aren’t clinging to the same hymns. They’re clinging to hope, nostalgia, joy, memory, culture, and connection.

Christmas music isn’t “one thing.” It’s a thousand things stitched together from a thousand traditions. It’s the most multicultural genre we have, and that’s why it endures. Whether a song was written by a Christian, a Jewish composer, a pop star, a comedian, or a band from Atlanta, the point is this: It adds warmth to the cold, light to the dark, and cheer to the weary. And that, to me, sounds precisely like the Spirit of Christmas. 

Aging Gracefully? I’m Just Trying to Find Sesame Street.

 

As I get older, I’ve started wrestling with some questions we probably don’t ask enough.

Now that I’m my parents’ age—or worse, my grandparents’ age—when I thought I already knew everything, why don’t I feel as old as they looked? I swear, in my mind I’m still 28… until I stand up too fast and my knee plays a sound effect from an old wooden ship.

I’m hanging on to a few dark hairs on the top of my head like they’re the last lifeboats on the Titanic. But then I see pictures of my classmates from grade school, high school, or college and… bless their hearts… some of them look older than their parents do right now. It’s weird being the same age as old people.

Growing up, I assumed adulthood would come with wisdom. I’d finally crack the great mysteries of the universe like:

• Who really let the dogs out?

• Where’s the beef?

• How do you get to Sesame Street without taking a wrong turn into Fraggle Rock?

• Do I know the way to San Jose, or should I ask LeBron?

• Why doesn’t Dora just use Google Maps? The kid travels with a talking map and a fox in a mask—clearly she’s open to technology.

• Why do eggs come in flimsy cartons, but batteries—which can literally explode—come in packaging that requires a chainsaw?

• Why is abbreviation such a long word?

• Why is lemon juice made with artificial flavor, but dish soap is made with “real lemons”?

• Why do they sterilize the needle for a lethal injection? At that point, catching the flu is the least of the worries.

• Why do we drive on a parkway and park in a driveway?

• Why is pee-pee called “urine”? Shouldn’t it be “me-in”?

• Why do “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and the ABC song share the same melody? Who started that conspiracy?

• What exactly is Victoria’s secret, and why has no one leaked it yet?

• Why do we “put our two cents in” but only get “a penny for our thoughts”? No wonder the penny was eliminated—we weren’t using it right.

• Who wrote the Book of Love? And did they include pictures?

And while we’re here, let’s tackle the bonus round:

• Why do we press harder on the remote when the batteries are dying?

• If Cinderella’s shoe fit perfectly, how did it fall off?

• Why do we call it “after dark” when it’s really “after light”?

• Why isn’t the word “phonetic” spelled the way it sounds?

• If money doesn’t grow on trees, why do banks have branches?

• Why do we say “sleep like a baby” when babies wake up every two hours screaming and demanding food?

• Why is the slowest traffic called rush hour?

• Why do we call it a “building” if it’s already built? Shouldn’t it be a “built”?

• Why do we say “heads up” when what we really mean is “duck”?

• And while we’re at it: Why does my back go out more than I do?

I hope I’m around long enough to get the answers to all this. Until then, stay curious, stay playful, and keep asking the ridiculous questions—because staying inquisitive keeps us young, my friends.

One-Team Legends: Loyalty, Legacy, and the Modern Athlete

 

At the start of every holiday season, a familiar melancholy settles in. I miss my hometown, Kansas City, Missouri. The City of Fountains (though I never "missed" those fountains). What I do miss are the Plaza lights at Christmas, the glow that could make even the coldest night feel warm. I miss the athletic legends I grew up with, Lenny Dawson and George Brett, men who showed us what it meant to plant your roots in a city and never waver. They taught us that loyalty wasn’t just a sports value; it was a life value. My heart will always tug toward KC.

And yet, after 45 years in St. Louis, I still can’t quite call it home either. KC shaped me, St. Louis held me, but neither fully defines “home.” Because home isn’t geographical. Home is Tina. Home is Cody and Alison. Home is our beautiful grandchildren. Home is wherever they are, and that’s the team I’ll never leave... circling back to that Coach Culver blog! 

Maybe that’s why “one-team legends” hit me differently than they do most people. They remind me of the kind of devotion I grew up admiring. In an era where athletes switch teams like they’re changing Wi-Fi passwords, the lifers stand out. The ones who stay. The ones who choose loyalty over leverage.

And that’s why the contrast with someone like LeBron James is so striking. He’s one of the greatest athletes ever, no doubt, but he represents an entirely different era and a different mentality. LeBron built power teams, jumped markets, and recruited his toughest competition to join him. His legacy is mobility, influence, and the ability to engineer his own destiny. But that approach stands in direct opposition to the Dawsons, Bretts, Ripkens, and Kobes; the men who let a city shape them as much as they shaped the city.

This blog is about those legends. The ones who stayed. The ones whose loyalty meant as much as their stats. The ones who weren’t just part of a franchise, they were the heartbeat of a community.

Every now and then, a commercial does more than sell shoes or sports drinks. It makes you think. That happened to me the other night, watching a Steph Curry spot, the one where he talks about spending his entire career with the same franchise, under the same coach, building something steady and lasting.  It struck me how unusual that really is. In today’s sports world, loyalty isn’t the norm; mobility is. And it got me wondering: How many legends stayed home? Not just good players, not long-time backups, but true superstars whose names became synonymous with one city. Surprisingly, that list is short. And maybe that’s what makes those players unforgettable.

Basketball gives us some of the clearest examples of the “stay-home” superstars:

• Kobe Bryant, who lived and died a Laker.
• Dirk Nowitzki, who grew from skinny kid to Dallas royalty.
• Larry Bird, the embodiment of Boston toughness.
• Tim Duncan, maybe the closest to Curry — one team, one coach, one philosophy for nearly two decades.

And now there’s Steph Curry, who — in an age of superteams and constant movement, chose the opposite path. He didn’t leave to chase championships. He built his where he stood. But that’s not the only model for modern greatness.

The Other Blueprint: LeBron James and the Era of Movement

If Curry represents the loyalty era, LeBron James represents the movement era. This is not a knock on him; in fact, it might be the most modern form of greatness. LeBron didn’t wait for his franchise to build a contender around him. He engineered one.

• He joined two other superstars in Miami.
• He returned to Cleveland and recruited the pieces to finally win the city a championship.
• He moved to Los Angeles, teaming up with Anthony Davis to chase more titles.

LeBron reshaped franchises. He orchestrated rosters. He collaborated with his fiercest competitors to form a partnership. It was power, mobility, and strategic dominance, a completely different approach than the one-team legends.

Where LeBron built greatness by moving, Steph and others built greatness by staying. Neither philosophy is wrong. But they’re not the same. And the contrast makes the one-team legends stand out even more.

Loyalty Is Even Rarer in the NFL. Football is a business with sharp edges. Between injuries, salary caps, and coaching changes, almost no superstar plays for one team forever. A few did:

• Barry Sanders – Detroit
• Jim Brown – Cleveland
• Lawrence Taylor – New York
• Dan Marino – Miami
• Troy Polamalu – Pittsburgh
• John Elway – Denver

And in Kansas City, we understand one-team greatness in our bones. Lenny Dawson — The Original Chief

Before Patrick Mahomes became a household name, before Kansas City red became the color of NFL excellence, Lenny Dawson defined the position. He spent 14 seasons with the Chiefs, leading them to:

• A Super Bowl IV victory
• AFL championships
• A standard of leadership and grace that still shapes the organization

And unlike most athletes, Lenny didn’t leave after retirement. He stayed in Kansas City as a broadcaster, ambassador, mentor, and icon. He wasn’t just a one-team legend. He was a one-city legend.

Baseball might have the richest history of one-team greatness:

• Derek Jeter – Yankees
• Tony Gwynn – Padres
• Cal Ripken Jr. – Orioles
• Chipper Jones – Braves
• Mariano Rivera – Yankees
• Stan Musial – Cardinals

But Kansas City has its own forever face: George Brett — The Heart of the Royals.

You can’t write the story of KC sports without him. 21 years. One franchise. One beautiful left-handed swing. More than stats or awards, Brett represents stability, the kind of commitment that lets a city grow up with a player and a player grow up with a city.

He’s everything the phrase “one-team legend” means. When you line up Curry, Duncan, Kobe, Dirk, Brett, Dawson, and compare them to the mobile greatness of athletes like LeBron, a pattern emerges: Loyalty is not passive. It’s not accidental. It’s a choice and sometimes, a difficult one.

Staying home means:

• enduring rebuilds
• working within the same system
• being patient
• believing in your city as much as your city believes in you

Mobility, meanwhile, is about autonomy, empowerment, and taking control of your own path. Both create greatness. But only one creates a bond, a shared identity between athlete, franchise, and community.

The Legacy of Staying Put
In an era where movement is normal and assembling superteams is strategic, one-team legends feel even more extraordinary.  Steph Curry is one of the modern examples. Tim Duncan did it before him. George Brett and Lenny Dawson did it here in Kansas City.

One path builds championships. The other builds legacy. Every once in a while, a city gets lucky enough to watch a player choose to stay and develop their greatness right where they started.

Kansas City knows that story well.
We lived it with Lenny.
We lived it with George.
And if we’re fortunate, we’re watching a new chapter unfold with No. 15.

 

“Christmas Specials Through the Ages: From Bing Crosby to Polar Express Pajama Parties”

 

There was a time when Christmas meant gathering around the family TV for a holiday special. Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas,” Andy Williams promising “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” and Perry Como bringing warmth into living rooms across America. These weren’t just shows—they were traditions. Today, the landscape looks very different. So, what happened to the Christmas special, and how has it evolved?

The tradition began on the radio in the 1930s, with Bing Crosby’s Christmas broadcasts becoming a seasonal staple. When television arrived, the magic only grew. From the 1950s through the 1970s, variety shows dominated holiday programming. Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, and Perry Como hosted specials filled with music, celebrity guests, and family-friendly humor. These shows were more than entertainment—they were cultural events that united households in front of the TV.

While live-action specials ruled the airwaves, animated classics carved out their own space in holiday tradition. Rankin/Bass introduced stop-motion magic with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (1964), followed by Frosty the Snowman (1969) and Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town (1970). A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965) brought an anti-commercialism message and Vince Guaraldi’s unforgettable jazz soundtrack. And who could forget How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (1966), with Boris Karloff’s narration and Dr. Seuss’s timeless story? These specials became annual rituals, passed down like heirlooms.

By the late 1980s, the variety show format faded. Cable TV and home video changed viewing habits, and Christmas specials lost their “event” status. Families no longer had to wait for a single broadcast; they could pop in a VHS tape or, later, stream on demand. The communal experience of tuning in together began to fade.

Today, Christmas specials live on, but in a different form. Streaming platforms like Netflix and Disney+ have revived the genre with original films such as Klaus (2019) and Jingle Jangle (2020), alongside classics like Home Alone and Elf. Social media and YouTube have become new stages for holiday performances, while artists like Michael Bublé and Mariah Carey dominate modern Christmas music specials. The tradition hasn’t died; it’s just migrated.

For me, two films deserve special mention for creating entirely new holiday rituals:

• The Santa Clause Trilogy (1994–2006)
  Tim Allen’s transformation from a skeptical dad to Santa Claus became an instant favorite. These films blend humor, heart, and holiday magic, earning a permanent spot in family marathons.
• The Polar Express (2004)
  This animated masterpiece didn’t just stay on screen; it inspired real-world experiences. Across the country, families now “board the Polar Express,” don Christmas pajamas, sip hot chocolate, and pay hundreds of dollars for immersive train rides that recreate the film’s magic. It’s proof that a movie can spark traditions that go far beyond the living room.

Christmas specials don’t just entertain, they shape how we celebrate.

• Matching Pajamas & Movie Nights: Families gather for annual viewings of Elf, Home Alone, or The Santa Clause, often in matching holiday PJs.
• Polar Express Excursions: Entire businesses thrive on recreating the train ride experience, complete with golden tickets and hot chocolate.
• Live Performances & Light Shows: From local theater productions of A Christmas Carol to drive-through light displays synced to holiday music, these traditions echo the communal spirit of old TV specials.
• Streaming Marathons: Today’s version of “event TV” is a curated playlist, Rankin/Bass classics, modern hits, and maybe a debate over whether Die Hard makes the cut.

These traditions prove that while the medium changes, the desire for shared holiday experiences remains timeless.

Of course, no discussion of holiday media is complete without great debates. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Does The Nightmare Before Christmas belong to Halloween or Christmas? These conversations highlight how holiday entertainment continues to evolve—and how fiercely we cling to what feels like tradition.

Christmas specials may look different today, but their purpose remains the same: to bring people together and celebrate the season. Whether it’s Bing Crosby on black-and-white TV, Charlie Brown pondering the meaning of Christmas, Tim Allen suiting up as Santa, or a family streaming Klaus on Netflix, the spirit of the holiday special endures.

What’s your favorite Christmas special? Do you miss the old variety shows, or do you love the new streaming era? Share your thoughts, I’d love to hear them.

 

God, Guts, and a Few Good Giggles: Wandering Through Belief, Nonbelief, and Whatever’s in Between

I grew up Roman Catholic, the full menu. Incense. Kneel–stand–sit aerobics. Enough guilt to last a lifetime and then some. And unlike some wandering souls, I never left the Church.  In fact, I doubled down: 4th Degree Knight of Columbus, Grand Knight, and the guy who actually did read the Baltimore Catechism as a student and the Catechism of the Catholic Church as a catechist. I’ve defended and promoted the faith, and I still believe in God without hesitation.  But believing deeply doesn’t mean thinking narrowly.

Somewhere along the road, curiosity moved into my head and hasn’t paid rent since. I’ve always been open—respectfully—to how other people see the divine. I may not agree with George Carlin or the more notorious atheists, but I’m endlessly interested in how they arrived where they did. Passion—especially philosophical passion—deserves attention, not hostility.

The Great Spiritual Family Tug-of-War
To understand my perspective, you have to know my family. On the maternal side: hardcore Roman Catholics, the type who still have holy water that expired during the Nixon administration. On the paternal side, Southern Baptists are so committed that you can practically hear the hymns when you walk into the room.

And let’s say… the two branches are not known for their warm ecumenical embraces. Some Baptists feel the Catholic Church is “not Christian enough”, and a few even drop the “anti-Christ pope” line like it’s casual small talk. (Nothing like a little light spiritual combat at Thanksgiving.)

But then there’s my father, a Baptist preacher himself. A man who’s walked the walk, preached the Word, and still manages to sum up inter-denominational unity better than any seminary lecture: “Boy… at least we have the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost in common!”  And he’s right. That is a foundation strong enough to build bridges on.

From Chopra to Carlin: Listening Without Losing Yourself
I’ve always appreciated voices like Deepak Chopra, not because I adopt every teaching, but because he recognizes something universal:
Most faith traditions—despite different names, faces, and languages—reach for the same divine Source.

After all, Jesus wasn’t a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Middle Eastern man that I had pictured in my head growing up.  And I’m pretty sure God doesn’t check His passports to decide what ethnicity He’s going to appear as today.

I disagree with George Carlin’s conclusion (“no God”), but I admire the boldness behind it. I don’t embrace atheist philosophy, but I’m genuinely intrigued by the rigor some of them bring to their reasoning. When someone has wrestled intellectually for years, even if I disagree, I respect the tenacity.

Because for me, curiosity is not doubt. Curiosity is just another form of reverence.

Pascal’s Math and the Comedy of Faith
Then there’s Blaise Pascal, who basically turned theology into a Vegas decision tree: Believe, and if you're right, you win heaven. Don’t believe, and if you’re wrong—well, that’s the sort of “oops” you don’t recover from.

It’s funny, but it also shows that even the most innovative thinkers in history have wrestled with the question of belief. And here I am, somewhere between Carlin’s mic drop and Pascal’s spreadsheets, just trying to keep the conversation in my head from turning into a cage match.

So, Where Does That Leave Me?
It leaves me right where God placed me: Firm in my Catholic faith.  I’m grateful for where I came from.  Open to learning from people who don’t believe what I believe.  And hopeful that one day Baptists and Catholics will sit together without someone reaching for a verse like it’s a weapon.  I love it when Dad says, “Boy, you know what Paul said about…” My reply is generally, “No, Dad, but I'm sure you’re going to tell me regardless!”

In the end, I trust a God big enough to handle our questions, patient enough to wait for our clarity, and loving enough to guide all of us, Catholic, Baptist, Buddhist, Muslim, atheist—because every single one of us is trying to understand the same mystery.

And if I ever get lost in all the theological noise, I hear my father’s voice again: “Boy… at least we have the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost in common!”

Amen to that.

 

One Man’s Trash is Another Man’s Treasure (or Clark the Shitter’s Full!)

The Accidental Time Capsules Hidden Beneath Old Outhouses
Every December, without fail, I return to one of the great American Christmas traditions: quoting National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation way more than medically recommended.

And every year, one line in particular rings in my head: “Clark, the shitter was full!”

Cousin Eddie probably meant it as a warning, but to historians and archaeologists across the country, those words might as well be a treasure map.  Because here’s the little-known truth:
America’s old “full” outhouses have become some of the richest treasure troves of historical artifacts ever discovered.

I know—that sentence sounds like it belongs in the “things my students wish they could unhear” category. But hear me out. As a social studies teacher and historian, I’ve read countless accounts of people digging behind abandoned homesteads and discovering antique bottles worth hundreds, coins worth thousands, and oddities that belong in museums… all buried in the least glamorous place imaginable.

Welcome to the world of the privy dig, where one man’s trash—yes, literal trash—becomes another man’s treasure.

Why Outhouses Became History’s Perfect Time Capsules
Before indoor plumbing and city sanitation, the outhouse served two purposes:

1. A bathroom.
2. A convenient hole for dumping anything you never wanted to see again.

People tossed broken dishes, old letters, empty bottles, missing earrings, angry ex-lover mementos, embarrassing documents, and anything that “accidentally” fell out of pockets while nature was calling.

But here’s the part that blows my mind:
the environment inside these pits was nearly perfect for preserving artifacts.

Not kidding. In their own gross, unintentional way, outhouses created conditions archaeologists dream about:

Oxygen-poor conditions
Deep in the pit, low oxygen slows down decay. Glass stays clear. Leather stays flexible. Coins barely corrode.

Soft, protective layers
Every use added a new coating: dirt, ash, trash, and… well… “other things.”
Those layers acted like bubble wrap, gently burying artifacts deeper and deeper.

Nobody ever disturbed it
Once something fell in, it stayed in. Nobody was volunteering to poke around—meaning the pit became a sealed archive of ordinary life.

A chemical cocktail that preserved instead of destroying
Some waste components actually protected metals and slowed bacterial decay. The result?
Objects stay shockingly intact for 80, 100, even 150+ years.

It’s nature’s most unfortunate preservation lab.

So, What Have We Found Down There?
Here are some of the more incredible, unexpected, and occasionally hilarious treasures people have recovered from privy digs:

1. Rare 1800s Bottles (Worth Serious Money)
Cobalt blue medicines. Embossed pharmacy bottles. Fancy bitters bottles. Decorative perfumes.
Collectors go wild over these. Many have sold for hundreds or thousands.

2. Coins and Currency
If you’ve ever dropped your phone in a bathroom, imagine doing that… but with your only silver dime. Finds include:

• Civil War tokens
• Indian Head pennies
• Buffalo nickels
• Early silver coins
• Even a few gold coins (talk about a bathroom emergency!)

3. Jewelry
Cold nights plus slippery fingers = eternal resting place for:

• wedding rings
• brooches
• pocket watch chains
• hairpins
• lockets

Some were lost. Others were thrown in on purpose.

4. Children’s Toys
This category warms my historian heart:

• marbles
• porcelain doll heads
• tin soldiers
• wooden toys
• buttons

Apparently, every kid from 1850–1910 dropped at least one marble into the abyss.

5. Ceramics & Household Goods
Broken plates were tossed into a burn pile instead of carried there.
Later digs uncovered:

• transferware dishes
• stoneware jugs
• clay pipes
• tea cups

It’s the 19th-century version of “just chuck it.”

6. Medicines & Oddities
Many pits reveal a full 1800s medicine cabinet:

• laudanum vials
• patent medicine bottles
• hair tonics
• makeup jars
• early contraceptive devices
• “miracle” cure-all bottles

Some of these were probably tossed quietly after the town doctor wasn’t looking.

7. Paper Goods
People disposed of letters, receipts, and notes—sometimes scandalous ones.
Some survive well enough to read. If a family didn’t want it found, they chucked it.

Trash → Treasure → Story
Every artifact pulled from a privy adds a line to the story of a life we’d otherwise never know:
A broken pipe marked a father who used to sneak smokes.
A marble showing a child who played until the sun set.
A lost locket containing a faded portrait.
A medicine bottle hinting at illness.
A tossed wedding ring whispering about heartbreak.

The outhouse, of all places, holds the most honest archaeology we have. Not the fancy stuff.
Not the “best foot forward” family portrait. Just the stuff people lived with, used, lost, broke, hid, or threw away. And isn’t that the real heart of history? Not kings and battles, but the life buried beneath our feet.

So, the next time you watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and Cousin Eddie proudly announces that “the shitter’s full,” take a moment to laugh… and then remember: Somewhere out there, behind an old farmhouse or cabin, that exact sentence might mean a pit full of antique treasures waiting for a lucky historian to rediscover them.

One man’s trash, Clark, really is another man’s treasure.

 

The Christmas Classics That Never Should Have Happened (But Somehow Did)

 

Every December, as predictably as the first cold snap or the great debate over whether Die Hard counts as a Christmas movie, my favorite holiday duet comes back to life: “Little Drummer Boy / Peace on Earth” by Bing Crosby and David Bowie.

It’s a strange pairing on paper, like putting Frank Sinatra and Cindy Lauper in the same recording booth, but it produced one of the most haunting, beautiful Christmas moments ever captured on tape. And the backstory? Oh, it’s even better than the song.

Bing Meets Bowie: A Classic Made in 45 Minutes. In September 1977, Bing Crosby was in London filming his annual Christmas special. The producers knew Bing’s audience skewed older, so they tried to bring in someone younger, cooler, and a whole lot more “London.” Enter David Bowie, fresh off major hits and about as far from Bing Crosby’s world as you can imagine.

Bowie agreed to appear mostly because, no joke, his mother loved Bing. But then came the snag. Bowie walked into rehearsal, took one listen to “The Little Drummer Boy,” and said, essentially: “Nope. I’m not singing that.”

So, the songwriters panicked. They sprinted into another room and, in less than an hour, wrote a brand-new countermelody called “Peace on Earth.” The two melodies somehow fit together like they were always meant to be one song. They rehearsed it only a few times. Bing, in full elder-statesman mode, delivered that comforting baritone. Bowie floated above him with something modern and almost celestial.

Nobody expected it to work. Boy, did it ever work! Hands down, my personal favorite!

The duet aired after Bing Crosby passed away in October 1977, making it not only one of his last recorded performances, but a Christmas miracle none of the writers even saw coming. After filming the UK special, Bing went to Spain on a golf trip. On October 14, 1977, he collapsed and died of a heart attack shortly after finishing 18 holes of golf near Madrid. The Christmas special featuring Bowie aired after Bing’s death. So the world first saw his final Christmas duet posthumously. The duet wasn’t released as a single until 1982, when it became a chart hit and a permanent classic.

The Christmas Song That Was Born in a Heatwave

While we’re on the topic of accidental brilliance, let’s roll back to 1945. Los Angeles was melting under a brutal heatwave when songwriter Bob Wells scribbled down the words:

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire… He was literally just trying to think cold thoughts to make himself feel cooler. Mel Tormé dropped by, saw the lines, and in under an hour, they finished “The Christmas Song.” Nat King Cole recorded it not long after, and it became one of the coziest, warmest songs ever written by two guys sweating through T-shirts in July. Just two musicians trying not to melt.

Silent Night: Written Because the Organ Quit on Christmas Eve

In 1818, in a small Austrian village, the church organ broke down—thanks to moisture, mice, or some combination of both. With Christmas Eve hours away, a young priest named Joseph Mohr brought an old poem to the local teacher, Franz Gruber, and said, “We need something… now.”

Gruber picked up his guitar, strummed a simple melody, and that night they debuted “Stille Nacht,” a song written out of necessity that quietly became the most translated Christmas carol in the world.  Sometimes Plan B becomes the masterpiece.

White Christmas: A Side Project That Became the Biggest Song Ever

Irving Berlin was up late one night in Hollywood, writing music for a film you probably haven’t watched since cable TV existed, Holiday Inn. Legend says he burst into his secretary’s office and said: “Take this down. This is the best song I've ever written.”

He was right. “White Christmas” became the best-selling single in history, written by a man who didn’t even celebrate Christmas.

Do You Hear What I Hear?  A Song Written Because the World Was on Edge. During the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, when the world genuinely feared that things could end any day, Noël Regney and Gloria Shayne wrote a plea disguised as a Christmas carol: "Pray for peace, people everywhere…." It became a holiday staple, but at its heart. It was a song for a world trying to steady itself.

Rudolph: Born from a Department Store Assignment.   In 1939, Montgomery Ward asked employee Robert L. May to write a Christmas booklet they could give away to kids. He created Rudolph partly to lift his sick wife's spirits and entertain their daughter.

His brother-in-law later turned the story into a song. Gene Autry picked it up.  Instant classic; Corporate assignment became American folklore.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas: Too Sad to Sing (at First). The original lyrics were devastating: It may be your last… Next year we may all be living in the past…

Judy Garland refused to sing them. “It’s too depressing,” she said. They rewrote it into the gentle, wistful version we now love. Some classics take a rewrite. Others take a mutiny.

All I Want for Christmas Is You: Written in a Flash. Mariah Carey and Walter Afanasieff wrote the entire song in 15 minutes. It was supposed to be a fun throwback track, nothing more. Instead, it became a cultural tsunami that earns new life (and millions in royalties) every December.

That Bing/Bowie duet was born from a refusal and rescued by a 45-minute songwriting sprint. It fits right into this grand tradition of Christmas songs that:

• weren’t planned
• weren’t expected
• weren’t meant to last
• and somehow became timeless

Maybe that’s part of the magic of the season. We think we know how things should go. We plan, rehearse, and try to get everything perfect.

But the songs we hold closest, the ones that echo through our homes year after year, often come from last-minute ideas, broken organs, heat waves, panic, desperation, and pure accidental genius.

Sometimes, you nail it on the first try. Sometimes, the miracle shows up when the clock is almost out. Sometimes, the song you weren’t supposed to sing becomes the one the whole world remembers.

Does Anyone Stay Together Anymore? (or How Coach Culver Made Me Run Until I Puked and Somehow Saved My Future Marriage)

 

August 1978.
The sun was trying to kill us. I’m convinced of it. The Rockhurst High practice field in Kansas City felt less like grass and more like a skillet someone had forgotten to turn off. We were knee-deep in two-a-days, that magical time when teenage boys willingly volunteer to be dehydrated, yelled at, humbled, and “character built” whether they asked for it or not.

I was 16, exhausted, and very sure I would not survive to see Labor Day. That's when Coach Jerry Culver, dad of one of my classmates and my varsity coach, gathered our half-dead squad and delivered a speech that welded itself to the inside of my skull.

He looked at us and said, “Don’t you dare give up. Once you give up on yourself the first time, it gets easier and easier to give up on everything else, your family, your schoolwork, your career, your wife, your kids.”

At 16, I had no wife. No kids. No career. I didn't even have a girlfriend. All I had was heat stroke and the faint hope of surviving another wind sprint. But his words didn’t just land; they took root. And so I ran. I ran until my legs buckled, my lungs whined, and yes… I ran until I puked.

But somewhere in that mess, Coach Culver planted a stubborn streak in me. A refusal to quit when something mattered. And lately, as I look at the world, I’ve been wondering whether everyone else has received a Coach Culver speech… because the evidence suggests otherwise.

Does Anyone Stay Together Anymore? Marriage used to be the ultimate “we’re in this for the long haul.” Today, the U.S. marriage rate hovers around 50%, and half of those marriages wobble. Relationships seem to have a shorter shelf life than the milk in my fridge.

And it’s not just marriages. It feels like everywhere you look, loyalty has the lifespan of a TikTok trend.

• Comedy teams break up.
• Bands break up.
• Hollywood divorces are seasonal.
• Athletes switch teams like they’re switching cell phone providers.

And I’ve wondered: Is commitment dying? Or did people just never learn what it means to stay?

But Then I Look at My Own Life… and Realize Something Important. If someone read my résumé without context, they might think I moved around a bit. But here’s the truth, and it fits perfectly with Coach Culver’s philosophy: There’s a difference between quitting… and evolving.

I began my college education at St. Mary’s University in San Antonio. I didn’t leave because I quit. I left because I went on an adventure with my fraternity brother, and now lifelong friend, to Southwest Missouri State. That wasn’t running away. That was running toward someone who mattered to me. There we met our future spouses.

In my early teaching career, I moved every few years, not because I lacked commitment,
but because I was positioning myself, growing, preparing for the next opportunity. Then I found St. Michael the Archangel in Shrewsbury, and stayed 12 years. Because I fell in love with the place. The families. The kids. The mission.

When I became a principal, I discovered something true of many good principals:
Every 5–6 years, there's an itch. Not an itch to quit, but an itch to stay sharp. An itch to avoid stagnation. An itch to move before I stop being the leader my school deserves.

That’s not giving up. That’s stewardship. That’s leadership with integrity.  And yet, when it comes to the things that matter most…

• my marriage
• my children
• my grandchildren

…that’s where Coach Culver’s voice rings the loudest.

There, I don’t run. There, I don’t waver. There, I don’t quit. Because some commitments aren’t “jobs” or “phases”, they are vows.

Coach Culver didn’t tell us:

“Stay in the same job forever.”
“Never move towns.”
“Never chase opportunity.”

He taught us: Don’t quit on yourself.  Don’t quit on people. And don’t quit when it’s hard. Your life isn’t a pattern of quitting; it’s a pattern of answering the next calling, then staying rooted where the soul's work is.

That’s the difference between:

• escaping and expanding
• abandoning and ascending
• quitting and discerning

And if more people understood that difference? More marriages could last. More bands could stay together. More teams would likely persevere. Maybe loyalty wouldn’t be considered an antique virtue.

Be Someone’s Coach Culver. We all need that voice, the one that says: “You’re tired, but you’re not done. Don’t quit. You’ve got more in you.”

And if we ran just one more metaphorical wind sprint, even if we puked a little, maybe we’d learn that staying power is still possible. For jobs. For friendships. For teams. For marriages.
For families. For each other.

Not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. And because someone once told us, under a scorching August sky: “Don’t you dare give up.”

 

The Measure of Who We Are

“The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have.”  Vince Lombardi

We like our sports with clear winners. Someone crosses the line, hits the shot, lands the jump, and gets the medal. Simple. But every now and then, the universe flips the script and reminds us that sometimes, the people who finish last are the ones who actually get it right. They don’t just play the game; they elevate it.

Sports are supposed to be about winning. Score more points, run faster, lift heavier, kick it between the posts, and bask in the glory. But every now and then, something happens that reminds us why we actually love sports in the first place, and it’s not the medals or the slow-motion highlight reels. It’s the people. It’s the grace. It’s those small, extraordinary moments when someone chooses heart over hardware.

Even fiction gets this right sometimes. Take Ted Lasso’s Jamie Tartt—the Premier League’s poster child for arrogance and great hair, who passes the ball to a teammate instead of taking the shot himself. For once, Jamie chooses teamwork over ego, and you can practically hear every coach in the world shouting, “See? That’s what we’ve been talking about!” Sure, his father’s less than thrilled, but it’s a shining moment that reminds us character can make a comeback, even on Apple TV+.

But let’s be honest—those moments are getting rarer. Today’s sports culture often celebrates the 'me' more than the 'we'. We’ve traded quiet strength for loud celebration. Every other play becomes a production—an end zone dance, a chest thump, a choreographed taunt to the other team. A defense makes one good play and sprints the length of the field just to pose for cameras in the opponent’s end zone. It’s as if humility got benched somewhere along the way.

When I played, you tackled a guy and then reached down to help him up. You hit a big shot, you nodded, you ran back on defense. There was pride, sure, but there was also respect. Somewhere between “Act like you’ve been there before” and “Look at me!” we’ve lost something vital.

It’s not about being anti-celebration. Emotion is part of the game; it’s the heartbeat of competition. But when self-promotion overshadows sportsmanship, when the highlight becomes the taunt instead of the teamwork, we start eroding the very thing that makes sports worth watching: humanity.

And yet, every so often, something cuts through the noise and reminds us we still can get it right.

At an Arkansas cross-country meet, Kaylee Montgomery was sprinting toward victory when she spotted Julia Witherington collapse just yards from the finish. Kaylee could have powered past and basked in glory, but instead she stopped, hoisted Julia up, and said, “You got this, we’re almost there.” Together, they crossed the line. Somewhere, Vince Lombardi smiled.

Fast forward to Tokyo, where Olympians Isaiah Jewett and Nijel Amos collided and tumbled mid-race. Now, if this had been me, I would have stayed on the ground questioning all my life choices. Jewett, however, dusted himself off, helped Amos up, and together they jogged to the finish line, two grown men proving that dignity doesn’t require a medal ceremony. “Regardless of how mad you are,” Jewett said later, “you have to be a hero at the end of the day.” The man clearly didn’t grow up playing Monopoly with my family.

Rio gave us another unforgettable example when Abbey D’Agostino and Nikki Hamblin collided in the women’s 5000 meters. Abbey helped Nikki up, but soon after, Abbey herself was injured. Nikki turned around and helped her back. They both finished, limping, laughing, and probably in considerable pain, but it didn’t matter. The Olympics handed them sportsmanship medals, but they’d already earned something bigger—mutual respect and the admiration of everyone who’s ever tripped on a treadmill and hoped someone noticed kindly.

Sometimes the noblest acts are the simplest. In a 2012 cross-country race, Kenyan runner Abel Mutai stopped just short of the finish, confused about where the line actually was. Spain’s Iván Fernández could have zipped past and claimed the win, but instead guided Mutai forward. When asked why, Fernández said, “What would my mom think if I took advantage of that?” Somewhere, every mom on Earth nodded in approval and immediately printed that quote for the fridge.

Then there was high school runner Meghan Vogel, who carried a collapsing competitor, Arden McMath, across the finish line—quite literally, shouldering someone else’s dream. In Tokyo, high jumpers Mutaz Essa Barshim and Gianmarco Tamberi asked Olympic officials if they could share the gold medal rather than compete for it. The answer was yes, and the two friends erupted in joyful disbelief, embracing like kids who’d just discovered the last cookie could, in fact, be split evenly.

Not every act of sportsmanship happens on the field. During the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, a Russian skier snapped a ski mid-race. A Canadian coach, Justin Wadsworth, noticed and sprinted forward with a spare. The Russian was able to finish proudly in front of his home crowd. It’s one thing to show kindness; it’s another to do it to someone who might have just beaten your team. The whole world needed a moment like that.

Perhaps the most profound example didn’t even occur in competition. In 2006, near the summit of Mount Everest, climber Lincoln Hall was left for dead after a severe case of altitude sickness. Hours later, fellow climber Dan Mazur and his team found him. They were within sight of the peak, a literal once-in-a-lifetime achievement, but instead of continuing, they turned back to save Hall’s life. They shared oxygen, warmth, and food, and waited for help to arrive. They gave up the mountain, but they gained something much greater: proof that humanity, even at 29,000 feet, still matters more than any summit selfie.

These stories remind us that the accurate measure of greatness isn’t found in record books or podiums, it’s found in moments of compassion, empathy, and selflessness. Whether in sports, school, or the general chaos of everyday life, the people who make us proudest are rarely the ones holding trophies. They’re the ones holding out a hand.

“In the end, it’s not about the trophies or the titles, it’s about the lives you touch and the hearts you lift along the way.”   So the next time you’re in a race, literal or otherwise, ask yourself what you’d do if someone fell. Would you keep running, or would you stop to help? These athletes did. And because of that, their names are etched not in record books, but in something far more lasting: the human heart.