The Ex4mined L1fe

  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, ...

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 inflat...

  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. Thes...

  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...

  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 d...

  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 hol...

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...

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...

  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...

  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...

“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...