Last night, I was paid a huge compliment at a parish reveal for a major school rehab (aka sell job). My role was simple: lead prayer, welcome people as a quasi-emcee, answer questions, and—per the job description—be eye candy. Those of you who know me, know I have a face for radio.
A parish employee/parishioner from one of our three campuses pulled me aside and said what I did was beautiful and that it was obviously spoken from the heart. Then came the kicker: “You have a real knack for writing and speaking. Do you have a background in that?”
Why Yes. Yes, I do.
Driving home, I had one of those cinematic John Rambo flashback moments—slow motion, dramatic music, shirt optional—wondering where this so-called “gift” actually began.
My writing career launched in high school, where I made my debut on the Freshman Edition of the Rockhurst High School Prep News. I wrote a controversial piece asking the hard-hitting journalistic question of our time: Do Track & Field weight men really run?
It was a hit. The Shot Put and Discus coach was mortified. And suddenly, this no-talent Hispanic kid became the Sports Editor during his freshman year. That gig lasted until the beginning of senior year, when I yielded the desk to a grade-school chum named Joe Drape.
Who is Joe Drape, you ask? Joe Drape is a New York Times reporter, author of seven books, two of which were NYT Best Sellers. So yes, I lost my job to a future literary rock star. No bitterness. None at all. Totally over it.
After yielding the Sports Desk, I became Campus Editor. No controversial columns. No coaches breathing down my neck. Just words. Lots of them. Our moderator and Prep News editor would frequently throw an unabridged dictionary at me—sometimes literally—to prove that words I tried to sneak into my columns actually existed. They were persistent.
And who was my editor? None other than the great James Grimaldi, who went on to win three Pulitzer Prizes while working for The Wall Street Journal and The Washington Post. Apparently, the Rockhurst Prep News was a bit of a talent incubator. Who knew?
And now, my claim to fame: I blog.
A small blog. One that began as a way to get my head straight and purge the toxins rattling around upstairs. A blog that’s been around since 2004, left for dead more than once, and then shockingly revived with defibrillator paddles in August of 2025.
That same blog now averages about 20 peeks a day and—twice—hit 60 reads. That, my friends, is my New York Times Best Seller moment. I’m waiting for the movie deal.
I know James and Joe have impacted countless people through massive platforms. I hope I’ve done the same—on a much smaller stage, with fewer zeroes and significantly less applause. But impact isn’t measured by clicks; it’s measured by connection.
Now don’t get me wrong—I get published multiple times a week, with the pièce de résistance landing on Fridays in Friday Notes, giving parents and parishioners valuable nuggets about SSP School. Even more meaningful to me is the cover letter, which actually speaks from the heart.
Ironically, everywhere I’ve been, I’ve had to remind parents that the attachment—not the cover letter—is the most important part. The Notes, especially the first page (left column), are meant to be folded, magnetized to a refrigerator, and used as a survival roadmap for the upcoming week at school.
In addition, I’m at times, quoted in local newspapers—the Post-Dispatch, The St. Louis Review—and recently had a feature piece in the TTEF (Today and Tomorrow Education Fund) publication. Not because I have anything life-shattering to report. I just really love bragging about our kids, teachers, and programs at our wonderful Catholic school.
Here’s what I may have overlooked all these years: Words matter.
They build trust. They calm fears. They rally communities. They remind people why we do what we do—especially in education, where leadership often requires explaining hard decisions, selling hope, and occasionally convincing people that change isn’t the enemy.
And if I’ve learned anything along the way, it’s this: when words are rooted in faith, spoken honestly, and aimed at serving others—not yourself—they tend to land where they’re supposed to.
So if last night’s words sounded like they came from the heart, it’s because they did. And if writing has been a constant thread through my life, maybe it’s not an accident—just one more gift God keeps nudging me to use, whether 20 people read it… or 60.
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