There is something terrifying and wonderful about a fresh calendar.
For years, as a school administrator, my "new year" always started in August. It smelled like floor wax, sharpened pencils, and nervous energy. But January 1st is different. It doesn’t ask for lesson plans or seating charts. It just sits there, quiet and white as snow, asking a single question: Where do we go from here?
Looking back at 2025, I realize I wrote 125 times. One hundred and twenty-five. If you had told me in January of last year that I’d have that much to say about everything from the theology of John 3:16 to the skyrocketing price of a turkey sandwich, I would have laughed. I would have said, “I’m too busy. I’m too tired. I’m too…”
But the writing became the medicine in August 2025. It became the place where the noise in my head found a chair to sit in.
For years, as a school administrator, my "new year" always started in August. It smelled like floor wax, sharpened pencils, and nervous energy. But January 1st is different. It doesn’t ask for lesson plans or seating charts. It just sits there, quiet and white as snow, asking a single question: Where do we go from here?
Looking back at 2025, I realize I wrote 125 times. One hundred and twenty-five. If you had told me in January of last year that I’d have that much to say about everything from the theology of John 3:16 to the skyrocketing price of a turkey sandwich, I would have laughed. I would have said, “I’m too busy. I’m too tired. I’m too…”
But the writing became the medicine in August 2025. It became the place where the noise in my head found a chair to sit in.
So, for 2026, I’m not making resolutions. I gave up on those around the time I realized my knees were never going to stop making noises like a wooden ship. Instead, I am setting intentions. I am looking at themes. Here is what I hope we can explore together in The Ex4mined L1fe this year.
Living into the Hyphen
Late last year, I decided to become Medellin-Sturgill. It wasn’t just a paperwork change; it was a soul change. It was an admission that for too long, I had left half of my story in the shadows. This year, I want to explore what that means. I want to dig into the roots, the heritage, and the stories of the people who made me who I am before I ever arrived. Expect more looking back so we can see forward.
The Discipline of Decency
We talked a lot last year about how we treat each other—about whether we wear masks or radiate light. In a world that seems addicted to outrage, I want this blog to be a "Decency Outpost." I want to keep asking: How do we disagree without dehumanizing? How do we hold onto our convictions without losing our charity? I don’t have all the answers, but I promise to keep asking the questions.
Stewardship of the Simple
I wrote about the "Island of Lost Toys" and the frustration of throw-away culture (RIP, Sears Craftsman warranty). This year, I want to focus on stewardship, not just of things, but of time, of relationships, and of moments. I want to find the holy in the mundane, in the crayon drawings, the quiet mornings, and yes, even in the struggle to find 100% cotton clothing.
Laughing at the Absurdity
If we can’t laugh, we’re finished. Whether it’s the shock of modern lunch prices or the realization that I am slowly morphing into the "Get Off My Lawn" guy, we are going to keep laughing. Because humor is just truth with a little bit of sugar on it.
The Invitation
I don’t know if I’ll write 125 posts this year. Maybe it’ll be 50. Maybe it’ll be 365. But my promise to you is this: I will write when the Spirit taps me on the shoulder. I will write to understand, not to impress. And I will try, as best I can, to keep the "Inn" of my heart open—to ideas, to people, and to grace.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for commenting. And thank you for being the community that makes this examined life worth living. Let’s turn the page. Happy New Year!
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