The Ex4mined L1fe

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. S...

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 simpl...

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 Ame...

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 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 b...

  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: A medical diagnosis. A breakfast cereal. 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 u...

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...

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 sch...

  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 s...

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...

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 “Yo...

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...

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. Wh...

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 ow...

“ 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:...