Recalculating: Because One Wrong Turn Doesn’t Cancel the Destination

I remember when I first started using GPS to get from point A to point B. Back in the early days of navigation systems, GPS was not nearly as friendly as it is today. The voice sounded slightly irritated, like it had some where better to be, and I was personally ruining its day.

“Turn left in 500 feet.” I’d miss the turn.

“Turn left now.” I’d panic and turn into a gas station instead.

Then came the most judgmental phrase ever spoken by a machine: “Recalculating… recalculating… recalculating!”

It felt less like directions and more like disappointment. Honestly, I was pretty sure the GPS was thinking, “This guy should not be allowed to drive.” But here’s the thing about GPS. It never quit.

It didn’t say, “Wrong turn detected. I’m done working with you.” “Clearly, you are incapable of reaching your destination.” “Pull over and give up on life.” No. It simply recalculated and found a new path to the same destination. 

GPS Has More Grace Than Most People. Think about that for a moment. You miss a turn. You go the wrong direction. You take an exit too early. You drive ten minutes past where you were supposed to turn. And what does GPS do? It keeps the destination in mind and creates a new pathway. No drama. No lecture. No emotional breakdown. Just recalculating.

If only we treated our goals the same way. We end up quitting after one wrong turn. We make one mistake and assume the whole journey is ruined. We miss one opportunity and believe the dream is over. We take one wrong turn and think we can’t get back on track. A failed class. A bad decision. A missed opportunity. A difficult season. A delayed plan. Suddenly, we start thinking: “I guess this just wasn’t meant to be.”

Meanwhile, your GPS would be calmly saying: Recalculating.

One of the most powerful things about GPS is this: The destination stays the same. The route changes. The timing changes. The streets change. The turns change. But the destination never moves. That’s a powerful life lesson. Your goals, your calling, your purpose, your dreams, they don’t disappear because of a wrong turn. They just require a new road. Sometimes a longer road. Sometimes a slower road. Sometimes, a road you never expected to take. But it still leads forward. 

God Is the Ultimate Navigator. God doesn’t panic when we take a wrong turn. He doesn’t throw His hands up and say, “Well, that’s it. Plan ruined.”  Instead, He recalculates. He redirects. He reroutes. He guides us down new roads that still lead toward growth, purpose, and impact.

What we see as a mistake, God often sees as a detour that still moves us forward. A delayed plan can become a better plan. A missed turn can lead to a better road. A broken moment can lead to a stronger future. Recalculating doesn’t mean failure. It means you’re still moving.

The beauty of GPS is simple. It never asks you to go back and undo every mistake. It just tells you where to turn next. That’s all life really requires, too. Not perfection. Not flawless driving. Not a perfect route. Just the willingness to take the next right turn when it appears.

Missed a turn? Recalculate.
Made a mistake? Recalculate.
Fell behind? Recalculate.
Took the long way around? Recalculate.
The only people who never reach their destination are the ones who turn off the GPS and stop driving.

So the next time life doesn’t go the way you planned, don’t panic. Don’t quit. Don’t assume the journey is over. Just listen for the calm voice in your head saying: “Recalculating.” Then take the next turn and keep moving. Because a wrong turn never cancels the destination — it just creates a new path to get there. 

Harvard Studied Happiness for 85 Years… and It Wasn’t About Money (Or Followers)

Imagine spending 85 years and millions of dollars just to prove your grandma right. That’s basically what Harvard did.

They spent over eight decades tracking hundreds of people—monitoring their careers, marriages, health, stress levels, and probably how many times they swore they’d finally get their lives together "next Monday."

The goal? Figuring out what actually makes a good life. After literal lifetimes of data collection, Harvard came to a massive, groundbreaking conclusion about what makes us happiest.

• It’s not the bag: It's not your bank account, your investment portfolio, or landing that six-figure post-grad job.

• It’s not the clout: It’s not your follower count, your aesthetic, or going viral.

• It’s not the grind: It’s not securing the corner office.

It’s relationships.

Close friends, a solid partner, family bonds, and a sense of community. Those are the actual cheat codes to health, longevity, and life satisfaction. Loneliness, on the other hand, is literally toxic. The study found it can wreck your body just as fast as chain-smoking or a diet consisting entirely of energy drinks. Harvard officially called this “social fitness.”

The "Greatest Lover" Hack

So, how do you actually build that? Years ago, an author named Dave Burgess teased a room full of people for six hours, promising to drop the ultimate secret to being "the world’s greatest lover."

Everyone leaned in. They wanted the magic formula.

His answer? Be present. That’s it. No mind games, no complicated tricks. Just be fully there with the person in front of you. Look them in the eye. Actually listen. Engage like the moment matters.

The Reality Check

Suddenly, Harvard’s mountain of data makes total sense. Deep relationships don’t just happen because you share a lease or keep up a Snapchat streak. They happen because you actually show up.

• Not halfway.

• Not while doomscrolling TikTok.

• Not while mentally calculating your to-do list.

• Present.

So here is the ultimate academic conclusion that took almost a century to figure out:

Call your mom. Text the group chat to hang out in real life. Hug your partner. Pet the dog. Show up for your people. Happiness isn’t sitting in your checking account; it’s in your contact list. The people who matter most don’t need you to have your whole life figured out. They just need your attention.

Put the phone down. Look at people. Be present. That's the newsflash.

Opening Day Then and Now ⚾

Opening Day has become a big production these days — television coverage, ceremonies, hype, social media countdowns, and enough hoopla to make it feel like a national holiday. But when I think about Opening Day, my mind doesn’t go to the noise and spectacle. It goes back to a chilly afternoon in 1973 at Royals Stadium.

I was there.

Opening Day at Royals Stadium. Box seats. Kansas City Royals baseball. And a memory that still feels warm, even though the day itself was anything but.

I went with my friend Tim Flavin. The Flavin family was always very good to the Sturgills during some tough spells in life, and that kindness is something you never forget. It wasn’t just a baseball game — it was an act of generosity and friendship that stuck with me over the years.

My grandparents, John and Irene Medellin, pulled Tim and me out of school early that day so we would have plenty of time to “properly prepare” for Opening Day. And by preparation, they meant doing it the right way — getting there early enough to watch every single pitch of batting practice.

No rushing. No distractions. Just baseball.

Grandma Irene sat there with her scorecard, diligently filling in every detail as if she were documenting history in real time. Pitch by pitch, name by name, inning by inning. That scorecard wasn’t just a record of a game — it was a record of a moment.

Somewhere along the way, we even picked up a lenticular print of Royals Stadium, one of those souvenirs that seemed almost magical at the time. Tilt it one way, and you see one view. Tilt it another way and it changed. For a kid in 1973, that was high-tech.

It was cold that day. Really cold. The kind of cold that sneaks through your jacket and reminds you that baseball season sometimes arrives before spring fully does. But nobody cared. Because it was Opening Day.

The Game That Made (Royal Stadium) History

The opening game at Royals Stadium on April 10, 1973, featured:

Kansas City Royals vs. Texas Rangers

Final Score: Royals 12, Rangers 1

Winning pitcher: Paul Splittorff (complete game)

Attendance: 39,464 fans

Start time: 7:39 PM (night game)

Notable firsts from that game:

First hit: Amos Otis

First run: Freddie Patek

First RBI: John Mayberry

First home run: John Mayberry

The Royals came out swinging and pretty much put the game away in their first at-bats. By the early innings, you had the sense that this was going to be a long afternoon for Texas and a great day for Kansas City. Back then, the Royals were a winning machine. Strong pitching, solid hitting, disciplined baseball — the kind of team that made you expect victory rather than hope for it.

What I remember most, though, isn’t just the score or the cold or even the early lead. It’s the feeling.

The excitement of leaving school early. The kindness of the Flavin family. The steady presence of my grandparents. Grandma was keeping score like it was her job. Watching batting practice like it was part of a sacred ritual. Sitting in those box seats and realizing this was something special. That was Opening Day.

No giant spectacle. No national media frenzy. Just baseball, family, friendship, and a chilly afternoon that turned into a lifelong memory. 

Today, St. Louis treats Opening Day like a civic holiday, and honestly, I love that. The energy, the tradition, the celebration — it’s part of what makes baseball great. A part of me still prefers the simplicity of 1973.

A cold day. A scorecard. A lenticular stadium card. A winning team. Good friends. Great grandparents. The feeling that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. Sometimes the greatest Opening Days aren’t the loudest ones. They’re the ones that quietly stay with you for the rest of your life. 

Define Great... Is America Still the Greatest?

Many of us are driven by analytics and danger signals these days. We measure everything — performance, productivity, growth, decline, risk, and trends. Numbers matter. Data matters. Outcomes matter. And when we look at measurable outcomes worldwide, a difficult reality begins to emerge: the United States is no longer the uncontested leader in every measurable category.

Before anyone jumps to conclusions, let me say something clearly. I love my country. As a blogger, I am always looking for alternative viewpoints. I try to listen before I react. I respect perspectives even when I disagree with them, because real conversation only happens when we allow ourselves to hear things that make us uncomfortable.

Growing up in the 60s and 70s and into my college years, I was taught — like many of us — that America was unquestionably the greatest country on the face of the earth. It wasn’t even up for debate. It was simply an accepted truth. I believed it.

I didn’t question it when Tom Brokaw wrote about the Greatest Generation. I didn’t question it because I came from a family that lived that story. The Sturgill and Medellin families didn’t just talk about patriotism — they lived it.

My father and his brothers served this great country. Uncle Enos continued serving after active duty by educating ROTC men and women. My grandfather and his brothers served in the Great War. My son-in-law and daughter-in-law also served this country.

Service runs through our family like a red, white, and blue thread woven into the fabric of who we are. So, when I write something that sounds reflective — or even critical — understand this: it is coming from loyalty, not rejection. This is not an attack. This is a conversation.

These days, when someone tells me to “have a great day,” I sometimes smile and ask a simple question: Define great.

Because “great” is a word we throw around without thinking. In the same way, when someone says America is the greatest country in the world, I find myself asking: What variables define greatness?

Is it civic pride?
Is it military strength?
Is it economic power?
Is it education?
Healthcare?
Freedom?
Innovation?
Opportunity?

Or is it simply the pride we feel when we see the red, white, and blue waving in the wind? I am proud of this country. But I am also comfortable enough in that pride to say something honest: I am not ethnocentric. Loving America does not require believing that every other country is inferior.

I recently came across a powerful scene from the HBO series The Newsroom, where Will McAvoy, played by Jeff Daniels, is asked why America is the greatest country in the world. His response was uncomfortable, honest, and thought-provoking. He acknowledged that America has done incredible things — and that our founding documents are masterpieces. And he was right.

The Constitution is a masterpiece. James Madison was a genius. The Declaration of Independence remains one of the greatest pieces of political writing in human history.

These are not small achievements. They shaped the modern democratic world. But even masterpieces require maintenance.

The United States is not the only nation with freedom. Countries such as Canada, Japan, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Spain, and Australia also enjoy democratic freedoms and civil liberties.

In education, the U.S. ranks near the top in reading literacy but falls behind many developed nations in math and science. In health outcomes, we lag behind much of the developed world in life expectancy and infant mortality.

Economically, we remain powerful — with high household income, strong exports, a massive labor force, and the world's largest defense spending. In other words:

America is still powerful. Still influential. Still important.

But we are no longer the undisputed leader in every measurable category. Acknowledging that is not unpatriotic. It is honest.

There was a time when America led not just with power, but with purpose.
We passed laws for moral reasons.
We struck down laws for moral reasons.
We fought wars on poverty, not on the poor.
We built great big things.
We made technological breakthroughs that changed the world.
We explored the universe.
We aspired to intelligence rather than mocking it.
We respected ideas even when we disagreed.
We did not define ourselves solely by political labels.
We did not scare so easily.

We were able to do these things because we were guided by great leaders and informed citizens. Informed citizens understood something fundamental: The first step to solving any problem is recognizing that one exists.

So when I say America may not be the greatest country in the world anymore, I am not saying America is bad. I am saying America has work to do. There is a difference.

A parent who pushes their child to be better is not criticizing the child — they are believing in their potential. In the same way, honest reflection is not disloyalty. It is patriotism in action. The goal is not to tear America down.

The goal is to build America back into the kind of nation that leads not just in power, but in measurable greatness — in education, in health, in opportunity, in unity, and in hope. Greatness is not a trophy you win once and keep forever. Greatness is something you earn, protect, and rebuild in every generation. Maybe the most patriotic thing we can do today is not shout that America is the greatest country in the world… but work to make it great again.

 

If God Is Making You Wait... Do What Waiters Do and Serve!

Let me start with a confession: I am not a fan of waiting. I don’t like waiting in line at the grocery store. I don’t like waiting at the doctor’s office. I don’t like waiting for the microwave to hit zero. I especially don’t like waiting on God.

Because when God says “wait,” it usually feels less like a gentle pause and more like being stuck in divine hold music with no estimated wait time and no option to press zero for customer service. Recently, I ran across a phrase that hit me right between the eyes: “If God is making you wait, do what waiters do and serve.”

Suddenly, waiting didn’t feel like punishment anymore; it felt like purpose. Most of us think waiting is dead space.  We treat it like life is on pause until something happens, until the job comes through, the healing arrives, the relationship changes, the opportunity opens, or the direction becomes clear.

We sit there tapping our feet, checking our spiritual watch, wondering why God is taking so long. Meanwhile, God is looking at us like a restaurant manager staring at a server leaning against the wall during a dinner rush. In God’s mind, waiting was never meant to be idle.

Waiting was meant to be active. Waiting was meant to be service.  Waiting was meant to be preparation.  Think about a waiter in a restaurant. They don’t stand in the corner doing nothing until someone calls their name.

They move. They refill drinks. They check on tables. They clean up messes. They help in the kitchen. They serve whoever is in front of them. They stay busy while they wait for the next assignment. That’s their job. Maybe that’s the lesson, too.

God isn’t asking us to sit quietly in the lobby of life until our number is called. He’s asking us to serve while we wait. Serve in our families. Serve in our communities. Serve in our churches. Serve in our workplaces. Serve the people right in front of us. Serving keeps us moving when waiting makes us feel stuck.

Here’s a hard truth. Waiting is uncomfortable because it forces us to trust. Trust is hard when you want control. We want timelines. We want guarantees. We want answers. We want progress reports.

God usually gives us… silence and opportunity. Opportunity to help someone.
Opportunity to encourage someone. Opportunity to show kindness. Opportunity to make a difference in small ways.

It’s like He’s saying, “While you’re waiting on your miracle, be someone else’s blessing.”

That might sting a little. Sometimes, maybe most of the time, we want to be served, not be the server. Here’s something I’m slowly learning. Serving while you wait changes you. It shifts your focus away from what you don’t have and toward what you can give. It replaces frustration with purpose. It replaces anxiety with action. It replaces impatience with compassion.

Before you know it, something strange happens. The waiting doesn’t feel as heavy anymore. When you’re busy serving others, you realize God was working on you the whole time. Not just preparing your future. Preparing your heart. Preparing your attitude. Preparing your strength. Preparing your ability to handle the blessing when it finally shows up.

Sometimes the delay isn’t about the destination. Sometimes the delay is about making sure the waiter is ready to become the host.

So here’s where I landed on this whole thing. If God has me in a waiting season, I can either sit around complaining like a guy in a broken recliner yelling at the TV and wondering why nothing is happening , or I can grab an apron and start serving somebody. Honestly, serving beats sulking every single time.

Because waiting on God was never meant to turn us into spectators. It was meant to turn us into servants. The funny thing is, while you’re busy refilling cups, carrying burdens, encouraging hearts, and helping people breathe a little easier, God is quietly preparing your table in the background. Doors start opening. Strength starts growing. Faith starts deepening. Perspective starts changing. And one day, without warning, the kitchen bell rings.

Not because you complained loud enough. Not because you worried hard enough. Not because you stressed long enough. But because it was finally time. So if you find yourself waiting… Refill someone’s cup. Carry someone’s burden. Encourage someone’s heart. Serve someone’s need. Because the fastest way through a waiting season… is to act like a waiter and trust the One who owns the restaurant. 🍽️

  

The Y Chromosome Chronicles: Lessons Learned the Hard Way

Let’s start this blog post off with a simple thought: I have a Y chromosome. For many, this is a “news flash” moment, but for others, it explains a lot. Women have XX chromosomes, and guys have XY chromosomes. That Y chromosome carries certain… tendencies. With regularity, when I am having what I call “Greg moments,” I warn people in advance:

“I have a Y chromosome… talk to me slowly, look at me when you talk, don’t use big words, don’t be multisyllabic, don’t assume I got you the first time, and understand that I am more of a hands-on type of guy.”

Sometimes, having a Y chromosome simply means I am going to do things that are just plain stupid. Take this weekend, for example.

We did spring cleaning in the four-stall garage (which, for the record, only one car will actually fit in), and around the yard. This included power washing everything — the stairs, siding, front porch, car, yard equipment, toys, and even the lawn chairs.

Now, I’ve owned a power washer for years, but I’ve only recently become a regular consumer of its services. Amid all the spray-downs, I made a decision that will forever live in the “What was I thinking?” category.

I decided to clean off my hands with the power washer. Note to self: never, ever do that again. In a heartbeat, I lost a good portion of epidermis on my middle finger. One spray. No skin. Instant regret. Immediate life lesson.

If that wasn’t bad enough, things escalated.

After everything dried, I started folding up the lawn chairs and decided to test a couple of them out. One was a rocker. I sat down, leaned back, and promptly flipped over backwards in spectacular fashion.

Quite painfully, I might add.

It turns out there is a safety pin you are supposed to secure before using the chair. Apparently, having a Y chromosome occasionally negates reading instructions.

So there I was… laid out on the ground, staring at the sky.

Taking my own advice from an earlier blog, I watched the clouds go by, listened to the birds, and communed with nature for a long time. Oddly enough, I did not achieve the peace and tranquility I was hoping for.

After an extended introduction to the backyard ecosystem, I found the pin, inserted it, grabbed a hard cider (for medicinal purposes, obviously), and tried again.

Same result.

Back on the ground. Looking at the sky. Listening to birds. Reconsidering life choices.

It turns out the pin was supposed to go above the hole, not below it, which would have kept the frame from collapsing like a cheap lawn chair… which, ironically, it was.

Lesson learned.

The good news?
No cider was spilled.
I had two encounters with nature.
And I now have a very sore back and tender shoulders to remind me of my educational experience.

Lessons learned from a guy with a Y chromosome:

• Power washers are not hand-cleaning devices.
• Lawn chairs require instructions.
• Safety pins exist for a reason.
• Nature is less peaceful when you land on it unexpectedly.
• Hard cider is an acceptable form of field medicine.
• The Y chromosome is both a blessing and a public safety concern.

And so, ends another educational weekend in the life of a man with a Y chromosome — a journey filled with power tools, lawn furniture, poor decision-making, and unexpected quality time with the backyard. Some people read instruction manuals, some people watch YouTube tutorials, and then there are people like me… we learn through minor injuries, gravity checks, and trial-and-error field research. The good news is I survived, the garage is clean, the lawn chairs are now properly secured, and my finger will eventually grow skin again. The moral of the story? Having a Y chromosome doesn’t make you reckless… it just means you occasionally conduct hands-on experiments that the rest of society wisely avoids. And if nothing else, at least the cider stayed upright — which, in my book, qualifies the entire weekend as a success.

Connected to Everything, Lonely Anyway (Or: We Played Outside Until Dark and Somehow Survived)

Yesterday, I shared a meme that said if kids want to know what growing up in the 70s was like, you take their phone, turn off the internet, and tell them to go outside and play until dark.

Simple. Brutal. Accurate. No GPS. No texting.

No “Find My Friends.” Just a bike, a baseball glove, maybe a questionable decision or two, and a general understanding that if you weren’t home by dark, your mom would come looking for you — and not in a calm, supportive way.

Somehow, we survived. Actually, we did more than survive. We lived.

Today, I ran across a reflection that stopped me in my tracks, a look at kids from the 80s and 90s trying to imagine what the future would be like. It went something like this:

So you're telling me in the future people just stare at a little box all day… inside and outside?

Wait… in the future, you don’t even own your music — you just pay every month to borrow it, and if you stop paying, it disappears?

So before people eat, they take a picture of their food and show strangers… and strangers comment on it?

Everyone has their own phone, and if someone actually calls you without texting first, it’s rude?

People post their diaries online and get paid for it?

A little box tells you where to go turn by turn, and people still get lost?

You tap the box, and a stranger brings food to your house… and then you rate the stranger?

Mom always said, "Don’t talk to strangers," but in the future, everyone talks to strangers all day on the little box and shows them their house and kids?

Nobody ever just sits in quiet anymore?

Everyone is connected to everything and everyone… and people are still lonely?

That sounds exhausting, yet the scary part is… none of that sounds strange anymore. That’s exactly where we live. We dreamed of flying cars and robot butlers. Instead, we got notifications and subscription fees. We thought technology would give us freedom. Instead, it gave us dependence. We thought it would connect us. Instead, it connected us to everything except the people sitting right next to us.

We carry the little box everywhere. At dinner. At church. At ballgames. At family gatherings.

In waiting rooms. In parking lots. In bed. Sometimes, even in conversations where we pretend to listen while glancing down every 30 seconds.

The little box is always there. Always buzzing. Always calling. Always demanding attention. Slowly, quietly, it became normal. There used to be silence. Driving meant looking out the window and thinking. Waiting meant waiting. Standing in line meant occasionally making awkward small talk with another human being. Now silence feels uncomfortable.

We fill every empty space with Noise. Music. Podcasts. Videos. Scrolling. News. Notifications. More scrolling. 

We don’t sit in quiet anymore. When you remove quiet, something important disappears with it — reflection. Without reflection, there is no perspective. Without perspective, there is no wisdom. Without wisdom, the future gets loud and confusing.

Suddenly, we are connected to everything and grounded in nothing.

I’ll be honest. I rely on AI to help me string nouns and verbs together. It helps organize my thoughts. It helps refine ideas. It helps turn scattered reflections into readable sentences. 

Used properly, it’s a tool. No different than spellcheck, a dictionary, or a typewriter once was. But like any tool, it depends on the person holding it.

A hammer can build a house or break a window. AI can help people write, learn, research, and create. It can become something people rely on too heavily for answers to deeply human struggles. That’s where the concern starts. Not because technology is evil. But because humans are fragile.

People are lonely. People are searching for meaning. People are looking for connection.

People are looking for someone — or something — to listen. Sometimes they look for those answers in places that were never meant to carry that kind of weight.

Technology was designed to assist life. Not to replace it. It was meant to be a tool. Not a companion. Not a counselor. Not a substitute for human presence, faith, family, or community. When tools start filling emotional or spiritual gaps, something important has been misplaced. Not the technology, the priorities.

Here’s the strange contradiction of our time. We are more connected than any generation in history. We can talk to someone across the world instantly. We can share pictures, videos, thoughts, opinions, and updates in seconds. We can reach thousands of people with a single post.

And yet… Loneliness is rising. Anxiety is rising. Isolation is rising. Depression is rising.

People are surrounded by digital voices but starving for real conversation. Surrounded by online communities but missing a real community. Surrounded by content but searching for meaning. It’s like drinking salt water. The more you consume, the thirstier you get.

What Went Wrong? Maybe nothing went wrong. Maybe we just moved too fast. Technology grew faster than wisdom. Convenience grew faster than discipline. Connection grew faster than community.

Access grew faster than understanding. We built incredible tools. Did we stop to ask how much was too much? When to unplug? When is it time to step outside and play until dark again?

The quiet truth is, technology isn’t going away. AI isn’t going away. The little box isn’t going away. But neither are the things that actually matter.

Faith still matters. Family still matters. Friendship still matters. Community still matters.

Real conversations still matter. Silence still matters. Presence still matters.

Sometimes the healthiest thing a person can do is put the little box down, step outside, and remember what real life feels like. Sit on a porch. Walk a neighborhood. Talk to a friend. 

Listen to the wind. Watch the sunset without photographing it. Be present without posting it. Be connected without broadcasting it. Be human without documenting it.

We dreamed of a future that would make life easier; in many ways, it did. The future never promised meaning. Meaning still comes from people. Meaning still comes from faith. 

Meaning still comes from purpose. Meaning still comes from living real life in real time with real people.

The future isn’t broken, but it needs balance. Being connected to everything and being lonely anyway were never supposed to be the end of the story. Maybe the first step back toward balance is the same advice we got growing up: Turn off the box. Go outside. 

Play until dark.

Slow and Steady… Because Fast and Furious Put Me in an MRI Tube

 

“Slow and steady wins the race.”
“All things in moderation.”
“Trust the process.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Poco a poco.”
“Step by step.”
“Stay the course.”

We have heard these phrases our entire lives. Somewhere along the way, they became background noise—like elevator music for personal growth. Nice sayings. Good advice. Easy to nod at and then completely ignore while we sprint headfirst into exhaustion.

I’ll be honest. I have not always adhered to this advice. In fact, I have often done the exact opposite.

“More haste, less speed.”
“Little strokes fell great oaks.”
“Be not afraid of growing slowly; be afraid only of standing still.”
“It does not matter how slowly you go, as long as you do not stop.”

These words have been echoing in my mind lately as this body continues to ache and remind me that it is no longer 25 years old and indestructible.

The painful reality of my progress. The harder I try to get in shape, the more active I try to become, the more I seem to hurt myself. There’s an irony in that. I go all out in the summer.
Swimming 2,000 meters at least three times a week. Sometimes more. There is something magical about the water. It forgives my joints. It carries my weight. It gives me freedom of movement without punishment. Recovery time is manageable.

But when I tried five days a week, I had nothing left in the tank. Lesson learned.

Fall and winter, however, are different stories. The recumbent bike and elliptical become instruments of determination… and sometimes destruction. I push until it hurts. Then push a little more. Then push until something gives; this winter, something did. MRIs showed damage in my spine. Torn and dislocated issues in my left arm. No MRI on the right side—but trust me, it feels the same. That kind of reality forces reflection.

Spring Training?!? This season has been confusing in more ways than one. One day it’s in the teens. The next day it’s 90 degrees. Is this the third winter or the second start of spring? I lose track. But something clicked recently.

Each morning during drop-off duty at school, I stand outside for about 30 minutes in the cold. Instead of just standing there, I started doing trunk twists. Nothing dramatic. Nothing flashy. Nothing that would even register as exercise to anyone watching. Just small movements. Quiet movement. Intentional movement. By lunch recess duty, the twists are a little more pronounced. Still controlled. Still gentle. Still within reason.

My Apple Watch doesn’t even recognize it as exercise. But maybe that’s the point. Slow progress is still progress. There is something deeply comforting in the idea of starting small and building slowly. Not pushing into noticeable pain. Not trying to win the fitness Olympics in a single season. Not trying to undo decades in a matter of weeks. Just inching forward. Poco a poco. Little by little.

“Anything worth doing is worth doing slowly.”
“The trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.”
“Patience and perseverance have a magical effect.”

Maybe the goal isn’t a dramatic transformation. Maybe the goal is sustainability. Maybe the goal is simply to keep moving.

Every time I hear the phrase “all things in moderation,” I grin a little. It takes me back to a two-family flat, where Tina and I lived early in our married life. Our upstairs tenant was Ivy. Ivy didn’t just say moderation; she lived it. On Sundays, we would break bread together, and there was some rule about chewing your food a certain number of times before swallowing. Ivy doubled or tripled it. We would be starting dessert while she was still working through the main course. It was almost comical. Slow bites. Small portions. Deliberate pace. She lived the mantra of moderation with surgical precision. It worked; she lived into her early 100s.

That’s not even the best part of the story. My father-in-law bought that two-family flat as a rental property at a dirt-cheap price with one condition: Ivy could remain in the top floor, rent-free, for the rest of her life. He made that deal when she was in her 70s. More than two decades later, she was still there. Still chewing slowly. Still living deliberately. Still practicing moderation.

That top floor stayed off the rental market for over twenty years. And honestly? Worth it. Because Ivy was a living sermon on patience and consistency.

There is wisdom in these old sayings that we tend to overlook.

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
“Keep plugging away.”
“Savor the small things.”
“Stay the path.”

This season of life is teaching me that slow progress is not failure. It’s discipline. It’s wisdom. It’s survival. It’s hope. My trunk twists may not show up on my Apple Watch. My slow movement may not impress anyone. My progress may barely move the BMI needle. But it is movement. Movement leads to progress. Progress leads to possibility. So for now, I will keep twisting in the cold mornings. Keep moving at lunch duty. Keep swimming when summer returns. Keep trusting the process. Slow and steady. Poco a poco. Stay the course.

 

Spring Has Sprung, and So Has My Sarcasm (with a nod to Chuck)

It’s the first day of spring. Mini victory in the never-ending game of life. The sun is teasing us, birds are auditioning for American Idol, and somewhere, a kid just sneezed pollen directly into your eyeball. (Yes, nature, I see you.)

And yet, here I am, thinking about home. Kansas City. The city of fountains—though honestly, I never cared much about the fountains (seriously, who’s impressed by water spraying from concrete?). What I do miss is... the Plaza lights at Christmas, which somehow made your heart glow bigger than your bank account. The legends. Lenny Dawson. George Brett. Men who actually taught you what loyalty looked like, none of this social media virtue-signaling nonsense.

Spring is supposed to be about renewal. But let’s be honest: the older you get, “renewal” mostly means remembering your allergies exist, realizing your knees crack like popcorn, and pretending you’re going to do something productive other than binge-watch Stranger Things (5) with the missus.

The Weight of It All (Yes, Literally). Let’s cut the fluff. I’ve spent a lifetime wrestling with weight—both the physical kind and the “why did I eat the entire tin of cookies?” kind. Right now, I’m 275 pounds. A year ago? 325. So yes, progress! Cue me patting myself on the back before I cave to chocolate. (It’s a tough life.)

BMI charts? Ha. They know less about me than a squirrel knows about tax law. They don’t account for late-night walks, skipped pizza slices, or the mental gymnastics of living in a world that thinks a number defines you. Newsflash: it doesn’t.

Aging: The Ultimate Comedy Show. Getting older is weird. You reach the age your parents were when you thought they had it all figured out… and then you realize they absolutely did not. Why do we walk into a room and immediately forget why? Why do our knees sound like microwave popcorn? Why do we suddenly care about lawn care with the intensity of a Shakespearean tragedy? And don’t even get me started on Sesame Street—suddenly it makes more sense than half the adult conversations you’ve endured all week.

I’m not aging gracefully. I’m aging snarkily. Confused. Grumpy. Still questioning the universe. Occasionally muttering, “Did I just say that out loud?”—and yes, sometimes to strangers. (Bonus points if they look horrified.)

Then there’s the rare moment of inspiration. Today, it came courtesy of a legend: Chuck Norris. Yes, Chuck Norris—the man whose beard alone could probably solve world peace. His passing reminds us older guys that relevance isn’t a fading memory. Chuck wasn’t just an actor, writer, and producer—he became a mythical symbol of endurance and badassery, thanks to the internet’s obsession with “Chuck Norris Facts.”

Some classics:

• “Chuck Norris has a mug of nails instead of coffee in the morning.”
• “Chuck Norris doesn’t do push-ups; he pushes the Earth down.”

Every time I looked up his age, I wasn’t just killing time—I was searching for hope. If Chuck could still be “doing it” at 86, maybe I could still do something well at 63. Maybe I could still have a story worth telling, a punchline worth delivering, or, at the very least, a respectable walk without pulling a muscle. Rest easy, Chuck. Age may be a number, but sometimes, it’s also hilarious.

Holidays are a Memory, not a Deadline. Sure, spring is here, but I can’t help it, I still get nostalgic. Christmas lights in the Plaza. Bing Crosby colliding with David Bowie in the soundtrack of my life. Songs your kids loved that you pretended to hate… until you realized you know every word now.

Christmas isn’t about what’s under the tree anymore. It’s about what’s missing from the room—and still laughing anyway. Because if you can’t find joy in a little chaos, what are you even doing? (Answer: probably online, arguing about something meaningless.)

Confusion is my New Superpower! Here’s a little secret: I don’t understand the world like I used to. Woke. Political correctness. Whatever term just dropped last Tuesday. Sometimes I feel like I need a translator, a nap, and maybe a stiff drink.

You know what? I’m okay with that. Not understanding something isn’t a weakness; it’s a survival skill. Not every hill needs a flag. Sometimes, shrugging and saying, “Yeah… I don’t get it,” is exactly the right answer. (Life advice, free of charge.)

The Stories We Actually Keep. Through all this: weight, aging, nostalgia, snarky observations, seasonal chaos, and legendary role models like Chuck, we are a collection of stories. Some are funny. Some hurt. Some make zero sense. But they’re ours. The Plaza lights. The songs. The late-night worries about elastic waistbands. The odd questions we never really ask aloud. All of it stacks up into something meaningful. Something real.

So… Where Does That Leave Me (Us)?  Somewhere in the middle. Not who we were. Not who we thought we’d be. Just… here. Laughing. Trying. Wondering if we left the stove on. Honestly? Whether we’re chasing memories of home, figuring out who we are now, or just trying not to eat the entire basket of Easter candy in one sitting… we’re all doing the best we can. If that isn’t a story worth telling? Well, the world can pound dirt (but watch out for my tulip bulbs)!

  

Green Beer, Real Grace, and One Wild Saint

Every year on March 17, America turns… green. Not just a little green—aggressively green. We’ve got rivers dyed like highlighter ink in Chicago, people wearing shamrock sunglasses, green wigs that look like they lost a fight with a lawnmower, and beverages that—let’s be honest—probably should not exist in nature. Then there are the parades. Oh, the parades. Somewhere between celebration and something that feels suspiciously like a toned-down version of a Roman festival gone sideways.

Let’s not even get started on certain “traditions” in places like Rolla (Alice)… some things are better left unexplained in polite company.  Then there's the corned beef and cabbage. A meal proudly consumed across America on this day… that most actual Irish people don’t even claim.

Which brings us to one of the great ironies of all: St. Patrick wasn’t Irish.

Saint Patrick was, in fact, British—captured as a young man, enslaved, and taken to Ireland. For six long years, he lived in hardship and isolation. Eventually, he escaped. That could have been the end of the story. Honestly, that should have been the end of the story. But it wasn’t.

He became a priest. Then a bishop. And then, this is where the story stops being ordinary and becomes something holy. He went back. Back to the very people who enslaved him. Not for revenge. Not for closure. For the mission. He returned to bring them, Jesus Christ.

Forgiveness like that doesn’t come from willpower. That kind of love doesn’t come from personality. That is grace. That is transformation. That is God at work. 

I was thinking about all of this today, somewhere between the shamrocks and the chaos, and a phrase came back to me. One I heard as a very young administrator, and one I’ve never been able to shake: “You love Jesus as much as the person you hate the most.”

I wish I could say that line inspired me immediately. It didn’t. It haunted me. At the time, I was… let’s say… pretty impressed with myself. I thought I was a great teacher—maybe even the greatest middle school social studies teacher walking the planet. I loved history. I loved teaching it. I knew my content. If I’m being honest? I wasn’t always leading students toward a relationship with Christ. I was teaching about faith… without always living it fully.

Over time, especially during my years at St. Francis of Assisi, something began to change. Slowly. Imperfectly. But undeniably. Dots started to connect. Faith moved from subject… to center. I began (and I emphasize began) the lifelong work of becoming not just knowledgeable, but faithful. 

That’s why St. Patrick hits differently now. Because his story isn’t just about shamrocks and snakes and clover symbolism. It’s about conversion—not just of a nation, but of a man. A man who suffered… forgave… returned… and loved. A man who didn’t just escape his past, but allowed God to redeem it. A man who, in the end, lived out that uncomfortable truth: Loving God means loving people, even the ones who hurt you. Especially them. 

So enjoy the day. Wear the green. Have the meal. Maybe even laugh at the over-the-top celebrations. But somewhere in the middle of it all, take a moment. Reflect on the real story. Ask the harder question. Where is God calling you to grow? Who is He asking you to forgive? And what might happen if you actually said yes?

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. 

The Prime Directive of Everyday Life (Why Sometimes the Best Thing We Can Do Is Not Interfere)

 

Anyone who has spent a little time with Star Trek eventually encounters one of its most interesting ideas. It’s called The Prime Directive. In the world of the United Federation of Planets, it is the highest rule of exploration: Do not interfere with the natural development of another civilization. Even if you have better technology. Even if you think you know better. Even if you could easily fix their problems.

Captains like James T. Kirk & Jean-Luc Picard spent entire episodes wrestling with this rule. They see suffering. They see problems that advanced technology could solve in minutes. But they also understand something deeper: Interference changes history. Sometimes forever.

The older I get, the more I realize this idea shows up quietly in everyday life. Every decision is a fork in the road. Every small nudge can alter direction. Scientists call this the Butterfly Effect—the idea that tiny changes can ripple outward into enormous consequences. A word spoken differently. A decision is delayed. A path taken… or not taken. Whole futures can shift. Sometimes we forget that when we rush in to “fix” things.

We all have the temptation to interfere. If you’re a parent, teacher, friend, or leader, you know the feeling. You see someone heading toward a mistake. You want to step in. You want to redirect the story. Sometimes we should. Sometimes growth requires walking the path ourselves.

A scraped knee teaches balance. A wrong turn teaches direction.A hard season teaches resilience. When we remove every obstacle and we might also remove the lesson.

Science fiction returns to this lesson again and again. In Star Trek, the Prime Directive warns explorers not to interfere with developing worlds because even well-intentioned help can permanently alter history. Another story shows the same lesson in a much more personal way.

Enter Barry Allen. Barry’s superpower is speed—faster than lightning, fast enough to run through time itself. Like many of us, Barry wants to fix things. To undo tragedy. To correct mistakes. To make the past better. So he does what many of us secretly wish we could do.

He goes back. In the famous Flashpoint storyline, Barry changes a single moment in the past to save his mother. Just one moment. One loving intention. But the ripple effects are enormous. Timeline fractures. Heroes become villains. Wars erupt. The world becomes darker and more unstable. Because one man tried to make things right.

That story resonates because it mirrors something deeply human. We all have moments we wish we could redo. A conversation we would handle differently. A decision we might reverse.
A turning point where we wish we had chosen another path. But life isn’t a time machine. Sometimes our attempts to “fix” things create new complications we never anticipated.

Just like Barry. Just like the captains Kirk and Picard wrestling with the Prime Directive.

Science Fiction Has Been Warning Us All Along. Great science fiction often hides wisdom inside adventure stories. In Star Wars, a small decision by a farm boy on a desert planet eventually reshapes a galaxy. In the branching timelines of the Marvel Cinematic Universe Multiverse, a single choice can create an entirely new reality.

Different decisions. Different paths. Different universes. It’s dramatic storytelling—but it reflects a quiet truth about ordinary life. Our lives are full of tiny multiverses.

What if we borrowed the wisdom behind that science-fiction rule? Not literally, but philosophically. Maybe our version of the Prime Directive could be something like this:

Respect the journey of others. Guide when asked. Help when truly needed. Don’t control someone else’s story. Every person is navigating their own constellation of choices. Their own turning points. Their own path through the stars.

The more stories I read, and the more life I live, the more I suspect the universe runs on something simpler than warp drives and hyperspace. It runs on small choices. A captain choosing whether to interfere in Star Trek. A young hero discovering the Force in Star Wars.
A scientist running too fast through time like Barry Allen. In every one of those stories, the fate of worlds often turns on something surprisingly small.

A decision. A moment of restraint. A choice to act… or not act. Science fiction magnifies these moments into galactic stakes, but we experience them every day. A word spoken gently instead of sharply. Advice offered—or held back. A moment where we let someone walk their own road.

Tiny things. Butterfly-wing moments. Maybe that’s the quiet wisdom behind the Prime Directive after all. Not a rigid rule. Not a command from Starfleet. Just a reminder that the universe, whether it’s made of stars, galaxies, or ordinary Thursdays, is always unfolding through countless small decisions. Ours included. Even the smallest choice might just change the timeline.

 

The Five Flowers Philosophy What Sunflowers, Dandelions, Lotuses, Bamboo, and Wildflowers Can Teach Us About Life

 

Nature is a pretty good teacher if you’re willing to slow down and notice things. A sunflower turning toward the morning light. A dandelion growing through a crack in the sidewalk. A lotus blooms quietly above muddy water. Bamboo rising after years of invisible growth. Wildflowers appear where nobody planned a garden.

Each one grows differently, and that’s the lesson here. Over the years, I’ve come to believe that students (people) grow a lot like flowers. Not in the same way, not at the same pace, and not always in the same place. If you pay attention, you start to notice that most of us carry a little bit of one of these five flowers inside us.

The Sunflower People

Sunflowers have a simple philosophy for living well. They turn toward the light. Young sunflowers literally follow the sun across the sky each day. As they mature, they settle facing east so they can greet the morning light first. Sunflower people are a lot like that. They look for the good in situations. They lift others up. They don’t spend all their time arguing with darkness — they simply keep turning toward what is bright. Every community needs a few sunflower people. They make the whole field a little warmer.

The Dandelion People

Dandelions are often called weeds. They grow where many plants cannot — sidewalks, empty lots, the edge of a gravel driveway. Dandelion people are resilient. They don’t wait for perfect conditions. They grow anyway. They bloom anyway. When their seeds catch the wind, they spread possibility far beyond where they started. A lot of the strongest people you’ll ever meet are dandelions.

The Lotus People

Lotuses grow in muddy water. Their roots are buried in the muck at the bottom of a pond, yet the flower rises clean and beautiful above the surface. Lotus people have usually walked through difficult seasons. They know hardship. They know struggle. Somehow, they carry grace anyway. Their beauty is not the absence of mud. It’s the decision to rise above it.

The Bamboo People

Bamboo teaches one of nature’s most patient lessons. For years after it’s planted, almost nothing appears above the ground. The plant spends its time growing an underground root system. Then one season, almost suddenly, it shoots upward with remarkable speed. Bamboo people are quiet builders. They are doing the work that no one sees. Learning. Growing. Preparing. One day, people will call their success “overnight.”  Their roots will know better.

The Wildflower People

Wildflowers don’t wait for a carefully planned garden. They bloom where they land.

Along fences. In open fields. On hillsides where the wind carries their seeds. Wildflower people are wonderfully themselves. They don’t need perfect expectations or carefully arranged circumstances. They bring color wherever they go. Every world needs a few wildflowers. They remind us that beauty doesn’t always follow the rules.

The more I watch people, the more I think life works a lot like a garden. Some of us are sunflowers. Some of us are dandelions. Some of us are lotuses, bamboo, or wildflowers. Some of us are probably a little bit of several, a hybrid. The real beauty of a garden is not one flower growing alone. It’s the way different flowers grow together, each one bringing something the others cannot.

Wherever you find yourself planted today, grow well. Someone nearby may need exactly the kind of flower you are. Sometimes the smallest things turn out to matter the most. A kind word. A quiet moment. A decision to be a little more patient, a little more generous, a little more human.

If we pay enough attention to those small moments, we may discover we’ve been helping grow something beautiful all along. Keep turning toward the light.

The Sunflower Theory (When the Light Fades)

There is a small piece of wisdom I heard recently about sunflowers. If you ever give someone a sunflower, give them two. The reason is beautiful.

Sunflowers spend their days facing the sun. They turn slowly across the sky, following the light as it travels from morning to evening. But when night falls—when the sun disappears, and darkness settles over the field—something remarkable is said to happen.

They turn toward each other. When the light is gone, they lean inward, sharing what warmth they can until morning returns.

Now, before the botanists send me emails, I will acknowledge that the science behind this is a little more poetic than precise. Young sunflowers do follow the sun in a process called heliotropism, and mature ones eventually face east permanently. But the idea behind the story may matter even more than the biology. Because as metaphors go, this one is almost perfect.

When life is bright, when the sun is high, and everything feels possible, most of us know how to grow. We chase opportunity, pursue passions, and soak up encouragement like a field soaking up daylight. That part of life is easy. Growth loves sunlight.

Life Also Has Nightfall. Eventually, every field experiences dusk. There are seasons when the light dims, when a job changes, when health falters, when friendships drift, when the world feels heavier than it did yesterday. In those moments, you discover something important.

Sunlight is wonderful. But companionship is essential. That brings me back to the wisdom of two sunflowers. 

I have come to believe something about friendship over the years. I wrote about it once: you are not meant to have dozens of best friends. You are meant to have a handful. Maybe three. Maybe five. But a handful.

Because when the light fades, you don't need a crowd. You need a sunflower that turns toward you. Someone who notices the shadows and says things that matter more than the usual “I love you.” Words like:

• I see you.

• I hear you.

• I trust you.

• I choose you.

Those words carry light of their own. They are the emotional equivalent of sunrise.

In another reflection I once wrote, I mentioned how simple actions can carry enormous meaning. Sometimes love isn't a grand speech. Sometimes it is: I made bacon. Or I did the dishes.

Small acts. Small lights. Tiny suns rising in the ordinary moments of a day. If the Sunflower Theory teaches anything, it might be this: We don't always have control over when the sun disappears. We do have control over whether we turn toward each other when it does.

If you ever give someone a sunflower, consider giving them two.

Not because it is scientifically necessary. But because it carries a quiet promise. A promise that says: When the days are bright, we will grow toward the light. When night arrives—as it eventually does for everyone—we will turn toward each other. And that, in its own small way, might be enough light to last until morning.