Still Standing (Slightly Tilted): Vol. 3 – Skills No One Asked For

If Vol. 2 proved anything, it’s that I had a hard time turning down a dare.

Vol. 3? This is where I stopped waiting for dares… and started creating my own problems.

Because somewhere between moving into the dorms and pretending to be a responsible college student, I developed a very specific set of skills. None of them was on a syllabus. None of them earned credit hours. All of them were extremely memorable.

Let’s start with what I’ll call “advanced entry techniques.” Most people used doors. I preferred windows. Second floor, narrow ledges, questionable footing—it didn’t matter. If I wanted to visit someone, I wasn’t knocking. I was scaling the outside of the building like a budget version of something between a cat burglar and a bad decision.

Looking back, one misstep and this story ends very differently. At the time? Just another day that ended in Y.

Then there was the fine art of “pennying” people into their dorm rooms. For the uninitiated, you wedge pennies into the doorframe so the door can’t open from the inside. Simple. Effective. Incredibly annoying. People missed class. People panicked. People learned new vocabulary. I learned that a handful of loose change and too much free time can make you a problem real quick.

But why stop there? I escalated. At some point, we figured out that dorm walls weren’t just… walls. They were opportunities. With the right combination of grip strength, balance, and poor judgment, you could climb up the walls of a hallway and suspend yourself near the ceiling. So naturally, we turned off the lights and waited. Picture this: pitch black hallway… someone walking back to their room… minding their own business… and then, from above them— A chorus of sounds straight out of Friday the 13th. We didn’t just scare people. We changed their evening plans.

And then there were the rooftops. Apparently, ground level wasn’t dangerous enough. A few of us got into the habit of making our way up top on cool San Antonio nights. The view? Incredible. The decision-making? Less so. At one point, getting from one roof to another involved using an antenna as… let’s call it a “confidence-based support system.” Not engineered. Not tested. Just… believed in. Which is a theme you’ll notice.

For reasons I still can’t fully explain, there was also a phase where sitting on steep, slanted roofs became a form of entertainment. The steeper, the better. Add in a little liquid courage, throw in what we confidently referred to as a “moose howl,” and suddenly you’ve got yourself an evening activity that no one asked for… and no one forgot.

Growing up, I loved the Sweathogs from Welcome Back Kotter! I loved it when they used the first escape to enter Kotter's apartment... I relived that moment in Freshman Lit class at St. Mary's in San Antonio. I forgot if it was the 3rd or 4th floor.  Unfortunately for a young Mexican girl with a slight (temporary) crush on me, she tried the same endeavor once (it was enough for her).  I climbed into the room, closed and locked the window, and pulled the blind. Imagine her embarrassment when our Lit teacher let her in after she'd been stranded out there, banging on the window for a few mins.  I was not always the gentleman I am today! 

Looking back, it’s easy to laugh. It’s also easy to realize how thin the margin was between “great story” and “terrible outcome.”

Because none of this was supervised. None of it was planned. None of it came with a safety net. Here’s the part that sticks with me: We weren’t trying to be reckless. We were trying to be something. Bold. Memorable. Fearless. When you’re that age, sometimes the only way you know how to get there… is by testing limits you probably shouldn’t.

Did I learn everything I was supposed to in college? Debatable. Did I pick up a handful of skills no one asked for? Absolutely. While none of them made it onto a résumé… they somehow all made it into fun stories. Stories that, once again, I’m lucky to still be here to tell. Still standing. Still tilted. Just with a slightly better appreciation for doors, gravity… and not climbing things that were never meant to be climbed.

Still Standing (Slightly Tilted): Vol. 1 – I Never Had a Chance and Vol. 2 – Dares Were My Love Language

Yesterday I shared a story that unlocked a memory from the late ’70s—one that earned me a grounding that, at the time, felt like a life sentence.

Before we go any further, a quick clarification for the record: My sister Debbie Sturgill (KCMO)… not to be confused with my other sister, Deborah Sturgill (Kentucky).

With a setup like that, I never really had a shot at a quiet life.

Back then, we had one family phone. One. Shared. No caller ID, no cell phones—just a coiled cord, limited privacy, and unlimited opportunity for bad decisions.

My sister was deep into her Tiger Beat phase—crushing on Leif Garrett and every other feathered-hair heartthrob smiling off those glossy pages. Meanwhile, SuperQ 104 out of KCMO was running a promotion: win a date with Leif Garrett.

Naturally… I chose chaos. Enter my co-conspirator, Jeff Waechter—a man who had been perfecting his “DJ voice” like it was a full-time job. “Helloooo, it’s Johnny Rock ‘N Roland…” on repeat, whether anyone asked for it or not.

The big moment was set for 7:00 p.m. sharp. Dramatic countdown. Ten… nine… eight…

With what we believed was Navy SEAL-level precision, Jeff dialed the first six digits of our home phone number. We hovered… waiting… timing it perfectly "…three… two… one—”

He hit the final digit, and our phone rang. My sister answered, fully convinced destiny—and Leif Garrett—had finally found her. What followed was less “fairytale ending” and more “family reckoning.”

Her heart broke. I caught a few well-earned slaps. My parents delivered a lecture that probably could’ve been syndicated. And I was grounded for a month. Officially.

Unofficially? About 16–17 days. Turns out, the real punishment wasn’t my confinement—it was their extended exposure to me. They tapped out early.

Looking back, that probably should’ve been the moment I learned a valuable life lesson. It was not.

Because that wasn’t a one-off. That was an origin story. I grew up in a world where we made our own fun, pushed our luck, and occasionally crossed the line between “creative” and “what in the world were you thinking?”

And more often than not… I was right there at the front of the line. Still am, if I’m being honest. Looking back now, I can see it clearly: I didn’t stumble into chaos. I had a natural gift for it. Somehow—by grace, luck, or sheer stubbornness—I’m still standing. Not perfectly straight. Not without a few dents. But standing… just with a slight tilt.

And a long list of stories that prove…This was just the beginning.

If Vol. 1 was about where it started, Vol. 2 is about how it escalated.

Somewhere along the way, I developed a personal philosophy that served me… inconsistently at best: If there’s a dare—take it. If there’s a bad idea, at least hear it out. If someone says, “You won’t…” Well… now we’ve got a situation.

Case in point: a rugby trip to the University of Arkansas. Somewhere between loading the bus and arriving in Fayetteville, a challenge was issued involving something called “Quick Silver.”

Now, I didn’t know what Quick Silver was. I didn’t ask what Quick Silver was. I just knew there was a dare… and apparently, that was all the information I needed. What I remember next is trying to say “Oh… my… God…” in slow motion while my brain felt like it was being squeezed from the inside out. Immediate splitting headache. Lights out. Lesson learned? Not even close.

If there was a scoreboard for questionable decisions, I was trying to run it up. Take the goldfish saga.

Yes—live goldfish. Somewhere along the line, a reward system was established:

1 goldfish = a beer
2 goldfish = a six-pack
4 goldfish = a full case

I went for the case. The first two? Rough. They fought back. There are sensations you don’t forget, and that’s one of them. By the third, I had… adapted my approach. I’m not proud of that moment. But I’m also not going to pretend I didn’t commit to the process. Let’s just say… I earned the case.

And it wasn’t just organized stupidity—it was everyday opportunities too. Fork in a light socket? Sure. Licking a frozen pole? Why not. If there was a bad decision wrapped in curiosity and peer pressure, I was at least in the conversation.

Looking back, it’s easy to shake your head at all of it. The dares. The decisions. The complete absence of a pause button. But here’s the thing… At that age, you don’t think you’re being reckless. You think you’re being alive. You think you’re building stories. You think nothing can actually happen to you. Somehow—through a combination of luck, timing, and probably a guardian angel working overtime—most of the time… it didn’t.

Now? I’ve traded dares for better judgment (mostly). The stakes are different. The perspective is different. But the stories? Those stuck.

And every once in a while, I look back at that version of me—the one who never backed down, never thought twice, and somehow made it through anyway—and I can’t decide if I should shake my head… or thank him for giving me something to write about. 

Because in the end, that’s really what this is: A long list of moments that probably should’ve gone differently… but didn’t. Somehow… I’m still standing. Still a little tilted. But standing all the same.

 I was born in 1962. My formative years stretched from the mid-60s through my graduation from high school in 1980—a window of time that, looking back, feels both simpler and fuller.  Not better. Not worse. Just… different in ways that are getting harder to explain to anyone who didn’t live it. What we had back then wasn’t much by today’s standards—but somehow, it was enough.

When Less Wasn’t a Problem.  We didn’t have everything. We had what we had. We had one phone in the house, usually attached to a wall, with a cord that could only stretch so far before someone yelled, “Hang it up!”

We had a handful of TV channels, and if you missed something, you missed it. No rewind. No streaming. No second chances. Honestly? We weren’t inside much anyway.

We were outside playing baseball or kickball in the yard all day long. Not on screens. Not in organized leagues. Just pickup games where the rules were… flexible, depending on who was winning. There was pushing, shoving, arguing over bad calls—but we figured it out. We self-policed ourselves. No referees. No parents stepping in. No parents with juice boxes and goldfish ready; that’s what the garden hose was for! Just kids learning how to navigate fairness and frustration in real time.  A cinematic reference, we were the Sandlot, or the Bad News Bears before these were hit movies!

When we weren’t playing, we were listening. Not playlists. Not algorithms. Stories. I can still remember being under the blankets with a flashlight, listening to those old mystery radio shows—Mystery on the Air-type stuff, letting my imagination do all the heavy lifting. And it did. Those stories were terrifying in the best way, because what you imagined was always scarier than anything a screen could show you.

Sports weren’t something you consumed; they were something you experienced. We’d listen to the Kansas City Royals or the Chiefs on the radio, hanging on every word as it mattered more than anything else going on in the world. And sometimes, if we were lucky, we were there in person.

Back when tickets were affordable. I remember general admission at Royals Stadium being about two bucks. Parking was five, which meant we’d pile as many people as humanly possible into Rick Gray's Jeep or Scott Willis’ old LTD just to make it work. It wasn’t about comfort. It was about being there.

Refreshments? Let’s just say there were no $8 sodas. We passed around a single cup of Kool-Aid in the car like it was gold. Nobody complained. That was just how it was. And somehow, it was enough.

Now: When Everything Is Available All the Time. Fast forward to today, and it’s a completely different world.

We carry around devices that can do just about everything—phones, cameras, TVs, maps, music, news, conversations—all in one place. We can watch any game, any show, any moment, whenever we want.

We don’t miss things anymore. Strangely… it feels like we miss more. We have more entertainment than we could ever consume, yet still find ourselves saying, “There’s nothing to watch.”

We’re more connected than ever, yet somehow feel more disconnected. We’ve traded waiting for instant access. Traded imagination for high definition. Traded presence for convenience. Sitting right in the middle of it all is artificial intelligence—accelerating change at a pace that makes the last 60 years feel like a warm-up.

What We Lost Along the Way. It didn’t happen all at once. Somewhere along the line, we lost a few things: We lost the art of being bored and the creativity that came with it. We lost some patience, the kind that made things feel worth waiting for. We lost a little bit of that raw, unfiltered living that didn’t need to be documented to matter.

Back then, nobody was pulling out a phone to capture the moment. You were just… in it.

This isn’t a “back in my day” rant.  Let’s be honest, there are things today that are undeniably better. Medical advancements. Access to information. The ability to stay connected with people across distance and time. Tools that make life easier in ways we couldn’t have imagined. There’s real value in a lot of what we have now. But not all of it.

The Stuff We Could Probably Live Without. Here’s where I start to wonder. How much of what we have today is actually necessary? How much of it just fills space we used to fill with living?

We could probably live without:

• The endless scrolling that never really satisfies
• Notifications that make everything feel urgent when it isn’t
• The pressure to capture every moment instead of experiencing it
• “Upgrades” that don’t really improve anything
• Technology that solves problems we didn’t actually have

We’ve engineered convenience so well that we’ve almost removed effort from the equation. Maybe effort was part of the point.

I grew up in a world where change came in chapters. Now it comes in updates. My laptops, Apple watch, and iPad all need the latest update tonight! If the next wave of change, driven by AI and everything attached to it, is going to be bigger than anything we’ve experienced so far, then maybe the question isn’t just about what’s coming next.

Maybe the better question is this: What do we hold onto… on purpose? 

If a $2 ticket, a car full of friends, a cup of Kool-Aid, and a radio broadcast could give us a full day, maybe “more” isn’t always the answer. Maybe some of the best things we ever had… were the things we never realized we’d lose.

 

More Noise Than Knowledge: What the NFL Draft Really Reveals

It got ridiculous this weekend. I’m sitting there, already a little on edge, trying to track something simple—who are the Chiefs taking in the seventh round? Not a life-altering question, not a philosophical deep dive… just a thread I wanted to pull.

And instead? Talking heads. More talking heads.

Endless loops of speculation dressed up like insight—breaking down arm length like it’s sacred scripture, debating hand size like it’s a personality trait, circling the same narratives until they’re worn thin.  They weren't even talking about the Chiefs; they were still debating the arm length of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers' first-round draft, three flipping days later!  Arm Length!?!

It’s noise masquerading as knowledge.

I didn’t need a panel. I didn’t need a debate. I didn’t need a former player squinting at a telestrator.

I just wanted the pick.

And somewhere in that frustration, another question bubbled up:

When did the NFL Draft become… this?

Because it wasn’t always a three-day, prime-time, traveling spectacle pulling in hundreds of thousands of fans. The draft started back in 1936, commissioner Bert Bell trying to bring balance to a league where the rich teams kept getting richer. The first draft was held in a hotel in Philadelphia. No cameras. No hype. Just names on paper and a handful of executives making decisions.

For decades, it stayed that way. Players didn’t walk across a stage. They didn’t hug the commissioner. Half the time, they didn’t even know they’d been drafted until they read it in the paper the next morning.

Fast forward to now, and somehow we’ve landed in cities like Pittsburgh, where over 300,000 people show up just to watch names get called. It’s part football, part festival, part made-for-TV event. The league turned it into a product, and to be fair, people showed up for it.

So which is it? Is this about TV revenue… or are we really this interested? Probably both.

Because the modern draft sits at the intersection of two powerful forces: Our love of football… and our appetite for speculation.

Which brings us back to the talking heads. Because for all the coverage, all the mock drafts, all the “expert” projections—how often do they actually get it right?

Short answer? Almost never.

No mock draft has ever nailed all 32 picks in the modern era. Not even close. Getting the top 5 right is impressive. Top 10? That’s a banner day. After that, it turns into educated guessing mixed with chaos—trades, surprises, teams reaching, players sliding.

And sometimes? It completely bombs.

Because every year comes with its own version of certainty that doesn’t age well.

Think about the narratives that take on a life of their own. The whispers around Shedeur Sanders and a supposed slide. The kind of storyline everyone repeats until it feels inevitable… until reality shrugs and goes another direction.

Or go back to Ryan Leaf—once labeled a franchise savior with near-universal confidence.

And yet… Joe Montana — third round. Tom Brady — sixth round.

No unanimous hype. No guaranteed greatness. Just… overlooked.

Which makes you wonder—what exactly are we measuring? Out of all the metrics, all the combine numbers, all the breakdowns and draft boards, there are variables no mock draft can capture:

Heart.
Desire.
Drive.

Nor the willingness to take a team on your shoulders when everything actually counts—not when it’s debated in a studio, but when it’s 3rd and long and the season is on the line.

You can’t measure that with a stopwatch. You can’t chart it on a graphic. You can’t argue it into existence. Yet, time and time again, that’s the difference.

So the cycle continues.
New class.
New predictions.
New “can’t miss” prospects.
New confident voices who rarely circle back when the takes don’t age well.

The system isn’t really built to be right. It’s built to keep talking.

There’s no scoreboard for the prognosticators. No accountability for the misses. The conversation just resets—like a political campaign that never ends. Always spinning. Always framing. Always filling the silence.

Maybe that’s why it wears you down. Sometimes you’re not looking for analysis.

You’re not looking for noise. You’re just looking for clarity. A simple answer in a complicated world.

Maybe there’s something deeper buried in all of this—something worth holding onto: The loudest voices aren’t always the wisest ones. The most confident predictions aren’t always the truest ones.

Another thing, the things that matter most… often can’t be measured at all. So yeah… they’ll keep talking. Forever and a day.

But every once in a while, a third-round pick… or a sixth-round pick… or a name that barely moved the needle on draft night steps onto the field with something no one could fully see—when the moment comes… They don’t say a word. They just prove it.

Into the Woods (Apparently… I’m a Tree Now)

The past few days, apparently, I’ve been living Into the Woods, and not subtly.
Somewhere along the way, my writing turned into trees, roots, forests… the full arborist starter pack. And now I’ve officially been labeled a bur oak. Which, to be clear, feels less like a compliment and more like something a doctor prescribes ointment for.

I didn’t audition for this role. But here we are. At first, I laughed it off. It felt… aggressively kind. Maybe even a little suspicious. Because when someone starts describing you as “deep-rooted,” “steady,” and “built to last,” it’s hard not to hear, “Hang in there, your peak is coming in a few decades.”

But like most things I can’t immediately dismiss, I sat with it. Here’s what I learned about a bur oak: it grows slowly. Really slow. The kind of slow that doesn’t impress anyone at first. It puts its energy into roots before you ever see much above ground. It’s sturdy, weathered, not particularly flashy, but over time, it becomes the kind of tree people build their sense of direction around.

Which is where I started to get a little uncomfortable… because I could see the resemblance.
Not in some heroic, “gather round, children” kind of way. More in the “this takes longer than I’d like and doesn’t always look like much while it’s happening” kind of way.

If I’m honest, most of what I write isn’t some polished, strategic plan. It’s me thinking out loud, sometimes with better punctuation. Sometimes it connects right away. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it just… sits there until it finds the right moment in someone else’s life.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the bur oak thing isn’t about me being anything special.
Maybe it’s just a reminder that not all growth is fast, obvious, or immediately appreciated.
Slow roots instead of quick wins. A little weathered. Occasionally stubborn. Trying to hold both strength and softness without snapping in half.

Which, now that I think about it, is probably why Into the Woods always stuck with me.
Back when I was principal at St. Francis of Assisi, we had already run the full Disney musical circuit into the ground. We needed something different—maybe even a little desperate.

Into the Woods, it was different! Too many characters. Too many storylines. Twists you didn’t see coming. Moments that didn’t resolve cleanly. At times, it felt chaotic. At times, it felt a little too real…which might explain why I loved it. Once again, if I am being honest, that’s not just a musical, that’s my life.  It’s not far off from my writing either.

A lot is going on. A few unexpected turns. Occasionally hard to follow. Somewhere in all of it, something meaningful is trying to take shape.

Here’s the thing about Into the Woods: you’re not meant to stay there. You go into the woods to wrestle with things. To sort through the noise. To face what’s complicated and unclear. To get a little lost. Eventually, you’re supposed to come out.

So yeah—maybe I’ve been in the forest for a bit. Naming the trees. Overanalyzing the trees.
Apparently, becoming one of the trees (a Bur Oak!). But I can see the forest for the trees now.

I think I’m about ready to leave the tree analogies to the park rangers… step out of the woods… and keep moving toward the Kingdom. No promises, I won’t stop and overthink a shrub or two on the way. Like a classic Monty Python film, I like me some good shrubbery! 

The Tree, the Sapling, and the Hammock: Why Timing is Everything

Yesterday I wondered out loud in blog format:
Which version of me would people actually want in their lives?  The high-energy guy was easier to like, but the man I am now is a whole lot more capable of staying present. Younger me was built for attention; current me is built for connection.

After sharing some of these thoughts, a friend reached out with a perspective that really made me think. She said: "God changes the tune in our life every once in a while... Knowledge and wisdom change our perceptions of ourselves, and yes, we can grow new branches, but aren’t we the same tree? I owe so much to the foundation I created years ago."

I love that image of the tree. It forced me to look at my "younger self" with a little more grace. I wouldn’t trade my roots for anything, even the seasons where they were shallow and still finding their way. Those roots are the reason I'm standing today.  I also think growth changes the tree's purpose. Same roots, sure—but not the same reach. Not the same capacity to be there for someone else.

If I’m honest, younger me had the energy, but I’m not sure he had the depth to be someone you can actually lean on? That takes time. Think about it: Nobody ties a hammock to a sapling. You don’t look for shelter under a twig, and you don’t pitch a tent against something that hasn’t weathered a few storms. That kind of comfort—the kind where people can actually rest, trust, and stay a while—only comes from roots that have gone deep and a trunk that has thickened through the seasons. Boy, has my trunk thickened over the years!

Maybe some people were in our lives when we were still saplings, and that’s exactly what they were meant for—they helped us grow. Maybe others come along later, when we finally have a little more shade to offer than just a "good time."

I know I am not as quick as I once was. I might not be as "impressive" at first glance as the guy who used to command the room.  I’d like to think I’m something better now. I’m more intentional. More real. Maybe life doesn’t just bring people into our paths randomly. It may bring them back around when we finally have the capacity to meet them properly. If given the choice, I’d rather be the tree someone can build a friendship under than just a face they remember meeting once. I’m finally the version of myself that’s worth getting to know. And for the first time, I think I have enough shade for everyone.

What about you? Do you miss your "sapling" days, or are you finally enjoying the shade of the person you’ve become?

 

Right Person, Wrong Time… or Right Time, Different Me?

I’ve been having one of those internal debates again—the kind that usually ends up becoming a blog, whether I planned it or not.

It started simply enough. In my line of work, I meet a lot of people every week. Recently, around the time of First Communion, I met some grandparents I’d somehow never crossed paths with before. At the same time, I’ve been a little less rigid about who I accept on social media, which has opened the door to friends of friends, siblings of friends, and even people I technically knew years ago but never really took the time to get to know.

If I’m being honest, that part sits with me. Because there are people, good people, I probably should’ve been more open to back in high school or college. Not because anything went wrong… but because nothing really went anywhere. The conversations stayed shallow. The connection never had a chance to become anything more.

That’s on me.  I’ve grown since then. Slowed down a bit. Softened in the right ways. Learned how to actually see people instead of just passing through moments with them. Which is where the debate kicks in.

There’s a song by Toby Keith that always makes me smile when this thought hits: “I ain’t as good as I once was… I got a few years on me now.”

And yeah… that sucks. The truth is, there are two very different versions of me. There’s the younger me—carefree, bold, maybe a little louder than necessary. Potential to be the life of the party. Quick on my feet. Always moving. The kind of guy who could walk into a room and make an impression.

Then there’s the version of me now. Not as fast. Not as light. A few more miles on the tires. But wiser. More grounded. A lot more aware of what actually matters. A softer soul. A better listener. The kind of man who doesn’t just meet people, but has the capacity to care about them.

So here’s the question I keep circling: Which version of me would people actually want in their lives?

The fun, high-energy version? Or the slower, steadier, more intentional one? At first glance, it feels like the younger version had the advantage. He was easier to like. Easier to be around. Probably more memorable in the moment.

But the more I sit with it, the more I think that version of me was built for attention… not necessarily for connection. Attention is easy to win. Connection takes something else entirely.

The man I was back then might’ve filled a room. But I’m not sure he could’ve built something that lasted in it. The man I am now? He’s not trying to impress anyone. But he’s a whole lot more capable of showing up, staying present, and actually investing in the people in front of him. That changes everything.

So maybe the real answer is this: It’s not that I missed out on people back then. It’s that I wasn’t ready for them—and maybe they weren’t ready for me. If those connections had started earlier, there’s a good chance they would’ve stayed exactly where they began—on the surface.

Now, there’s depth available. Not because the people are different… but because I am. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to work. Maybe life doesn’t just bring people into our path randomly. It may bring them back around when we finally have the capacity to meet them properly.

So no—I’m probably not as quick as I once was. Not as sharp. Not as impressive at first glance. I’d like to think I’m something better now. More intentional. More present. More real.

If given the choice, I think I’d rather be the kind of person someone can build a friendship with… than just someone they remember meeting once. In the end, it’s not about who would’ve liked me more back then. It’s about who I’m capable of being for people now.

And that version of me? He’s finally worth getting to know.

The Songs I Don’t Skip

There are songs I can put on repeat… all day long. Not just background noise—companions. I’ve tried to figure out what it is. Is it the melody? The lyrics? Some invisible algorithm that knows me better than I know myself?

But the more I listen… the more I think it’s something else. Because none of these songs are loud. None of them are trying to impress me. They just… tell the truth.

Take Your Time doesn’t rush—it lingers.
Just Once doesn’t shout—it sighs.
Landslide doesn’t push—it reflects.
Time in a Bottle doesn’t pretend—it aches. Somewhere in between, they all whisper the same thing: You feel this too, don’t you?

There’s love in these songs. But not the easy kind. It’s the kind that almost worked. The kind that still lingers. The kind you’d fix… if you just had one more chance. Maybe the kind where, just for a moment, everything slows down enough to feel right, like in Take Your Time, and you realize not everything needs to be rushed to be real.

There’s time in these songs, too. Not measured in minutes—but in moments you wish you could hold onto a little longer. Then there’s that thread running through all of them— a quiet, stubborn hope.

Even in Something’s Always Wrong… even in Barely Breathing… there’s still something that refuses to let go. Maybe that’s why they stay on repeat. Because they don’t just sound good. They understand something.

About getting older. About loving imperfectly. About realizing that life didn’t turn out exactly how you planned… and still finding yourself whispering along with What a Wonderful World anyway.

I used to think I was choosing these songs. Now I’m not so sure. I think they’ve been choosing me.

My whole playlist on repeat would include:

Just Once by James Ingram

Take Your Time by Sam Hunt

Get Closer by Seals & Crofts

Landslide by Stevie Nicks (Fleetwood Mac)

Time In a Bottle and I Have to Say I Love You in a Song by Jim Croce

Crystal Ball by Tommy Shaw (Styx)

Higher by Damn Yankees

Beautiful Crazy by Luke Combs

What A Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong

Lady by Lionel Richie/Kenny Rogers

Somethings Always Wrong by Toad the Wet Sprocket

Waiting for a Star to Fall by Boy Meets Girl

Barely Breathing by Duncan Sheik

Time by Hootie & the Blowfish

Come Over by Kenny Chesney

Feeling Good by Michael Buble

There's a Place In the World for a Gambler by Dan Fogelberg

Here & Now by Luther Vandross

“You Can’t Change The People Around You — But You Can Change The People Around You”

 You can’t change the people around you. But you can change the people around you.

At first glance, that sounds like something gone wrong on the keyboard. But sit with it for a second—it’s actually where a lot of growth—and a lot of peace—begins.

Yesterday, I found myself wrestling with a different idea—the kind of advice we hear all the time: “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

If I’m being honest, I don’t think that holds up. Because if we were already everything we’re meant to be, there’d be no need to grow, to stretch, to become more.

But somewhere in the middle of that tension, a different message kept showing up. Maybe it was just good timing… or maybe it was the Sirius XM Billy Joel station finding its way back into rotation. Either way, the words stuck: “I love you just the way you are… don’t go changing to try and please me…” — Billy Joel

And that hits differently. It’s not saying, “Stay exactly as you are forever.” It’s saying, “You don’t have to perform to be valued.” Maybe that’s the balance we’re actually looking for. We’re not called to stay the same. But we’re also not called to change just to fit someone else’s expectations.

We all have people in our lives we wish we could “adjust” a little. Make them kinder. More patient. More understanding. And if we’re honest, we’ve probably spent more time than we’d like to admit trying to do just that.

But here’s the truth we run into eventually: people only change when they decide to. Not when we push harder. Not when we explain better. Not when we carry the weight for them.

That can be frustrating, but it’s also freeing. While you can’t change someone’s heart, you can take a closer look at who you’re walking alongside.

It can get tricky. Changing the people around you doesn’t mean building a circle of “yes people” who agree with everything you say. That’s not growth—that’s comfort. And too much comfort can quietly make you smaller, not better. At the same time, constantly surrounding yourself with tension and conflict doesn’t make you stronger either. It just wears you down.

So what are we actually looking for? Not just peace. Not just challenge. But the right people.

People who encourage you and challenge you. People who support you and sharpen you.
People who tell you the truth—even when it’s uncomfortable—but do it with care, not ego.

Because “iron sharpening iron” only works when both sides are willing. Otherwise, it’s just friction without growth.

Shared values matter too. You don’t need everyone to think exactly like you, but if you don’t stand on any common ground—faith, integrity, purpose—you’re not building each other up. You’re just pulling in different directions.

Even Jesus didn’t surround Himself with perfect people—but He did surround Himself with people who were willing. Willing to walk, to learn, to grow.

Sometimes the most honest thing you can do isn’t to fix a relationship—it’s to recognize what it is, and what it isn’t.

Not every door needs to be slammed. But not every door needs to stay wide open either.

Before we start redrawing the circle around us, there’s one more question worth asking: What kind of person am I within the circle I already have? Am I someone who encourages growth—or avoids hard conversations? Do I sharpen others—or just expect to be sharpened? Am I bringing the kind of honesty, faith, and integrity I’m hoping to receive?

This isn’t just about choosing better people. It’s about being one. We don’t just surround ourselves with influence— we are influence.

So no—you can’t change the people around you. But you can choose people who won’t let you stay the same… and commit to being someone who does the same for them.

In the end, you don’t become what you intend—you become what you surround yourself with… and what you choose to bring into it.

Perfectly Imperfect, Fully Covered

Somewhere along the way, a lot of us were told the same thing: “You’re perfect just the way you are.” It sounds good. It feels good. It fits nicely on a coffee mug or a motivational poster. But let’s be real for a second… We’re not. Not even close.

We’re imperfect people—flawed, inconsistent, sometimes selfish, sometimes stubborn, sometimes spectacularly wrong. No amount of positive affirmations will rewrite that truth.

You know what, that’s not such bad news. That’s life in the Big Eight (Twelve, SEC, or whatever conference we are in this week!). Here’s a deeper truth most people skip over: we were designed this way. Not as a mistake. Not as an oversight; with intentionality. There is something powerful about recognizing your own imperfections. It humbles you. It grounds you. It keeps you from walking around like you’ve got it all figured out, because we don’t. None of us does. 

That’s exactly where grace steps in. Grace doesn’t show up because you earned it. Grace shows up because you couldn’t. That’s what makes it a gift. Not a paycheck. Not a reward. A gift. The kind you didn’t deserve but received anyway.

And if you’ve ever really needed grace, like you really needed it, you understand how powerful that is. It changes how you see yourself. It changes how you see other people. You become a little less quick to judge, a little more willing to forgive, a little more aware that everyone around you is fighting battles you can’t see.

Grace softens the edges. It reminds you that being imperfect doesn’t disqualify you—it positions you to receive something greater. There’s a line from Matt Maher that hits this square on the nose: “Your grace is enough for me.”

Simple. Direct. No loopholes. Enough. Not barely enough. Not just scraping by. Enough.

If you stop and think about it, Grace has a cost. It always has. Just like the freedom we enjoy in this country wasn’t free. It was paid for with sacrifice, with courage, with blood (stretched out on the cross). Grace works the same way. It’s freely given to us, but it wasn’t free.

Realizing this, should do two things:
It should humble you.
It should wake you up.
When you realize what something truly costs, you stop taking it for granted. You stop treating it casually. You start living as it matters. So no, you’re not perfect. You never were. You never will be. 

In hindsight, maybe the goal was never perfection in the first place. Maybe the goal was awareness. Acceptance and learning to live in the space where grace meets imperfection. That’s where growth happens. That’s where freedom lives. That’s where you finally understand: You don’t have to be perfect to be covered.      

The Three Hardest Things to Say

 The Three Hardest Things to Say

There are three phrases that trip up just about every human being on the planet.

Two of them are deeply emotional, soul-level admissions that require humility, vulnerability, and a willingness to admit you’re not the center of the universe. I am sorry. I need help and the third one? Is Worcestershire.
Honestly… it might be the hardest of the three. Let’s break this down.

1. “I’m Sorry.”

This one should be simple.

Two words. That’s it. Not a thesis. Not a courtroom defense. Not a carefully crafted explanation of why you were technically right but emotionally misunderstood.

Just: “I’m sorry.” But no… we dress it up.

“I’m sorry if you felt that way.”
“I’m sorry but you also…”
“I’m sorry you misunderstood me…”

Congratulations. You just turned an apology into a TED Talk nobody asked for. A real apology costs something. It requires you to lay down your pride, admit you were wrong, and resist the overwhelming urge to explain yourself into innocence. Let’s be honest—most of us would rather attempt to pronounce Worcestershire on the first try than do that.

2. “I Need Help.”

Now we’re getting into dangerous territory. Because saying “I need help” means admitting you don’t have it all together. And if there’s one thing we love as people, it’s pretending we’ve got everything under control. We will Google it. YouTube it. Duct tape it. Pray over it. Ignore it.

Anything—anything—but look another human in the eye and say, “I can’t do this alone.” Because that feels like weakness. Here’s the twist: it’s actually one of the strongest things you can say. Nobody builds anything meaningful alone. Not families. Not careers. Not faith. Not a halfway decent IKEA bookshelf. (If you’ve ever put one of those together without help, you’re either lying or you’re a wizard.)

3. “Worcestershire”

Ah yes. The final boss. No one says it with confidence. No one. You approach it like a word puzzle designed by a bored British linguist: “Wore…chest…er…shire…shur…sauce?”

By the time you’re done, you’ve lost the room, your credibility, and possibly your appetite. So we cheat. We point at the bottle. We say, “pass that sauce.” We avoid it entirely and just nod like we’re in on the joke. But just when you thought nobody could make it more confusing… enter the internet.

Somewhere deep in Texas, a Facebook cooking personality known as Pepper Belly Pete looked at that bottle and basically said, “You know what? We’re not doing this today.”

And instead of butchering it like the rest of us… He reinvented it. “Worshyoursister Sauce.”

Clean. Confident. Slightly aggressive. Memorable. If we’re being honest, it’s about as accurate as anything else we’ve been saying our whole lives. At some point, you’ve got to admire the man. While the rest of us are over here mumbling through syllables like we’re defusing a bomb, he just planted a flag and moved on with dinner. And here’s the funny part… Nobody’s relationship falls apart because you butchered Worcestershire. No one’s life derails because you stumbled over a sauce.

But the other two? Those matter. A lot!

It’s funny how the hardest things to say aren’t the longest words or the most complicated phrases. They’re the simplest.

“I’m sorry.”
“I need help.”

Those are the ones that repair relationships. Those are the ones that build connection. Those are the ones that remind us we’re human. Perhaps that’s the point. We struggle with them, not because they’re difficult to say… because they require us to be honest.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go confidently mispronounce Worcestershire in public like the rest of us. Better yet… I’ll just ask someone to pass the Worshyoursister.