Family – Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership

You’re Not Choosing Your Whole Life This Year – A Graduation Message

Graduation has a way of making ordinary questions feel enormous.

What are you going to do next? Where are you going to school? What trade are you going into? Where are you going to work? What are you going to do with your life?

That last question is the one that sneaks into our subconscious. It turns our celebration into a test. It makes a young person feel like their next decision carries the weight of the next fifty years.

Trust me. It doesn’t.

You’re not choosing your whole life this year. You’re choosing the next step.

That next step still deserves careful thought. Some choices will open doors; others will close them…and some will make the road harder than it needs to be.

But don’t hand this one decision more power than it deserves.

Your first job isn’t a life sentence. Your major isn’t your permanent identity. Your first trade, internship, military assignment, certification, apprenticeship, or business idea marks where the road begins, not where it ends.

Most lives travel roads we couldn’t have mapped in advance. One small opportunity today may connect you to a person who changes your direction entirely. One ordinary job may teach you something that becomes useful ten years later. A disappointment may save you from staying on the wrong road for too long.

You may move around. You might take a job that makes sense now and later discover it doesn’t fit who you are or what your life requires. Your priorities will change. The economy will change. A job can be a great opportunity, but it is rarely a lifetime guarantee.

Employers may invest in you when you serve their needs and (fairly or unfairly) move on when they believe you no longer do. Doors may close for reasons having little to do with your effort or character. That doesn’t mean you failed. It means you’re living in a world that keeps moving. Knowing that can help you walk into each opportunity with your eyes open.

Character, hard work, and skills all carry weight, but many opportunities come through people. The people who trust you, teach you, recommend you, challenge you, and remember how you treated them may influence your future in ways no resume ever could.

Build your life on something stronger than the assumption that one company, one industry, one credential, or one carefully written plan will carry you safely from here to retirement.

Learn how to add value. That phrase sounds like a business platitude, but strip away the jargon and it’s the oldest human question. Can people count on you for something real?

Can you solve a problem? Can you make something better? Can you be trusted with responsibility? Can you communicate clearly? Can you tell the truth when it would be easier to hide? Can you learn something new without treating the need to learn as an insult?

Can you help the people around you succeed? Can you walk into a messy situation and leave it better than you found it?

People who can do these things will usually find a way forward. Maybe not on the exact timeline they imagined. But useful, trustworthy, curious, steady people tend to create options for themselves over time.

Graduates hear a lot about jobs, majors, trades, degrees, salaries, and careers. All are serious things, and they deserve real thought. It’s good to learn skills. It’s good to earn your living and eventually support a family if that becomes part of your life. It’s good to contribute useful work to the world.

But your career isn’t your whole life.

A great resume with a lonely heart is still a lonely life. A strong paycheck with shallow relationships won’t feel as rich as you think it will.

A respected title can’t sit with you at the kitchen table. It won’t laugh with you around a campfire. It can’t pray for you, forgive you, challenge you, remember old stories with you, or show up when things are going wrong.

Much of your deepest joy will come from the relationships you cultivate. The people you love. The people who love you. The friends who walk with you. The family you stay connected to. The conversations you remember years later. The long drives. The late night talks.

The unexpected kindness. The forgiveness given and received.

By the time you graduate, you may already know some of the people who will still be part of your life fifty years from now. You won’t know which ones yet. Some will drift away. Some will surprise you and stay.

And after graduation, you’ll meet more. Pay attention. One may become your spouse. Some will teach you. Some will test you. Some will need your help. Some may help save you from yourself.

The world will ask what you do. But life will eventually ask better questions.

Who do you love? Who can count on you? Who tells you the truth? Who do you encourage? Who do you forgive? Who have you helped carry a burden they couldn’t carry alone? What are you doing with your soul?

These questions will stay with you long after the name of your first employer has faded into the background.

Choose the school, the job, the trade, the service path, or the next assignment with as much wisdom as you can gather. Ask questions. Do research. Talk to people who have walked farther down the road.

Listen to your parents, even when you think they don’t fully understand the world you’re entering. They may not understand every tool or pressure you face, but they know more than you think about disappointment, responsibility, sacrifice, and love.

Then move.

Do the work in front of you. Show up on time (which is 15 minutes early). Tell the truth. Be easy to trust. Learn the tools. Respect the people. Ask better questions. Pay attention to what gives you energy and what drains it. Notice where your abilities meet someone else’s needs. Be willing to change direction without turning that change into a personal crisis.

A wise life is rarely built from one perfect decision made at eighteen or twenty-two. It’s built from thousands of smaller decisions made over time. Some will be mistakes and that’s part of the deal.

The goal isn’t to live without mistakes. It’s to tell the truth when they happen, learn what they have to teach, repair what you can, and keep walking with a little more knowledge than before.

Graduation is worth celebrating. You finished something difficult, and finishing should be honored. Enjoy the moment. Thank the people who helped you get here.

Then take a deep breath.

You don’t have to solve your whole life before the celebration is over. You won’t know every turn, every job, every friendship, every disappointment, or every joy waiting along the way.

You have enough to take the next step with care, humility, gratitude, and hope, trusting that life will teach you more as you walk.

Photo by Carson Vara on Unsplash

Pursuing Tranquility of Order

Peace is often defined as the absence of something.

The absence of conflict. The absence of noise. The absence of pressure. The absence of the next problem.

But peace is less about absence and more about order.

I recently heard peace described as tranquility of order, a phrase with roots going back to Augustine. In City of God, he wrote that “the peace of all things is the tranquility of order.”

This doesn’t suggest that peace only arrives when every problem has been solved, every relationship has been repaired, every task has been completed, and every loose end has been tied off.

That version of peace is impossible to sustain.

Life keeps moving. There’s always another hurdle to clear, another obstacle to navigate, another decision to make, another issue waiting around the corner. Just when we think things are finally settling down, something changes.

The pursuit of peace isn’t the pursuit of a trouble-free life.

It’s the pursuit of a rightly ordered life.

Priorities in the right order. Relationships in the right order. Responsibilities in the right order. Ambition in the right order. Rest in the right order. Attention in the right order.

That kind of peace doesn’t just happen to us.

We create it when we decide what deserves our attention and what doesn’t.

We create it when we stop letting every urgent thing pretend to be the most important thing.

We create it when we clean up a workspace, finish a lingering obligation, repair a strained conversation, or finally admit that something has been taking up more room in our life than it deserves.

We create it when we make the next good decision, even when everything around us is still imperfect.

I’ve always found real satisfaction in this kind of work. A confused or stalled project. A messy process. A cluttered schedule. A team that needs direction. A home project waiting for the right next step. A piece of land slowly shaped into something useful and beautiful.

There’s something deeply rewarding about creating enough order for people to breathe again.

That doesn’t mean controlling everything. In fact, the best kind of order often requires us to hold things loosely, leaving room for the unexpected, and trusting that people, plans, and possibilities are better tended than controlled.

Order, at its best, creates room for life.

It clears enough space for thought. It creates enough structure for trust to build. It gives people enough confidence to move. It helps us see what belongs, what doesn’t, and what needs attention next.

And then, occasionally, we experience it.

A quiet morning. A settled room. A finished project. A table full of people we love. A trail cleared through the woods. A plan that starts to come together. A day where the pieces seem to fit, even if only for a while.

Those moments may not last forever, but they remind us what we’re aiming for.

Pursuing tranquility of order is the steady work of arranging our lives around what is good, true, useful, loving, and worth carrying.

When life feels too overwhelming to arrange all at once, we can start small. The next right step, the next honest action. The next one thing that brings even a corner of our life back into order.

We won’t always get it right.

There will always be disruptions. There will always be pressure. There will always be something that knocks our papers off the desk just after we get them stacked.

But we can keep returning to order.

We can return to our priorities. We can return to our responsibilities. We can return to the people we love. We can return to the work that has been entrusted to us. We can return to the kind of person we’re trying to be.

Peace isn’t found by escaping the noise.

It’s built, little by little, when we keep putting the most important things back where they belong.

Photo by AO NURA on Unsplash – There’s more to this peaceful image than it appears. Growing. Cutting. Drying. Raking. Baling. Each step in its right order. Each making the next possible, leading to this image. The work isn’t finished. Those bales still need to be moved and stored.

But we can enjoy this. The proper order. A moment of tranquility.

For Uncle Lou

Uncle Lou lived a life that, on paper, sounds larger than life.

He was a thoracic surgeon who quite literally saved lives on a regular basis. He could have filled every family gathering with stories of operating rooms, impossible cases, and professional milestones. But that’s not the way Uncle Lou did things.

Uncle Lou was far more interested in our stories than his own. He wanted to know what we were learning, what we were building, what we were excited about. He led with curiosity and humility when he had every reason to lead with his own accomplishments.

He was a craftsman in the truest sense of the word. One of his hobbies, passion really, was working in his woodshop. His healing hands created fine wood furniture that he mostly gave away to family and friends. We are blessed to have a miniature grandfather clock that he made for us, and a wooden inlaid box that sits on my nightstand.

He was an excellent golfer. I wasn’t good enough to golf in his circle, although I think he may have caught video of me hitting a tee shot backwards once (that’s a story for another time).

I learned how to play a mean air trombone from Uncle Lou. A skill he showed off many times.

Did I mention that he was an avid hiker? His retiree group, the Kaiser Retired Association of Physicians (KRAP) hiked all over the greater San Diego area. It’s clear that the KRAP group is filled with like-minded super talented, but humble, individuals who get a well-earned kick out of the acronym for their group.

His curiosity never retired. Even as his body slowed in recent years, his mind never did. I remember recent conversations with him about computers, AI technology, and rockets. He approached new ideas the same way he approached everything else…with interest, openness, and the quiet confidence of a lifelong learner. I suspect he was still reading about something new right up until the end.

As I was putting the finishing touches on this post, I realized I had left out one more facet of Uncle Lou’s amazing life. He was also a pilot. He flew his plane far and wide, often to sample the cuisine at a distant airport diner, but always for the simple joy of seeing the world from above. It seems perfectly fitting for someone so curious and alive to experience life from every vantage point. A true Renaissance man if ever I knew one.

Uncle Lou’s legacy isn’t only in the lives he saved, the furniture he built, the miles he hiked, the miles he flew, or the videos he recorded of family moments. He always made you feel you were worthy of his full attention.

Uncle Lou reminds us that a life of great achievement shines even brighter when it’s paired with humility, curiosity, and genuine interest in others.

I’ll miss his wry grin, and that twinkle in his eye that let you know he was a very serious person who didn’t take himself too seriously.

Godspeed, Uncle Lou.

My Friend, Paul

When I heard that my friend Paul was in the hospital and things weren’t looking good, I can’t say I was shocked. When he passed away a few days later, what stayed with me most was the loss of everything he still had ahead of him.

Paul had been in a self-destructive pattern for a while. I recognized it early, having seen something similar play out in my own family years before. Still, knowing the path doesn’t make the ending any easier.

Paul was my brother’s best friend since high school. More than that really…another brother. Like brothers often do, they didn’t agree on everything, but they agreed they were in it together, and that wasn’t going to change.

I first met Paul when he was probably a sophomore or junior in high school. I was home visiting from my freshman year in college. I remember that mullet like it was yesterday. Business up front, party in the back. He wore it with absolute confidence, as if it were the only reasonable hairstyle.

He was quick-witted and cocky, but in a good way. Sure of himself, without yet knowing what his future held. Which, in hindsight, makes him a lot like the rest of us at almost any age.

Paul had a way of knowing everyone. If he didn’t already know you, he would by the end of the day. His personality filled whatever space he walked into. He remembered names after meeting someone once, a gift I’ve always envied. He asked questions, was genuinely curious about people, and he made everyone feel seen. Paul appreciated people, and people felt that.

He was always ready to dive into big ideas and big projects. He liked to say, “I don’t have a stop sign on my chest.” While others talked about racing off-road “someday,” Paul made it real. With my brother and a group of equally committed friends, he jumped headfirst into building and racing a Class 10 buggy.

What did Paul know about off-road fabrication or racing at speed in the desert? Not much. That didn’t stop him. He’d figure it out along the way. Thursday nights in his garage turned into a ritual. Fabricating, wrenching, laughing, getting ready. Lots of Saturdays were spent in the desert testing and tuning, trying to make the car race ready.

My brother was his co-driver, mentor, and probably the unofficial crew chief. I don’t know how many races they finished, maybe one or two, but they often led the first lap and looked great until something small failed. A cheap part. A loose wire. A power steering pump. One tiny thing ending the day.

They were frustrated, but they didn’t quit. Eventually the Class 10 car gave way to a Class 8 truck. Everything got bigger. More horsepower, bigger suspension, more parts, higher speeds. More complexity. More commitment. More Thursdays. More Saturdays. More races.

Paul used to joke that the only things standing between him and winning were experience, capability, and funding. All probably true. Where most people would see that as a reason to stop, Paul saw it as part of the adventure. He believed he’d learn as he went, and he’d have fun doing it.

I was lucky to pit for Paul at a few of his races. But where I really got to see him shine was pitting for Team Honda in Baja and Team Kawasaki in Nevada. I learned that Paul knew the words to every Metallica song, and nearly every other song that came on the radio…rap, country, classic rock. He knew them all.

One Nevada race stands out. We were assigned the first pit of the day, then relocated to be the final pit later the same day. It’s always fun to be able to do two pits in the same day.

We scouted the location the day before. A desolate stretch of desert about 50 miles from the start. We rolled out early from our little motel the next morning in the dark to get set up.

We thought it would be cool to have an official Kawasaki awning over the spot where the bikes would stop for gas and service. It looked great. We forgot one detail. Securing that awning.

As the first rider, a Kawasaki (of course), came rolling in, Paul had the fuel dump can ready. We could fill a tank in about ten seconds. Everything was smooth. Then the desert wind kicked up, and the awning took off, cartwheeling across the landscape in spectacular fashion right as fueling began.

There was nothing to do but keep going. Rider one laughed as he pulled out. Did I mention there was film crew there? They laughed. We laughed. Thirty seconds later, rider two came in and out just as fast.

When we finally went to retrieve the awning that had rolled about a half mile away, we expected wreckage. Instead, it was mostly fine. Scratched, dusty, but intact. At the final pit of the day, we remembered to tie it down.

When I think of Paul, that’s what comes to mind. The sprinkling of chaos. The laughter. The way nothing ever quite went according to plan, and how little that bothered him or any of us. We were having fun together and that’s what mattered.

I’ll miss Paul’s infectious grin, his laugh, and his refusal to wait for perfect conditions. He left too early. But he left us with stories, friendships, and a reminder that life isn’t meant to be watched from the sidelines.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Photo – a selfie back when selfies were taken with film cameras, at least 30 years ago. Three knuckleheads driving to the desert way too early. That’s my brother and I on the left and my brother’s other brother, Paul, on the right. We’ll miss you, Paul.

Words Around Christmas

December turns our words to gold,
Tidings, joy, and peace foretold.
Lights like stars along our eaves,
Hope returns on winter’s leaves.

Forgotten words begin to rise,
Childlike wonder in our eyes.
Tinsel, sleigh bells, candle-glow,
Songs of Christmas we all know.

Jingle bells and sleighs take flight,
Rudolph glows through frosted night.
Elves and workshops, North Pole cheer,
Santa’s laughter draws us near.

Snickerdoodles and mulling spice,
Our kitchen’s warmth feels soft and nice.
Welch cakes, pasties, stories told,
Trimmings bright against the cold.

Village lights and carols ring,
Wishes whispered, children sing.
Holly, ornaments, and good cheer
Mark the turning of the year.

Laughter spills from room to room,
Chasing winter’s early gloom.
A gift is only paper bright
Till love folds edges soft and tight.

Traditions bloom in winter air
When generations gather there.
Past and present intertwined,
Stories passed from heart to mind.

Nutcrackers guard, reindeer in flight,
Stockings, holly, silent night.
Sacred stillness gently kept,
In the hours while we slept.

Speak with warmth in every line,
Merry heart and joy divine.
Let kindness shape the songs we sing,
for Christ is born, our promised King.

Let peace on earth be more than art,
let joy take root in every heart.
Let words become the lives we live,
hope to hold, and grace we give.

For all these phrases loved and dear
return to us but once a year.
They point us toward God’s Word,
the sweetest story ever heard.

Love made its dwelling in the hay,
a Child who gave the world its way.
We speak these golden words because
He came to live His love through us.

Photo by Rafał Danhoffer on Unsplash

Always Improve Your Position

A few days ago, I was listening to Jocko Willink speak about the quiet discipline behind Brazilian jiu-jitsu. I’m not a jiu-jitsu person, but one idea landed for me. It’s a truth I already knew but had never heard spoken so simply:

Always improve your position.

In jiu-jitsu, nothing happens all at once. A submission arrives like lightning, but only to the untrained eye. What looks like a sudden victory is really the final expression of dozens of subtle movements that came before it. A hip shifts. A grip tightens. An elbow gains an inch of space. Most of these moves go unnoticed. Each small adjustment creates a little more room, a little more leverage, a little more advantage.

I’ve always believed real progress works this way. It’s rarely dramatic. It’s quiet and patient. The accumulated effect of showing up, learning something new, adding a bit more care, and preparing a little more than required.

Breakthroughs rarely come from a single moment of inspiration. They come from the quiet work no one sees. The thoughtful practice that sharpens your skills, the trust built over months of ordinary conversations, the time spent learning before making a decision. When opportunity arrives, it looks sudden to others. To you, it feels like the next logical step.

This truth showed up clearly for me after a derecho tore through our property on Father’s Day weekend a few years ago. Ninety-mile-per-hour winds knocked down at least thirty trees across multiple acres. When I walked our land the next morning, everything felt broken and overwhelming. The cleanup looked like a project that would take months. I didn’t have months to devote to it.

But I did have mornings. So, I decided to work for an hour and a half every day before work. I cleared a small section each morning. It was incredibly slow. I dragged branches, cut trunks, chipped debris, split firewood, and made countless trips to our local dump. Small steps, small progress, one morning at a time.

Over the course of a year (maybe more), I worked my way across our entire property. Along the way, I cut in new hiking trails and removed a number of unhealthy trees. What started as a mess became a healthier stand of trees and a network of paths that look like they’ve been here forever.

Out of destruction came a daily habit that changed my life. I still work outside every morning. Clearing brush, trimming trees, expanding trails, building chicken coops, restoring a rustic barn. All in small ninety-minute bites. It’s like a time-lapse video created through countless quiet mornings of small improvements.

The pattern I saw on my land is exactly what Jocko described on the mat. I didn’t need a grand plan or a burst of superhuman effort. I needed to improve my position every day, just by a little.

Improve your position today, even by an inch, and tomorrow becomes easier. Improve it again tomorrow, and the day after that reveals options that didn’t exist before. You don’t need surges of motivation or dramatic reinvention. You only need the willingness to keep moving, always improving.

Careers grow this way. Trust grows this way. Faith deepens this way. Families strengthen this way.

Progress won’t always be linear. Some days distractions will pull us off course, or setbacks will undo work we thought was finished. All of this is part of the journey. Even then, the way forward still comes through small steps. Imperfect, uneven, but the work of always improving our position remains the same.

We improve our position slowly, almost without noticing. That’s enough. Tomorrow, we’ll improve again. Then one day, we’ll find ourselves able to take a step that would have felt impossible a year ago.

Focus on the next inch. The miles will take care of themselves.

Photo by Walter Martin on Unsplash – a great rendition of my early morning work environment for at least a year.

A Parenting Prayer

Parenting is one of the clearest places where faith meets daily life. It calls us to humility, patience, courage, generosity, and the kind of love that stretches us far beyond what we believed we could give.

It invites us to trust God with the people most precious to us, even when the path ahead is uncertain and far beyond our view.

The prayer below is one I’ve been working on for a while. It’s a prayer for parents at every stage of life…those just beginning, and those watching their grown children take their first steps into adulthood. It’s also for those whose children are becoming parents and carrying this calling into a new generation.

It is a reminder that God accompanies us in the noise and the silence, the ordinary and the holy, the days that feel long and the years that pass so quickly.

May this prayer strengthen your heart and deepen your hope as you walk this sacred calling.

A Parenting Prayer

God, please grant me
The wisdom to guide my children with patience, clarity, and love
And the humility to grow alongside them as they grow.
Teach me to choose presence over hurry,
Trust over fear, and connection over control.

Give me the courage to admit when I am wrong
And the grace to show my children that learning never ends,
Not at 7, not at 17, not at 70.

Help me see the world through their eyes,
Eyes that understand wonder,
Eyes that welcome the new with unguarded joy.
Let their curiosity rekindle my own,
So our home becomes a place where questions are celebrated
And imagination roams freely.

Give me integrity in the quiet moments,
When my child is learning from what I do.
Give me a heart strong enough to support them
And gentle enough that they always feel safe coming to me.

Teach me to treasure the small things:
The bedtime stories,
The long drives,
The conversations over tacos,
The ordinary afternoons that turn into lifelong memories.
Remind me that these simple moments
Will matter far more than the schedules we keep
Or the outcomes we chase.

Loving God,
Free me from comparing my family to others.
You did not design my children to fit anyone’s timeline but Yours.
Help me trust the pace of their becoming
And see their strengths even when they are wrapped in struggle.

Guard me from chasing achievements that impress the world
But neglect the souls under my roof.
Let our home be defined by gratitude, peace, and laughter,
With the quiet confidence that love is our foundation.

Help me pass down what truly endures:
Character over perfection,
Kindness over victory,
Service over status,
Gratitude over entitlement.

May the stories I tell, the choices I make,
And the way I show up each day
Become part of the heritage my children carry forward.
Help me become an example worth following,
One who lives with faithfulness, honesty, and a willingness to learn.

Give me strength for the hard times
And calm for the anxious nights.
Give me a long view of parenting,
Seeing not just who my children are today
But who they are becoming by Your grace.

Teach me to listen more than I lecture,
To encourage more than I correct,
And to guide without stifling the person
You created them to be.

Grant me the courage to give responsibility as they mature
And the faith to let them walk their own path,
Even when that path stretches beyond my view.

Lord, may our home reflect Your kingdom,
A place of welcome, forgiveness, generosity, and joy.
Let my children feel seen, valued, and deeply loved,
Not for what they do, but for who they are.

I invite You into every step of this sacred calling.
Walk with me in the noise and the silence,
In the exhaustion and the celebration,
In the days that feel long
And the years that pass too quickly.

Grant me the peace that comes from Your eternal and infinite love,
Now and forever.

Amen.

Photo by Hu Chen on Unsplash

The Day We Visited the Taj Mahal and Never Saw It

There are certain destinations in the world that feel larger than life. The Taj Mahal is one of those places. For many travelers, seeing it with their own eyes is a once-in-a-lifetime moment.

We were finally there. We had made it to Agra. All that remained was to step inside the gates and witness the iconic white marble glowing in the sun.

Only one problem.

There was no sun. There was no white marble. There was no Taj Mahal.

There was only fog.

We woke that morning filled with hope. The rooftop restaurant gave us a commanding view of… absolutely nothing. We stared into a wall of haze, sipping coffee and laughing at the absurdity of our timing. Surely the fog would lift. Surely the Taj Mahal would reveal itself.

Our guide, Kuldeep, assured us everything would be fine. He had led more than 500 tours of the Taj Mahal. He knew everything there was to know about its history and its beauty. We boarded our bus, grabbing our special cloth bags with a picture of the Taj printed on them. These were designed to hold the single water bottle we were allowed to bring inside the property. And we set off with excitement.

Fog. All the way there. Fog in the parking lot. Fog at the security lines. Fog as we walked the long approach toward the main viewing area. Each time Kuldeep stopped to point out an “excellent vantage point,” we nodded with wide eyes, imagining the magnificent structure hidden somewhere in the mist.

We took photos pointing at the picture on our water bottle bags. That was the only Taj Mahal available to us from any vantage point.

As we walked toward the building, we eventually reached the outer wall and finally saw something. White marble appeared just a few feet above our heads. Then the stone vanished again into the haze. The grand dome. The sweeping arches. The delicate inlays. All shrouded in fog.

We were standing beside one of the wonders of the world and could only see a sliver of it.

Our group laughed so much that day. Not because we had traveled halfway around the world only to miss the view. We laughed because we were sharing something unforgettable and slightly ridiculous. We were experiencing a story that would last much longer than a postcard-perfect photograph.

Kuldeep shook his head with disbelief. In all his tours, he had never experienced this. He told us we were a very select group of visitors who could claim something few on Earth could say. We visited the Taj Mahal, but we have never actually seen it.

He was right. I still have never seen the Taj Mahal in person.

The destination was never the prize

You might think this would be a disappointment. But when I look back on that trip, the fog made everything richer.

The destination was never the prize. The people were.

We shared meals and conversations and inside jokes. We tried foods that were new to us. We navigated chaos and beauty side by side. We saw India’s contrasts and colors and kindness. We saw devotion expressed in temples and marketplaces. We saw how history and modern life can exist on top of each other without barriers.

The Taj Mahal is extraordinary. I would love to see it someday with clear skies and a rising sun. Yet I already have what I came for.

When I think about all the amazing places I have been blessed to visit, a pattern appears. I never say, “Remember when we saw that famous landmark.” I say things like:

– Remember how we got lost trying to find it?
– Remember the tiny restaurant we discovered afterward?
– Remember the guide who became a friend?
– Remember that amazing gelato place in the middle of nowhere?

I have my memory of that rooftop breakfast. I have the echo of laughter on the bus. I have the photos of my family and friends pointing to a water bottle bag as if it were the crown jewel of Indian architecture.

The world is full of wonders. But relationships are the wonders that stay with us.

The real bucket list

If someday I return to the Taj Mahal and finally see it, I’ll smile and take it in. But I know the picture etched into my heart is already complete. It’s filled with faces and voices and laughter. It has the beauty of our shared experience.

Checklists are fine for airplanes. But our lives deserve something better.

The best adventures can’t be captured by a camera or a perfect view. What lasts are the relationships made stronger by shared surprises, setbacks, and moments of wonder.

This story, fog and all, remains one of my favorites.

Photo by Mark Harpur on Unsplash showing the majestic beauty of the Taj without fog.

The photos below are mine showing what we actually saw. Unfortunately, the amazing water bottle bag photos are stored on a drive I can’t see…a little bit like that morning in Agra more than a decade ago.

59 Lessons at 59

I recently turned 59. Not the big 60 milestone but knocking on the door. In honor of this “almost-milestone” birthday, here are 59 lessons or truths I’ve picked up along the way that may be helpful for you:

Family is the greatest treasure. I’ve learned this from countless dinners, phone calls, and quiet moments of simply being together.
Love grows when you give it away.
Small kindnesses matter more than big speeches. Holding a door, writing a note, or showing up means more than most people will admit.
A campfire has a way of pulling people closer. Some of our best conversations happened with smoke in our face and stars overhead.
Walks in the woods teach patience. The trail never hurries, but it always leads you somewhere good, even if the trail leads back to where you started.
Listening is often better than speaking.
Start, even if you don’t know the finish line.
Forgiveness frees the forgiver.
Work hard, but not so hard you miss the laughter at the dinner table. That laughter is life fuel.
Friendships need tending like gardens.
A calm mind shapes a calm day. How you manage your thoughts sets the tone for how you live, not just how you lead.
Prayer steadies shaky ground.
Scars are inevitable but can become footholds.
Your children and grandchildren remember the times you kept your word. Integrity is how love earns trust over a lifetime.
Music can heal a weary spirit.
Laughter with grandchildren is holy ground. Even the silliest joke can create amazing memories.
Take pictures but also put your phone down.
The best conversations happen unplanned, often on the way to somewhere else.
God shows up in ordinary moments.
Start with what you have, not what you lack.
Be quick to encourage. A word of encouragement can feel like oxygen to someone gasping for air.
Time with your spouse is the best investment you’ll ever make.
A sunrise reminds us the story isn’t over.
Be generous with money, with time, and with grace.
Don’t underestimate a good meal shared…even a bad meal shared.
Patience is a form of love.
Read good books slowly. And read them aloud. I’ll never forget the nights of reading Harry Potter chapters to my kids, one voice carrying us all to another world.
Children teach us as much as we teach them.
A soft answer turns away wrath.
Slow down for sunsets.
Stay curious, even at 59.
Hold babies gently, but often.
Let go of what you can’t control.
Keep your promises, even the small ones. If you can’t be trusted in the little things, no one will trust you with the big ones.
Coffee or a meal with a friend beats any meeting.
Rest is productive.
Gratitude doesn’t just brighten the day. It multiplies joy in ways you can’t measure. It shifts ordinary moments into holy ones.
The journey matters more than the finish line.
Never be too proud to say, “I was wrong.” Or “I don’t know.”
Faith isn’t about knowing all the answers.
Celebrate progress, not perfection.
Trails are better with company. I’ve seen some of the deepest conversations unfold at mile three.
Be the first to say “thank you.”
Find work you believe in, but don’t let it define you.
Love is the legacy worth leaving.
Don’t compare. Contentment is wealth.
Your words can build or break. Choose to build. Always.
A long hug can mend a broken heart. I’ve felt that healing in the arms of family.
Keep learning, keep growing. Continuous improvement matters. Even the smallest step forward is still forward.
Tradition ties generations together, especially if that tradition involves an old family recipe that takes hours and lots of teamwork to make.
Tell stories. Your family needs them. Stories pass down more than facts. They carry history and identity.
Choose wonder over cynicism.
You can’t outgive God, but you can follow His example.
Every season has its beauty. Even Oklahoma summers with their heat and humidity have sunsets worth pausing for (clearly I appreciate sunrises and sunsets).
Be present. Tomorrow isn’t promised.
Family trust is sacred. Break it once, and it may never return the same. Protect it as carefully as you protect your home.
Celebrate the small wins. A child’s smile, a project finished, or a quiet evening with family. Cherish these moments.
Joy often hides in the small, ordinary things.
Life is a gift. At every age, unwrap it with wonder.

4 Bonus Lessons (which means I came up with four more that I didn’t want to exclude)

Adapt or be left behind. If you’re the best buggy whip maker, prepare to adapt when automobiles come out. Don’t cling to the past so tightly that you miss the future.
The quiet miracle of savings and compound interest. Einstein was right. Compound interest is the most amazing thing. Steadily and quietly setting aside a portion of your income builds your wealth over time. It also provides peace of mind and freedom for your future self.
Learn outside your lane. Take time to study things that don’t seem connected to your work. The most important lessons often come from entirely different fields.
Travel opens two windows. When you visit a new country, you learn about their culture, their food, their people. But you also return seeing your own home differently…with gratitude, with perspective, and with fresh eyes.

Photo by Mantas Hesthaven on Unsplash

Planting Shade for Others

I don’t remember a lot from Mrs. Olsen’s first grade class. One event that stands out is the day we planted a bunch of seeds in a garden. First grade Bob enjoyed digging in the dirt, making small seed holes, dropping each seed into its place, and writing the plant names on popsicle sticks that we plunged into the dirt next to the seeds.

Then came the bad news.

We wouldn’t be able to see the plants we’d planted until weeks later, and they wouldn’t reach maturity (whatever that meant) for at least a year.

To a first grader, weeks (and especially a year) meant forever. First grade Bob was extremely disappointed. I never saw the plants that came from the seeds we planted that day. It would be decades before adult Bob would go to the trouble of planting seeds or transplanting potted plants into a garden.

Recently, I watched an Essential Craftsman video where he planted 25 new trees. He worked the soil, designed a hand-made watering system, dug 25 holes with exactly the right spacing, brought in a truckload of special soil, mixed it with his existing soil, and then carefully placed each tree in the ground.

At various points in this multi-week project, he worked alongside his grandsons, his wife, and one of his good friends. He said that working with them over the years, especially his wife, had made him a better person.

The finished line of trees looked amazing and will look even better over the next 10 – 20 years.

He reflected that it’s easy to take for granted the shade we enjoy from trees planted decades before. The journey from seed to shade provider is a long one, but it always begins with the person (or Nature) planting that seed.

So, what kind of “shade” are we planting today? Is it the kind that shelters others through encouragement, love, wisdom, opportunity, or sacrifice?

The things we do now may not seem significant in the moment. They may never fully bloom while we’re around to enjoy them. A kind word to a child. A story passed down. A habit of generosity. A newly taught skill. A quiet act of integrity. These are the seeds we plant for the future.

Sometimes, like first grade Bob, it’s easy to get frustrated when we don’t see results right away. We live in a world that loves fast feedback and instant gratification. But shade trees don’t grow overnight. Neither do strong families, good character, or traditions worth passing on.

What if our job, the most important job of all, is to plant and build for a future we’ll never see? To create a little more shelter for the people coming after us?

Few will notice what we’re planting. But that’s okay. We do it anyway. And someone else will get to rest in that shade.

That’s the kind of impact I hope to make. Something that lasts beyond my lifetime, even if no one remembers exactly which trees I planted.

So I’ll keep planting. I’ll keep building. I’ll keep encouraging…investing in the people I know will grow far beyond me.

Because someday, someone will enjoy the shade I may never see.

Adult Bob loves that.

“If your plan is for one year, plant rice. If your plan is for ten years, plant trees. If your plan is for one hundred years, educate children.” – Confucius

Photo by Danny Burke on Unsplash