Tag: faith

What I’d Tell a 21-Year-Old Now

My niece is turning 21 in a couple of weeks. That milestone prompted me to go back and read a post I wrote in 2013 called Advice for a New 21-Year-Old.

Reading it now, I still stand behind it. But a lot has changed in the world and in me since then. A 21-year-old stepping into adulthood today faces a different landscape than the one I was writing about then. After more than a decade of watching young people navigate it, I think an update is in order.

Back in 2013, I intentionally opened with drinking and gambling. Those are two of the classic threshold items attached to turning 21. Things the world suddenly says you’re allowed to do.

Turning 21 feels significant in part because it comes with new freedoms. New access. New choices. New opportunities to say yes to things that used to be off limits.

But if I were to distill what I want to say today, it’s this:

The most important part of turning 21 isn’t what you’re allowed to do. It’s what you’re responsible for doing with your new freedom.

On Drinking

Back in 2013, I wrote specifically about types of alcohol, mixing drinks, drinking water between drinks, and a few other practical things. The tips were fun, and I meant them. But what I was really trying to say was simpler.

Don’t let alcohol become the thing that teaches you who you are.

A 21-year-old can easily mistake access for maturity. Being allowed to drink is one thing. Knowing how to carry yourself is another.

If you choose to drink, stay in charge of yourself. Stay aware. Stay responsible. Don’t confuse recklessness with fun, or excess with adulthood.

There’s nothing impressive about losing control, hurting people, damaging your future, or building habits that begin as entertainment and slowly become dependence.

Freedom says you can. Wisdom says you don’t always have to.

On Gambling

Gambling is worth talking about, less for the casino tips and more for what it teaches us about life.

A lot of life will tempt you into thinking you can outsmart systems that were built to profit from your confidence. Sometimes that system is a casino. Sometimes it’s consumer debt. Sometimes it’s a flashy investment story. Sometimes it’s just your own belief that you’re the exception to every warning sign.

Understand the odds. Understand the incentives. Understand that some games were built for you to lose slowly enough that you keep playing.

That lesson applies far beyond cards, dice, and slot machines.

On Money

At 21, your income may still be modest. Your savings may be thin. But your financial decisions aren’t any less meaningful.

This is the age when you should begin learning how money actually works.

Learn how to live below your means. Save at least 10% of your income, always. Learn how savings accumulate and compound over time. Einstein called compound interest the most powerful force in the universe, and he was right.

Learn how debt can easily grow if you allow it. Learn how investing works. Learn what markets do over time. Learn what risk is and what it isn’t. Learn how compounding works for you, or against you.

Don’t hand the whole subject over to experts and decide this isn’t for you.

It is for you.

Nobody can make this investment in your understanding except you. It’ll take effort, time, and discipline, but the payoff will be enormous. The earlier you begin, the more options you give yourself later.

On Taxes

This is one area I would add much more explicitly today.

Taxes shape your paycheck, your investments, your business decisions, your home decisions, and your retirement decisions. They are one of the most powerful forces shaping the economy around you. Most people your age treat taxes like background noise. They are anything but background noise.

Learn how federal income taxes work. Learn how your state handles taxes, including property taxes. Learn the basic tax forms. Learn what withholding is. Learn the difference between deductions and credits (it’s a big one). Learn how capital gains differ from ordinary income.

Most importantly, learn how and why governments shift tax policy. You’ll find that it’s often less about revenue generation and more about encouraging or discouraging certain behaviors. When you understand this, the debates about tax policy start making a lot more sense.

You don’t need to become a tax attorney. But you do need to stop treating taxes as some mysterious thing that happens in the background while adults in suits handle it for you.

The sooner you understand taxes, the less often you’ll be surprised by them.

On AI and Paying Attention to the Future

This didn’t belong in the 2013 version the way it does now.

If I were talking to a new 21-year-old today, I’d tell them to learn how to use AI well.

Not as a crutch. Not as a substitute for thinking. Not as some fantasy weapon that will let you dominate the world.

Use it as a tool.

Use it to expand your access to knowledge. Use it to test ideas. Use it to get a rough draft or minimum viable product moving. Learn what a minimum viable product is and why it matters so much to growth.

Use it to make an idea more tangible. Use it to model possibilities. Use it to iterate faster. Use it to tighten your thinking by forcing your vague idea into something clearer and more real.

An idea in your head can feel pretty smart. The moment you try to express it, structure it, test it, or build it into something visible, you’ll begin to see its strengths and weaknesses. AI can help accelerate your thinking process.

A lot of people are afraid that AI will eliminate jobs, upend industries, and leave ordinary people behind. That fear is understandable. But the larger pattern is nothing new.

History is full of major technological shifts that changed the economic framework people were living in. Industrialization changed everything. Then electricity. Then assembly lines, cars, computers, the internet, and smartphones. Each wave brought creative destruction. Old methods faded, old jobs shrank, new opportunities appeared, new leaders emerged.

AI is doing the same thing now. And the people who will thrive aren’t the ones who wish the old way would come back. They’re the ones paying attention to where the world is going, and responding.

Pay attention to what’s becoming easier, faster, cheaper, more valuable, or more scalable. Pay attention to which skills are fading and which ones are growing. Then adapt. Learn. Position yourself well.

That’s a far better response than fear.

On Health

At 21, most people feel almost invincible. That feeling can fool you into thinking poor habits are free. They aren’t. They just send their bills later.

Make physical activity a normal part of your life. Build it into your routine so deeply that you miss it when it’s absent. Walk. Run. Lift. Stretch. Work outside. Stay active in ways that make your mind and body stronger, more capable, and more durable.

Healthy habits pay real dividends over time. Energy, mobility, resilience, mental clarity, confidence, longevity, and quality of life. These aren’t accidents. They grow out of a disciplined and consistent approach to taking care of yourself.

If you build a strong base now, your future self will thank you.

On Faith

A 21-year-old may or may not have ever been meaningfully exposed to faith. Some were raised around it. Some were barely around it at all. Some were exposed to a shallow version of it and walked away before they were old enough to examine it for themselves.

But by 21, your openness to faith is your responsibility.

Faith should never be reduced to pretending. You don’t need to manufacture certainty where you still have questions. But you should stay open enough to seriously consider that life is more than work, pleasure, achievement, money, and survival.

Ask the bigger questions.

Why are you here? What is good? What is true? What does it mean to live well? What does it mean to love well?

These are foundational questions. If you ignore them, you’ll still build your life on some kind of answer. You just may not realize it.

Faith has a way of changing the scale of everything. It changes how you think about suffering, success, failure, purpose, love, forgiveness, responsibility, and hope. It gives context to things that otherwise feel random, hollow, or purely material.

Stay open. Read. Ask. Listen. Seek out serious people of faith, not just loud people with opinions.

You don’t have to have everything figured out at 21. But you’re old enough to begin seeking honestly.

On Learning from Good People

Find good people and pay attention to them.

Look for people whose lives make sense up close, not just people who look impressive from far away. Find people who have built something solid. Who work hard, keep their word, love their families well, handle money responsibly, and have endured difficulty without becoming cynical.

Ask questions. Watch what they do. Learn from their patterns.

At 21, you’re old enough to choose your influences more deliberately than ever before. Choose wisely.

On Freedom

Turning 21 brings new freedom. But freedom by itself is only raw material.

What matters is what you build with it. You can use it to drift, indulge, imitate, and react. Or you can use it to build capability, health, wisdom, faith, discipline, and a life that stands up under real weight.

That’s the better use of it.

The world tends to celebrate 21 by pointing to what you can now do.

I’d rather point to what you can begin becoming. That’s where the real opportunity is.

Happy Birthday, Isabella, from your favorite uncle.

Photo by Shai Pal on Unsplash

Living Inside History

Every generation believes it’s living through extraordinary change.

And in a way, every generation is right.

Economic strain, political division, conflict, and rapid technological change appear in different forms, but the underlying tension remains the same.

Ray Dalio describes what he calls the Big Cycle. The rise and decline of nations shaped by debt, money, internal division, and shifting global power. He would say we’re late in that cycle, marked by high debt, widening wealth gaps, and growing competition among world powers.

Harry Dent approaches history through demographics, studying population growth, and generational spending patterns. From his view, today’s economic strain reflects aging populations, slower growth, and the unwinding of decades of expansion.

Different perspectives. Similar conclusions.

Neither claim to predict the future with precision. Debt cycles, demographic waves, generational moods, technological revolutions, and geopolitical tensions move simultaneously. Understanding these forces and their patterns helps us recognize the currents. How we live within them is still our responsibility.

I remember the OPEC oil embargo of the 1970s and gas lines stretching for blocks. I was in elementary school as interest rates climbed above twenty percent. I watched the Reagan Revolution reshape economic thinking and bring supply-side theory into the mainstream.

I lived through the Iranian Revolution in 1979, the taking of US hostages, and the subsequent spread of militant extremism across parts of the Muslim world over the next four decades. I watched an airplane strike the World Trade Center in real time.

I grew up under the shadow of the Cold War, when nuclear conflict felt possible at any moment. I saw the optimism that followed the fall of the Soviet Union and then watched China open to the world after decades of isolation. I remember the theories about how expanding capitalism in China might soften their communist approach to governing.

I witnessed the savings and loan collapse, multiple stock market crashes, the Great Recession, and a global pandemic that disrupted economies, institutions, and families alike. I watched how strongly governments grasp control when certainty disappears.

I saw personal computers and then the internet transform daily life, followed by the digital economy, smartphones, social media, and now artificial intelligence reshaping work itself.

I can think of countless other historical events that have happened in the span of one life. Each moment felt unprecedented. Each reshaped the world, sometimes positively, sometimes negatively.

And yet, life continued.

When history is written, it focuses almost entirely on macro events. The narratives are dominated by wars, collapses, elections, revolutions, and markets. What rarely appears are the countless individual lives unfolding quietly alongside these events.

History does not record families eating dinner together during times of high inflation. Nor does it record weddings that took place during recessions or children born during wars. It overlooks the laughter that survived fear and the quiet courage required to just keep going.

But these individual experiences of life form the definition of humanity.

For every name preserved in textbooks, millions of people were doing what people have always done. They worked. They loved. They raised children. They cared for neighbors. They hoped tomorrow might be a little better than today.

Macro forces shape conditions. They influence opportunity and may narrow our options. They may, unfortunately, end our life or the lives of someone we love. But they don’t define a life.

Inside every macro upheaval exists our “micro” life. The life lived within the headlines rather than dictated by them.

The world may determine interest rates. It does not decide whether we act with kindness. It may influence careers, but it does not control our integrity. It may introduce hardship, but it does not determine how we respond.

Our response is where freedom still lives.

Viktor Frankl understood this more clearly than almost anyone. After enduring unimaginable suffering in Nazi concentration camps, he observed that nearly all external freedoms can be taken from a person. One freedom remains intact. The ability to choose one’s attitude and response to circumstances.

Events may constrain us. They may demand adaptation. They will never own our human spirit.

In my office, I have a wall filled with photographs. Family gatherings. Wedding days. Trips taken together. Beautiful places. Ordinary moments that became lasting memories.

When I step back and look at this wall, patterns appear.

We worked hard.

We made time for one another.

We traveled together.

We celebrated milestones.

We were living out our hopes and dreams, and we still are.

My wall has no charts or financial forecasts. No macro trend lines. But it tells the story of what matters most.

None of these moments waited for ideal conditions. They unfolded alongside inflation, recessions, political change, and uncertainty. The photographs capture lives shaped by ordinary but important choices made amid extraordinary times.

As we traveled, we met families across many countries. Different customs. Different faiths. Different governments. Yet everywhere we went, the hopes sounded familiar. Parents wanting the best for their children. Families striving for opportunity. Communities longing to contribute and belong.

The differences emphasized by the world shrink quickly when people speak about those they love.

Human aspirations remain remarkably consistent.

History changes its outward form. The heart changes very little.

You will live through upheavals of your own. Some will be frightening. Some will be unfair. Some will test your trust in institutions or leaders.

Remember this.

You are not responsible for controlling history. You are responsible for how you live inside it.

You will not choose the history that surrounds you. You will choose the values you carry through it.

You choose how you treat people.

You choose how to adapt.

You choose how you show up for your family.

You choose whether uncertainty hardens you or deepens your compassion.

You choose whether fear leads or faith steadies you.

These are your choices. Always.

Humanity endures because ordinary people continue to build their lives amid uncertainty. They love, they work, they fail, they adapt, and they hope, even while larger forces move around them.

While empires rise and fall, families persist.

That is the quiet march you belong to. Rarely captured by historians yet carried forward by generations.

History happens around you.

Life happens within you.

Live your life well. Love deeply. Work honestly. Stay flexible. Hold your faith. Care for one another.

If you do that, you will live a meaningful life regardless of when you were born.

As I was finishing this post, I found these quotes from George Bernard Shaw. The words come from two different writings of his from the early 1900’s. Together they express something important about what it means to live well within whatever history hands us.

“This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. “

“I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community, and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatsoever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no ‘brief candle’ for me. It is a sort of splendid torch, which I have got hold of for the moment; and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.”

h/t – Atkins Bookshelf

Photo by Federico Giampieri on Unsplash

If this post resonated with you, feel free to share it with someone who might appreciate it as well.

You can also listen to the Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership Podcast, where I share short reflections on leadership, life, and learning.

Thanks for reading!

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

Teachers, Mentors, and the Grace That Carries Us

“There is no Frigate like a Book / To take us Lands away.”

Emily Dickinson wrote these words in her quiet room, understanding something I didn’t grasp for decades. The greatest journeys begin within.

I know her poem only because of my 11th grade AP English teacher, Mr. Cox. As a rambunctious and cocky 11th grader, would I have taken any of my “super valuable” time to read poems, sonnets, short stories, even books? No way.

But because of his work (and the work of countless other teachers along the way), I did read. A lot. I learned tons of material and information that didn’t matter to me at the time…but matter a lot today.

My focus back then was simple. Be the best student, get the highest test scores, pass as many AP tests as possible, and earn varsity letters in multiple sports. Mostly, I wanted to beat everyone else, pure and simple. It helped that I was blessed with an almost photographic memory and could recall facts and formulas with ease (sadly, not so much nowadays).

I carried that mindset into college. I loved being the student who defined the grading curve for the class. I was annoyed if I didn’t get every single point on an assignment, midterm, or final. I had an almost uncontrollable drive to outshine everyone…as if that was all that mattered.

I was completely wrong.

On the bright side, that drive and motivation made me a successful student and propelled me into my early career.

On the other hand, seeing everyone as my competition, and less as people, meant I probably missed out on a lot of fun. And lots of friendships that never happened. I was so focused on the destination that I forgot to notice who was traveling with me.

That realization connects me back to Dickinson’s frigate in ways I never expected. She saw the book as a vessel capable of carrying anyone, anywhere, without cost or permission. But what I’ve learned over nearly fifty years since high school is that I was asking the wrong question. It was never “How far can I go?” It was “Who am I becoming, and who’s helping me understand?”

My journey from that hyper-competitive teenager to what I hope is a much more caring, thoughtful, empathetic, nuanced, and life-giving person has been propelled by those same teachers I mentioned earlier, and a longer line of guides who keep showing up at the right time in my life.

I didn’t realize it then, but those books, poems, and teachers were all part of my fleet of frigates. Each one quietly helped me close the distance between knowledge and understanding, between my ambition and wisdom.

My mentors, family, and friends have all been vessels that carried me through changing seas. Some taught me to sail straight into the wind. Others reminded me that drifting for a while can be part of my journey as well. Each lesson mattered, even the ones that didn’t make sense at the time…especially those.

Over time, life has a way of sanding down our sharper edges, revealing something deeper underneath. My focus slowly shifted from being the best at something to becoming the best version of myself.

Now, when I think about Emily Dickinson’s frigate, I picture something far greater than a book. I picture a lifetime of learning, carried by the people who invested their time, wisdom, and patience in me. Mr. Cox, and others who gave freely of their time and wisdom, helped me see that the destination isn’t solely becoming the top of the class. It’s finding a profound depth of understanding, the expansion of empathy, and the ability to see beauty and meaning in small, unexpected places.

If I could go back and talk to that 16-year-old version of myself, I’d tell him the real tests aren’t scored on paper. They’re graded every day in how we treat people, how we listen, and how we show grace.

I’d tell him that the frigate he thinks he’s steering alone has always been guided by grace. The true measure of his voyage will be how much space he makes for others to come aboard.

We’re all learning to sail, carried by the steady hand of God.

We never really travel alone.

Photo by Rafael Garcin on Unsplash

The Noonday Devil and the Lie of Boredom

Psalm 91 promises safety from dangers both visible and invisible, from “the terror by night” to “the arrow that flieth by day.”

In verse 6, we read: “Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.”

The Desert Fathers, those early Christians who left the cities around the third and fourth centuries to live in the desert, drew on this verse to describe one of their deepest spiritual struggles. They called it the noonday devil.

This devil represents an interior battle, a weariness of the soul that crept in at midday when the sun beat down, the silence grew heavy, and the temptation to abandon their prayer and vocation felt overwhelming.

They named this struggle acedia. Sometimes it’s translated as sloth, but it is much more than that.

How many kids have said to their parents, “I’m bored.” We remind them that boredom is in their heads. They can use their imagination, find a book, or play outside. And if that doesn’t land, we parents always have another cure for their boredom: chores.

It’s amazing how quickly boredom vanishes when a child is handed a rake, a shovel, or a basket of laundry to fold.

Boredom is what happens when we can’t see the meaning in what we’re doing. Acedia is boredom’s older cousin. Spiritual weariness with much deeper stakes.

It’s restlessness, a refusal to care, a loss of joy in the very things that give life meaning. It can show up as distraction or busyness. Acedia tempts us to walk away when the middle of the journey feels too long and too heavy.

I think of the countless days spent inching along in rush-hour traffic, morning after morning, just to get to work. I’d put in a full day’s work, then crawl through another hour or more of brake lights to get home. The next day brought the same routine. After a while, it was easy to think maybe the whole thing had no meaning.

That’s the noonday devil at work.

The midpoints of life test us in a similar way. Paying bills, the daily grind of a career without clear progress, responsibilities that seem to grow heavier without much relief. Our internal voice asks, “How can I escape? Should I look for something easier?”

Jean-Charles Nault’s The Noonday Devil: Acedia, the Unnamed Evil of Our Times says this ancient struggle is alive and well today. It shows up in constant scrolling, in working ourselves to exhaustion to avoid deeper questions, in chasing novelty because the present moment feels too heavy.

The Desert Fathers found the answer was to persevere through, but with far more than sheer willpower. Keep praying, even when prayer feels dry. Stay faithful to commitments, even when they feel heavy. Lean into your community rather than isolating from it. Practice humility and remember that perseverance is possible only by God’s grace.

What does this look like? When we feel the pull toward endless scrolling, we might instead text a friend or call a family member. When work feels meaningless, we can remember the people our efforts serve, even if indirectly. When prayer feels empty, we show up anyway, trusting that faithfulness itself has value beyond our feelings in the moment.

The noonday devil tempts us to think that only extraordinary lives matter. But as Oliver Burkeman points out in his idea of “cosmic insignificance therapy,” recognizing our smallness frees us to find profound meaning in ordinary acts.

The daily work of caring for children, preparing meals, or showing up for neighbors and friends carries as much weight as anything could. These acts may never make headlines, but in God’s eyes they shine with eternal value.

Persevering in small, steady commitments resists acedia and helps us discover joy in the very places where meaning often hides.

Psalm 91 carries a promise, “He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.”

God invites us to rest beneath His wings, to trust Him in the heat of the day, and to discover joy at the very heart of our journey.

Faithfulness in the ordinary is never wasted. Under His wings, even the smallest acts take on eternal meaning.

h/t – Hallow app – Noonday Devil; Tim Ferris – Oliver Burkeman’s Cosmic Insignificance Therapy

Photo by Mauro Lima on Unsplash

Which Memory Would You Erase?

“If you could erase one memory, what would it be?”

We all have memories that sting. Failures. Regrets. Accidents. Loss. Moments we wish had gone differently. It’s easy to imagine how much lighter life might feel if certain days had never happened.

I wouldn’t erase any of them.

Every memory, good and bad, shapes who I am today. The hard ones give me resilience, humility, and perspective. The joyful ones give me hope and fuel. Together, they’ve woven the story that brought me to this moment.

If I erased regret, I’d lose the lessons.

If I erased pain, I’d lose the growth.

If I erased loss, I’d lose the clarity it gave me about the value of life and love.

I carry each memory with gratitude. Gratitude that even the hardest chapters are part of a larger story. Gratitude that none of it was wasted.

Gratitude that grace has been big enough to redeem even the parts I once wished to forget.

Photo by Jason Thompson on Unsplash – because grace brings life out of the hardest places.

The Next Generation—Are They Ready?

I received an email from Noah Kagan this week. Not because we’re personal friends, but because I subscribe to his newsletter. Noah, the CEO of AppSumo, often shares practical insights and thought-provoking questions from his journey in the tech world.

This particular message stood out. He talked about being fearful for his 10-month-old daughter’s future. With all the chaos in the world, the deepening divides, the rise of AI and robotics, the general noise of modern life, he wonders what kind of world she’ll inherit.

But instead of spiraling into worry, Noah laid out how he’s choosing to respond: by creating clarity, limiting distractions, and doubling down on the things that matter most. He’s building a foundation, not just for his own peace of mind, but for his daughter to inherit.

His email reminded me of a quote often attributed to Mark Twain: “The future is in the hands of a generation that isn’t ready for it.”

We didn’t have AI, social media, or the internet back in Mr. Twain’s day. But even then, concerns about “the next generation” were nothing new. Parents, teachers, and elders across every era in history have wondered if the next generation is truly ready.

Noah’s concern isn’t just that the next generation might be unprepared. It’s that the world itself might be too broken to navigate well. But history offers some perspective.

Every generation has faced challenges.  Wars, famines, political collapse, pandemics, technological upheaval, moral drift. And yet, the world moves forward. Somehow, each generation rises to meet its moment…even if their preparation feels lacking.

We don’t get to control the future, but we do influence it by how we live, what we model, and what we choose to pass on. We can’t predict what our children and grandchildren will face, or how they’ll respond. But we can teach them how to think, how to hold on to timeless values, and how to walk through hardship with strength and grace.

It’s natural to worry.

Let’s not forget that hardship doesn’t cancel out beauty.

Struggles don’t erase joy.

There will be triumphs ahead, too. If we’ve taught them well, they’ll learn to spot their small victories, celebrate them, and then pass along what matters to those who come after.

The future always arrives in the hands of the young—and the young are never quite ready. But then again, neither were we.

Photo by Timon Studler on Unsplash

The Shades Are Down – Reflecting on Anthony de Mello’s Parable

Tim Ferris has a weekly newsletter – 5 Bullet Friday.  In last Friday’s update, he highlighted a quote from The Way to Love, by Anthony de Mello.  This post isn’t related to that quote (although it could be).  It’s based on the rabbit hole I dove into, reading other parts of the book.  Right out of the gate, de Mello offers a short parable that’s simple at first glance but goes deeper the longer you sit with it.

“A group of tourists sits on a bus that is passing through gorgeously beautiful country, lakes and mountains and green fields and rivers. But the shades of the bus are pulled down. They don’t have the slightest idea of what lies beyond the windows of the bus. All the time of their journey is spent in squabbling over who will have the seat of honor in the bus, who will be applauded, who will be well considered. And so they remain until the journey’s end.”

It’s not a long parable, but it says a lot.

We are each on this ride.  This one journey through life. And all around us is beauty: the people we love, small joys, the smell of fresh rain, a child’s laughter, songbirds chirping right outside our window, the warmth of a good cup of coffee in the morning. 

But our shades are down. We don’t see any beauty, because we’re too busy with things that don’t matter.

We’re measuring. Comparing. Ranking. Arguing about position, prestige, attention. Scrolling, reacting. Meanwhile, the scenery goes by. Gorgeous, wild, and fleeting. We barely glance out the window.

What struck me about de Mello’s story wasn’t the travelers’ arguments.  It’s the view that was always there. The view never stopped being beautiful. The issue wasn’t the lack of beauty. The issue was where they were looking.

This parable is a quiet reminder to lift the shade. To let in the light. To remember that it’s not about getting the “best seat on the bus.” It’s about not missing the view.

So today, maybe take a breath. Look around. Listen a little longer. Smile at someone. Appreciate a small thing that usually passes by unnoticed.

Another of de Mello’s insights that’s in line with his parable:

“The most difficult thing in the world is to listen, to see. We don’t want to look, because if we do, we may change. We don’t want to look, because we may discover that the world is not what we thought it was.”

Sometimes the shades stay down not because we’re distracted, but because we’re afraid. If we truly see what matters, we might have to stop chasing things that don’t. We might have to let go of the version of ourselves that depends on being applauded or admired or seen in a certain way.

But what if that’s the invitation? Not to force ourselves to change, but to wake up to what’s real in our lives. To notice the world again. To feel the wonder again.

The awareness de Mello points to is freeing, like the child’s creativity in my previous post.

It’s the kind of awareness that reminds us we’re not stuck in the noise unless we choose to be. We can pull up the shade. We can look.

Because the ride is short. The view is worth seeing. 

And in that beauty, we can see we are never really far from joy.

Photo by Eiliv Aceron on Unsplash