Writing – Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership

What If Jarvis Is Available to Each of Us?

One of the best parts of the Iron Man movies is Jarvis, the ever-present AI system that acts as an extension of Tony Stark’s mind. Jarvis is a collaborator. A research analyst. A pattern finder. A problem solver. He handles logistics, runs calculations, surfaces insights, and stays ready in the background until Tony needs him.

Jarvis amplifies and extends Tony’s genius.

Recently, I introduced a friend to ChatGPT. He hasn’t jumped into any AI tools yet, but he can see that people around him are finding real value in them. Like many thoughtful people, his first questions weren’t about features. They were about data privacy. About whether these tools were simply repackaging other people’s work. About what was really going on under the hood.

At one point, he asked a simple question:

Is it like having Jarvis around whenever you need him?

To me, the honest answer is yes.

But it’s also important to realize that Jarvis isn’t perfect. And neither are the AI tools available to us today.

The First Questions Matter. Almost every serious conversation about AI tools begins in the same place.

Is my data safe?

Who owns the output?

Can I trust what I’m getting back?

These are the same questions we ask whenever a new digital tool emerges.

At a basic level, paid versions of tools like ChatGPT don’t use our conversations to train public models. Even with that protection in place, I still guard my data carefully. If I’m asking questions related to finances, health, or legal matters, I use hypothetical scenarios rather than personal specifics. I’m the first line of defense when it comes to my personal information.

In professional and commercial environments, organizations using business or enterprise versions gain additional protections around data isolation, encryption, access controls, and audit logging. At the enterprise level, some platforms even allow customers to manage their own encryption keys on top of the platform’s security.

The tool doesn’t decide what’s appropriate to share. We do.

Who Owns the Output? We do. The tool doesn’t claim authorship. It doesn’t retain ownership of what it produces for you. The output becomes yours because you directed the work, supplied the context, and decided how the result would be used.

But ownership is only part of the story. Responsibility matters just as much.

The tool doesn’t know your intent. It doesn’t understand your audience. And it doesn’t bear the consequences of getting something wrong. That responsibility stays with the human in the loop. That’s us.

In that sense, using AI isn’t fundamentally different from working with many other analytical tools we may have used for decades. The work becomes yours because you shape it, refine it, and ultimately stand behind it.

A Note on Sources and Attribution. Owning the output also means owning the responsibility for its accuracy and integrity. This is especially important when it comes to research and citations.

AI tools can pull together large volumes of information, synthesize ideas across many inputs, and present them in clean, compelling language. That capability is incredibly useful. But it doesn’t remove the author’s responsibility to understand where ideas come from and how they’re represented.

The tool may summarize research. It may surface commonly known concepts. It may produce language that sounds authoritative and polished. What it doesn’t guarantee is proper attribution or assurance that content isn’t too closely mirroring a specific source.

That responsibility stays with the human.

When I use AI for research or writing, I treat it as a starting point. I ask it to surface each source. I follow links. I read original material. And when an idea, quote, or framework belongs to someone else, I make sure it’s credited appropriately. This step also helps catch hallucinations that sound amazingly accurate.

Ownership requires standing behind the integrity of the work to the best of your ability.

Can I Trust What I’m Getting Back? Usually. Only with supervision. AI tools are very good at consuming information, identifying patterns, and accelerating first drafts. They are less reliable when precision, nuance, or real-world verification is required.

They can be confidently wrong. They can lose context. They can blend accurate information with outdated or incomplete details.

AI tools hallucinate regularly, though this tendency improves with each new model release. These aren’t reasons to dismiss AI as a tool. They’re reminders to understand what AI is and what it isn’t.

Trust paired with skepticism is the right approach. AI tools are fast-thinking assistants, never the final authority.

Verification still matters. Judgment still matters. Experience still matters. In fact, the better your judgment, the more valuable these tools become.

Why Memory Changes the Equation. Most people use AI tools like a smart search engine. Ask a question. Get an answer. Move on.

That works. But it barely scratches the surface of what’s possible. The real multiplier happens when the tool is allowed to remember context.

ChatGPT includes a memory capability that lets you intentionally store preferences, patterns, and reference material across conversations. Used well, this transforms the tool from something you query into something you can collaborate with.

Over the past year and across hundreds of prompt conversations, I’ve shared:

-My writing voice and stylistic preferences

-A digital copy of a leadership book I wrote over a decade ago (about 65,000 words)

-An autobiography I wrote for my children and grandchildren (about 90,000 words)

-Hundreds of blog posts published over the past 13 years (roughly 240,000 words)

-How I like to structure projects and approach new work

In total, I’ve trained the tool with nearly 400,000 words of my original content. This began as an experiment to see if I could reduce generic responses and encourage the tool to approach questions from my foundational perspective.

The difference is tangible. Early on, whether I was drafting communication, analyzing problems, or organizing ideas, the tool would produce polished but generic output that required extensive rewriting. Now, it reflects my priorities, uses frameworks I’ve shared, and produces work that feels aligned with how I think. I still edit quite a bit, but I’m refining rather than rebuilding.

Collaboration Requires Judgment. My friend asked me another important question.

Do you still feel like the writing you produce with it is yours?

Yes. Completely.

Every project I’ve worked on with these tools begins with my original content, reinforced by reference material I created long before AI entered the picture. Hundreds of thousands of words written over more than a decade. Clear intent about audience and purpose, using a defined process I’ve established before drafting anything.

The tool supports rather than replaces my judgment. Drafts usually require significant edits, shifts in tone, and sometimes complete rewrites.

Where it excels is in synthesis. In retrieval. In pattern recognition across large bodies of work. In accelerating first drafts that already have direction.

Large projects require constant supervision. Threads get crossed. Context gets muddled. The tool needs redirection, clarification, and sometimes retraining as the work evolves.

This is simply the nature of collaboration.

Why the Hype Misses the Point. There’s a popular narrative circulating that anyone can now write a book, write a complex software application, create a website, start a business, or become an expert with just a few well-written prompts.

This misunderstands both the tools and the craft associated with each of these tasks.

I think of AI the way I think of a great camera. We can all buy the same equipment. That doesn’t guarantee an amazing photo. The quality still depends on the eye behind the lens, the patience and skills to frame the shot, and the willingness to edit ruthlessly afterward.

Ansel Adams once said that asking him what camera he used was like asking a writer what typewriter he used. The tool matters. But it has never been the point.

The same is true with AI tools.

Without intent, taste, and care, straight AI output feels flat and formulaic. Readers will notice. Substance can’t be faked. Depth doesn’t appear by accident.

These tools reflect the discipline of the person using them.

Hitting the Ground Running. For someone just getting started, the biggest mistake is expecting magic. The better approach is to build understanding and training into the process (for you and the AI tool).

Explain what you’re trying to do.

Tell the tool how you think.

Correct it when it’s wrong.

Guide it when it drifts.

Treat it like a junior collaborator. One that’s fast, tireless, and remarkably capable…but still dependent on direction and context.

If you’re looking for a practical first step, try this. Find an article you’ve read recently and ask the tool to summarize it. Compare that summary to the original. Notice what it captured, what it missed, and what it misunderstood. This simple exercise reveals both the tool’s strengths and its limitations in a low-stakes way.

From there, you might ask it to help you draft an email, outline a presentation, or brainstorm solutions to a problem you’re facing. Start with tasks where you can easily evaluate the quality of the output and provide feedback on what the tool provides.

Over time, you’ll notice the quality improves. That’s when the tool begins to resemble the Jarvis we imagined. It isn’t perfect, but it becomes more aligned with what you value most and how you like to approach your work. At the same time, your understanding of its strengths and limitations becomes clearer through consistent use.

AI doesn’t replace thinking. It requires it.

Used carelessly, it produces noise. Used deliberately, it sharpens your insights.

The question is whether we’re willing to slow down at the beginning, set expectations, and engage AI tools with proper intention.

Only then can these tools truly serve us well.

Photo by Chris Haws on Unsplash – photographers often say, “It’s about the photographer, not the camera.”

If this post was helpful, please feel free to share it.

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.

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

When an Idea Stops Being Yours Alone

There’s a quiet moment in meaningful work when your idea begins to live in someone else. You see it in the way they talk about it. You hear it in their enthusiasm. You notice how they add their experience and their language to it until the idea carries their imprint as much as yours.

It can feel strange the first time it happens. You know the origin, but they suddenly feel the spark of the idea for themselves. That’s the moment you know your idea has begun to grow.

Real success often arrives like this, but we don’t always notice it. People begin to adopt your idea, reshape it, and eventually believe in it with a conviction that can be surprising. They explain it to others in their own voice. They defend it. They improve it. If the idea spreads far enough, some will forget where it began. Your name may fade from the origin story. That loss of attribution can sting if you hold the idea too tightly. It should feel like success instead.

Leaders have a responsibility here. Ideas rarely spread through logic alone. They spread through emotional ownership that grows when people discover a piece of themselves in the idea. When that happens, they carry the idea farther than you ever could by insisting on authorship.

A leader’s task is to create the conditions for this transfer. You offer the early shape of the idea, then invite others to step inside and help build the next version. You ask for their insight, their experience, and their concerns. You let their fingerprints gather on the surface until the idea becomes a shared creation. People support what they help to shape.

As others begin to adopt your idea, they’ll need to feel safety in their new enthusiasm. They need to know they’re not the only ones who believe in this direction. A wise leader pays attention to this. They take the people who have embraced their idea and introduce them to others who have done the same. They form new connections, helping to create a small community where confidence strengthens and courage grows. When people see others adopting the same idea, they feel validated, understood, and ready to act.

This is how ideas gain momentum inside organizations. One person sees the promise. Another begins to shape it. A third begins to feel inspired. Before long, it becomes a shared narrative. It starts with your imagination, but it continues through their belief and conviction.

Once people begin to adopt your idea, you must release it. You may or may not receive credit for it. Either outcome is acceptable.

The goal was never to build a monument to your creativity. The goal was to move the organization forward. When others bring your idea into new conversations without you, your contribution has done its job.

Your attention can return to the horizon. There’s always another idea waiting for you, another possibility that needs your curiosity, another problem that needs new framing.

Good leaders plant seeds. Great leaders celebrate when those seeds take root across the organization.

Inspired by Dr. Michael Levin’s post, h/t – Tim Ferriss

Photo by Alex Beauchamp on Unsplash – a new idea taking root and growing beyond its beginning.

Why Curiosity Is the New Competitive Advantage

Imagine two managers sitting at their desks, both using the same AI tool.

The first asks it to write the same weekly report, just faster. Three hours saved. Nothing new learned. Box checked.

The second uses the AI differently. She asks it to analyze six months of data and search for hidden patterns. It reveals that half the metrics everyone tracks have no real connection to success. Two new questions emerge. She rebuilds the entire process from scratch.

Same tool. Different questions. One finds speed. The other finds wisdom.

This is the divide that will define the next decade of work.

For a long time, leadership revolved around structure and repetition. The best organizations built systems that ran like clockwork. Discipline became an art. Efficiency became a mantra.

Books like Good to Great showed how rigorous process could transform good companies into great ones through consistent execution. When competitive advantage came from doing the same thing better and faster than everyone else, process was power.

AI changes this equation entirely. It makes these processes faster, yes, but it also asks a more unsettling question. Why are you doing this at all?

Speed alone means little when the racetrack itself is disappearing.

Curiosity in the age of AI means something specific. It asks “why” when everyone else asks “how.” It uses AI to question assumptions rather than simply execute them. It treats every automated task as an opportunity to rethink the underlying goal. And it accepts the possibility that your job, as you currently do it, might need to change entirely.

That last part is uncomfortable. Many people fear AI will replace them. Paradoxically, the people most at risk are those who refuse to use AI to reimagine their own work. The curious ones are already replacing themselves with something better.

Many organizations speak of innovation, but their true values show in what they celebrate. Do they promote the person who completes fifty tasks efficiently, or the one who eliminates thirty through reinvention? Most choose the first. They reward throughput. They measure activity. They praise the person who worked late rather than the one who made late nights unnecessary.

This worked when efficiency was scarce. Now efficiency can be abundant. AI will handle efficiency. What remains scarce is the imagination to ask what we should be doing instead. Organizations that thrive will use AI to do entirely different things. Things that were impossible or invisible before.

Working with AI requires more than technical skills. The syntax is easy. The prompts are learnable. Connecting AI to our applications isn’t the challenge. The difficulty is our mindset. Having the patience to experiment when you could just execute. The humility to see that the way you’ve always done things may no longer be the best way. The courage to ask “what if” when your entire career has been built on knowing “how to.”

This is why curiosity has become a competitive advantage. The willingness to probe, to question, to let AI reveal what you’ve been missing. Because AI is a mirror. It reflects whatever you bring to it, amplified. Bring efficiency-seeking and get marginal gains. Bring genuine curiosity and discover new possibilities.

Here’s something to try this week. Take your most routine task. The report, the analysis, the update you’ve done a hundred times. Before asking AI to replicate it, ask a different question. What would make this unnecessary? What question should we be asking instead?

You might discover the task still matters. Or you might realize you’ve been generating reports nobody reads, tracking metrics nobody uses, or solving problems that stopped being relevant two years ago.

Efficiency fades. What feels efficient today becomes everyone’s baseline tomorrow. But invention endures. The capacity to see what others miss, to ask what others skip, to build what nobody else imagines yet.

The curious will see opportunity. The creative will see possibility. The courageous will see permission. Together they will build what comes next.

The tools are here. The door is open. Work we haven’t imagined yet waits on the other side. Solving problems not yet seen, creating value in ways that don’t exist today.

Only if you’re willing to ask better questions.

Photo by Subhasish Dutta on Unsplash – the path to reinvention

Doing the Thing

Writing a song is like fishing, Kenny Chesney once said. Some days you catch something beautiful. The melody, the moment, the truth. Other days, you sit there all day with nothing but frustration and a stubborn belief that it’s still worth being out there.

That kind of wisdom transcends genres. Ernest Hemingway spent his life circling the same idea. That real art happens when we show up. Whether facing a blank page, a marlin that wouldn’t bite, or a battle that couldn’t be won, he believed the only way to live fully was to move, to act, to engage.

His work embodied a simple truth. The shortest answer is doing the thing. For him, wisdom wasn’t found in thinking about life, but in living it. No clever phrasing. No shortcuts. Just the act itself. Simple, honest, alive.

We spend so much of life thinking about what we might do, planning what we should do, waiting until we feel ready to begin. But readiness rarely arrives on its own. The line stays slack until you cast it. The song stays silent until you play it. The story remains untold until you write it.

Sometimes we catch something incredible. Other times, nothing.

Either way, we were there. Present. Awake. Participating in the work and wonder of life.

Maybe that’s the whole point.

A life well-lived must first be lived.

Photo by Shojol Islam on Unsplash – I wonder if he’ll catch something on this cast. Maybe. Maybe not. But, he’s in the game, giving it his best shot and that’s what matters.

Beautiful Things Don’t Ask for Attention

I saw The Secret Life of Walter Mitty on an airplane ride recently. At a significant moment in the story, we hear the line, “Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.”

The photographer in the story chooses not to take a coveted photo of the elusive snow leopard. Instead, he simply enjoys the beautiful moment with his own eyes.

Real beauty doesn’t need to perform. It’s authentic and humble, whether anyone stops to notice or not.

A person of character lives this way. They have no need to prove themselves. They show up with kindness, consistency, and honesty. The neighbor who shovels snow from an elderly woman’s driveway before dawn, leaving no trace. Or the teacher who stays late to help a struggling student, never mentioning it to anyone.

The beauty of their character reveals itself in the way they live each day.

Humility makes this possible. It allows a life to shine without glare, to influence others by being genuine. Like mountains that reflect the glow of sunrise or wildflowers blooming unseen in a meadow, people of quiet integrity embody a beauty that doesn’t depend on recognition.

In our culture that rewards noise and spectacle, this is easy to forget. We’re told to broadcast accomplishments and measure our worth by attention. Yet the most meaningful lives belong to those who live true to themselves, free from the need for applause.

The things that endure, whether in people or in nature, carry their beauty without fanfare. They simply are.

There’s a paradox in writing about something that exists most powerfully in silence. Maybe that’s the point. Celebrating this kind of beauty without claiming it for ourselves.

But we can learn to recognize it. To be shaped and inspired by it. And, in our quieter moments, we can strive to live it.

Photo by Patrick Schaudel on Unsplash – some of my fondest memories involve waking up in a tent on crisp mountain mornings, basking in the beautiful glow of the rising sun.

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

Who Will Hold the Boulder? (a short parable)

There once was a village named Smithville, tucked neatly beneath a mountain. Life was simple until the mayor spotted a massive boulder teetering on the slope. Experts confirmed the obvious. The massive boulder might fall and crush the town.

In a flash of civic urgency, the mayor declared: “We must secure the boulder!” And so they did. With ropes, pulleys, and sheer determination, ten villagers at a time held the lines to keep the boulder in place. They rotated shifts around the clock. It became routine, then tradition, then law.

Children sang, “Hold the boulder, hold the boulder, we must resolve to hold that boulder!” before school each morning. A cabin was built for the rope holders. A trail crew was hired to keep the path safe for the endless march of workers. Rope suppliers prospered since the intricate rope system required constant maintenance. Soon, nearly half the town’s budget went to “boulder security.”

Still, the village flourished. Visitors came to marvel at the rope-wrapped rock. “Come see our mighty gravity defying boulder!” proclaimed their glossy posters. A bond was passed to fund a visitor center and tour buses. Hotels filled. Restaurants boomed. Property values soared near “Boulder View Estates.”

One day, a newcomer named Brunswick questioned the logic of leaving the boulder where it was. “Why not break the boulder into smaller, harmless pieces?” The council laughed at his question.

The mayor beamed with pride, “Our boulder isn’t a threat. It’s our livelihood! Besides, we have a rope system to protect us.”

The townspeople nodded, waving their SAVE OUR BOULDER signs in support.

Who could argue with prosperity?

Brunswick left shaking his head.

Years later, despite the ropes, despite the cables, despite the slogans, the inevitable happened. That winter, the boulder grew heavier than ever with snow and ice. Villagers had trouble reaching the ropes, as storms blocked the trail. Shifts went unfilled. Fewer villagers meant fewer ropes to hold the boulder.

“The forecasters said it wouldn’t be this bad,” the mayor reassured them, as though the weather itself had broken its promise.

Workers tugged and shouted, trying to keep their grip. Fingers numbed, feet slipped, and a few gave up entirely. The remaining ropes snapped one by one. The sound echoed through the valley like rifle shots. The mountain itself seemed to groan.

Then came the moment. The final rope gave way with a thunderous crack. The boulder lurched forward, dragging what remained of the cable nets with it.

As it tumbled down the mountain, the ground shook violently. Houses rattled, dishes shattered, and children screamed.

The mighty rock careened toward the valley, smashing trees like twigs and carving deep scars into the earth. Clouds of dust rose as if the mountain were on fire. Each bounce sent shockwaves through Smithville, knocking people off their feet. The villagers ran in terror, listening to the deafening roar as the great stone rolled ever closer.

When it finally came to rest, the devastation was complete. The visitor center lay in ruins. Boulder View Estates was flattened into rubble. Streets were cracked, and smoke rose from shattered chimneys.

Yet by some miracle, no one was hurt. The thunder of the falling boulder gave everyone time to flee. Amid the destruction, whispers of a miracle could be heard all over the battered town.

As the dust cleared, townsfolk began to consider their plans for rebuilding. Some sketched designs for a grand new visitor center. This one would tell the story of The Great Fall.

A five-year plan was drafted to study rope alternatives, complete with a Rope Oversight Committee and quarterly progress reports.

Bureaucracy bloomed again, strong as ever.

Though no one mentioned the missing boulder.

Story behind the image – I used Google’s new Nano Banana image generator for this image. I asked it to produce a large and evil boulder sitting on top of a mountain, held by ropes, overlooking a nice town that it’s threatening…in a cartoonish style. This is the first image it produced. It missed the part about the ropes, but I like the over-the-top (see what I did there?) theme of this rendering. And that boulder may appear in a few more stories in the future.

Things I Wish I Knew When I Was Your Age

I sat down recently to write a letter to my cousin (technically my first cousin once removed), who just started basic training in the Air Force.

What began as a quick note turned into something more. A personal reflection, a bit of a manifesto, and a stack of lessons I wish someone had handed to me when I was just setting out.

By the time I hit “save,” I realized this may be worth sharing with any young person taking their first real steps into the adult world.

The letter was full of life updates, jokes, birthday party planning, movie recommendations, and the occasional 10-year-old version of myself asking random questions. But the main message was you can do hard things, and you’re not alone.

What follows are some ideas that come from years of learning, leading, failing, and reflecting. These are lessons for anyone who finds themselves on the edge of something new.

Leadership begins and ends in your head. Most of your real battles are internal. That voice in your head? It can lift you up or hold you back. Especially in an environment full of rules and pressure, how you think will define who you become. Supportive self-talk, resilient thinking, steady choices. These are the foundational traits for leadership.

Start before you’re ready. Showing up takes more courage than people realize. You will rarely have everything figured out before you begin. Your best opportunities for growth will come from figuring things out while under pressure. That discomfort you feel is a sign that you’re on the edge of growth.

Do the next right thing. When life gets overwhelming (and it will), it helps to stop trying to solve everything all at once. Pause. Breathe. Do the next right thing. That’s enough. The bigger picture tends to take care of itself when we’re faithful and focus on the next indicated step.

You belong here. The feeling that maybe you’re not ready, or that someone else would be better suited for the challenge in front of you. That’s normal. But it doesn’t mean you don’t belong. The truth is you do belong. You’ve earned the right to be where you are. And you’re growing stronger every day, even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment.

Respect is the foundation of everything. Not just the kind of respect that comes from rank or titles, but the kind you live out through humility, consistency, and quiet honor. When you offer that kind of respect, you build trust. And trust is what makes people want to follow your lead.

When the going gets tough, remember why you started. Every hard day will test your resolve. Every early morning, every setback, every lonely hour…these are the places where you’ll either lose sight of your purpose or anchor more deeply into it. Purpose doesn’t remove difficulty, but it gives meaning to the difficulty. And that’s enough to carry you through.

Discipline equals freedom. I shared this piece of advice that comes from Jocko Willink, former Navy SEAL, war veteran, and a powerful voice on discipline and leadership. He says, “Discipline equals freedom.” The more discipline you have, the more freedom you gain.

Discipline gives you control. Over your body, your mind, and your choices. Freedom to choose your future. Freedom to trust yourself. Freedom to follow through, especially when motivation fades.

You won’t always feel motivated. That’s okay. Stay disciplined. Show up. Do the work. That’s how you earn freedom. One decision at a time.

“Don’t wish it were easier. Wish you were better.” A classic quote from Jim Rohn. There’s no shortage of obstacles. The goal isn’t to escape them. It’s to grow strong enough to rise above them. The learning curve is real. Learn, adapt, overcome…become better and things will become much easier.

About those movie recommendations I mentioned earlier. It’s probably more accurate to call them story recommendations. Stories about honor, resilience, human ingenuity, and the willingness to keep going when things are difficult.

We Were Soldiers, an amazingly good movie about strategic servant leadership (which is my preferred style of management), bravery, and the love that comrades in arms have for one another. It’s a great tribute to the men who fought (many who gave their lives for the guy next to them) and their brave families back home. I think I’ve seen it at least 25 times and I’m happy to watch it anytime. Each time I watch it, I tear up in at least 2 or 3 places in the movie.

Ocean’s 11 and The Sting, two films that focus on creative problem solving and teamwork…though our “heroes” in these movies are con men and thieves.

The Princess Bride made the list. The value of honor (even among combatants), mixed with the comedic and spoofy scenes make it a classic. Even in a world of duels and danger, kindness, respect and loyalty still matter.

I suggested Seveneves by Neal Stephenson. A science fiction novel (my favorite genre for at least the past 10 years) about human survival, adaptation, and rebuilding civilization after catastrophe. The premise is that an asteroid causes the moon to shatter. What starts out as an oddity in the sky becomes a calamity as the moon breaks up into a ring and then begins to rain down to Earth (something they call the Hard Rain). Great sci-fi, lots of human ingenuity and adaptability, and a story that covers about 5,000 years. It’ll take some time to read, but it’s worth it.

Two books by Andy Weir. The first is The Martian (which became a movie starring Matt Damon), and the second is Project Hail Mary. Andy wrote The Martian in 2011 and self-published it on Amazon. It picked up fans and became a bestseller without an “official” publisher. His second book was called Artemis (takes place on the Moon). It was good, but not quite as good as The Martian (which is a high standard, so I’m probably being unfair).

His third book was Project Hail Mary. This one is also being made into a movie, starring Ryan Gosling. It is excellent.

The big thing about Andy’s books is that they are scientifically accurate. His characters deal with extremely complex challenges that require thinking and ingenuity to overcome. He writes in a way that entertains and teaches things you never knew.

I love that Andy wrote his first book from beginning to end without any publisher involved. Nobody was there to tell him what he was doing was the right thing. He believed in himself, believed in the story he was telling, focused on the work, delivered a high-quality product, and proceeded to find his audience one reader at a time.

All these stories reflect truths about the path ahead. Your journey will be hard. You’ll need grit, creativity, and perseverance. You’ll need others (family, friends, mentors, even strangers). More often than not, the tools to overcome life’s challenges will come from within yourself, quietly shaped by the stories you carry and the habits you form.

Whatever new thing you’re stepping into, whether it’s basic training, a new job, a cross-country move, or a new phase in your life, know that it’s okay to be unsure. It’s okay to feel stretched. Just remember your “why,” do the next right thing, and keep showing up with courage.

And who knows? Maybe decades from now you’ll be the one writing a letter like this, passing along what you’ve learned…

Photo by Justin Cron on Unsplash

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

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