Winter arrived yesterday with the first snow of the season. Snow is such a powerfully visual reflection of the changing season. Stark white flakes of frozen precipitation, accumulating in a blanket covering everything, while drawing us into the physical reality of such cold that we must layer clothing to protect ourselves. Meanwhile, the wind – is that the North Wind? – marks the change with forceful gusts moving upon doors and branches and wind-chimes, swirling the snow up and down and across the horizon. Winter’s change is seen on the ground, heard in the air, and felt in our bones, as it presses upon us, reminding us of the inevitability of the seasons and our invitation to assent to their demands.

Today marks the beginning of Advent, the season of waiting as we move toward Christmas. In the Catholic tradition, we situate ourselves ad orientem, toward the east, watching for the rising of the sun, a symbol for the birth of Christ, who’s arrival we anticipate with great joy. Today we set our face toward Christmas, settling into a new season and waiting expectantly for the changes that mark the end of this year and the beginning of the next. Ready or not, here they come.

Sitting in our front room a few days ago, I glanced out the window into the dark of our cul-de-sac and noticed something moving. I believe it was a coyote but I couldn’t really see him directly. I sensed his movement from the corner of my eye, but It was more like an absence in the space he occupied, a blank outline in the shadows that was different than the yards, houses, and bushes, in the background. It reminded me of certain stars that evade my vision when I look directly at them but appear in my peripheral vision.

Waking on Thanksgiving morning, I found myself reflecting on gratitude…and ingratitude. Gratitude is a feeling; one feels grateful for X or Y. With a bit of focus, I can look around and see the blessings of my life. With intention I can appreciate the people who are such gifts or perhaps the good things that make life enjoyable. Gratitude is a presence – an awareness of a good thing.

Ingratitude is an absence. Like those stars that we cannot see when we look directly at them but somehow we get a glimpse from the corner of our eye. Are they really there? Is that light flickering or more of a place that is less dark? Ingratitude can be subtle – it’s not with intention or effort, it comes upon us unseen, unknown. It doesn’t announce itself like hunger or pain, it quietly twists and warps, wrapping us in the wet blanket of dissatisfaction, frustration, impatience, and self-regard.

Ingratitude moves in the dark, sometimes hiding behind the mask of justice or righteousness. With the right glimpse, it might reveal resentment but it disappears when we look directly at it, slyly slipping away. With some introspection or outside guidance, we might be blessed with some clarity and begin to see our pride and self-righteousness for what it really is: an imposter. Even then, ingratitude continues to hide.

Ingratitude fuels unrest, unease, and discontent, but we often miss it because it lives in the blank space of what isn’t rather than what is. It is the negative that must be held to the light to be seen. And when we see…what an ugliness is revealed. Though it may be hard to see one’s own ingratitude, it is very easy to see it in others. In the other, ingratitude the thing becomes the ungrateful person. Obvious and unattractive. We experience ingratitude and reveal it to others, but it is we who act ungrateful, mostly unseen and unintended. Ingratitude is passive, a corruption of peace and joy.

How do we see it in ourselves? Where there is smoke, there is fire. Look more closely at the moments of unhappiness and anger. Reconsider the annoyances that plague you or feelings of rejection or bitterness. Reflect on people who are unforgivable or those for whom you feel contempt. Take a breath and peer into to the dark places of envy. Do you see it? That shadow moving just beyond your sight, first glimpsed from the corner of your eye? That may be ingratitude haunting your steps.

Gratitude is active and consoling. Sometimes it’s easy – some people and moments make it so because they’re attached to the consolations that feel good. However, to fight ingratitude, we have to dig deeper. We need to go back to the pure moments before expectations and comfort crept into our life. We must return to the firm ground of humility, the place we lived before we believed we deserved anything. Deeper gratitude must be built by revisiting the many moments, people, and things that brought joy, peace, comfort, or safety to your life. Those things which appeared for no reason, unearned and freely given. They were not purchased and were not a quid pro quo. They were gift. Pure and simple gift.

We tend to forget gifts. The dopamine spike of the moment fades and we move on to the next thing. Ours is a world of rising expectations and there are many sources of consolation, the jolt that gives momentary happiness. But like all virtues, gratitude must be cultivated and we must frequently return to the roots where all was new and unearned. Active gratitude chases ingratitude’s passivity away. We have to choose it regularly.

On this particular day, I went back to the beginning, trying to remember my first moments of gratitude. I quickly found myself awash in memories, almost all of which were of people. The blessings of my life flashed across my mind and with them came a wave of emotions carrying me away. Time passed without notice and I lingered among the faces and moments. Ingratitude cannot survive long in such a place and its shadows quickly retreated before the beauty of gifts unearned, moments lost, and people who make life worth living.

Like the stars we glimpsed in our periphery or the blank absence of the coyote in the dark shadows, once we are aware of our ingratitude, we know where to look and how it is revealed. In this way, ingratitude is a choice – we must choose not to see it. We must choose not to resist it. We must choose to be ungrateful in the face of more blessings than we deserve. There is a moment when we cannot see the absence of gratitude, but awareness is also a gift and once we have it, we must discipline ourselves to look for the signs of ingratitude, the great absence that steals peace and joy and hopefulness.

Wherever you find yourself this season, orient yourself toward the east and the rising sun of gratitude. Set your face toward gratitude and the beautiful consolation it promises for your life. For in continually returning to true gratitude, we can weather all winds of change and the inevitable struggles, while living in the hopeful appreciation of gifts unearned and those yet to come.

Driving along State Road 30, the Honoapiilani Highway, toward Lahaina in Maui, we passed a memorial area commemorating the 101 victims of the 2023 fire that destroyed much of the surrounding area. The flowers, lei-draped crosses, and signs, reflected a sadness that still touches the hearts of those who survived. Later that night, our server at the hotel restaurant regaled us with her story from that time, sharing still-fresh memories of the fear, confusion, and horror marking that moment in her life.

Several days later, I found myself speaking with a young man who told me of his mentor who was counseling him on course and career choices. His voice was bright and optimistic, the tone and tenor of one who sees great possibility in what lies ahead. Underneath the enthusiasm was the voice of youthful inexperience, wondering aloud about the choices ahead and their myriad uncertainties. I was struck by his frequent reference to his mentor and their conversations.

Reflecting on that conversation, my mind wandered to my own mentor who died almost exactly a year ago. As I reread what I wrote last November, I felt the passing of time in a visceral way, like the waves of the Pacific washing over me as we floated upon it a few days ago. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I sat in Professor Jerden’s office in the College of Business at Butler University speaking, as he used to say, “of cabbages and kings”? Interestingly, an expression he frequently used that I never looked up until writing this post. It is a line from a Lewis Carroll poem entitled The Walrus and the Carpenter and describes a free-range conversation.

Earlier in November, Sally and I made a pilgrimage to the small cemetery in central Indiana where her father and grandparents are buried. It was All Souls Day and we spent the afternoon wandering among the graves, reading the names and dates, and speculating on the tidbits of their stories that appeared on tombstones. A great gift of my wife’s is her ability, and willingness, to remember. She shared many familiar stories and a few new ones as we looked at the names and prayed for souls who have passed from this world.

In the 1982 film, Blade Runner, the “replicant” Roy Batty delivers a monologue at the end of his life, describing the many grand moments of experience which will be “lost in time, like tears in the rain.” An interesting theme within the movie is the need of these man-made replicants to have a connection to their past, much of which were implanted memories that were not really theirs. We watch as they carry photos and other memorabilia, looking for some kind of grounding and story that would make them more human.

Sitting among the many tabs I keep open on my browser are several obituaries that I cannot bring myself to close. Sometimes I go to them intentionally, but as time goes one, I seek them less but occasionally stumble upon them. The random collisions with these memories are gifts and I always take a moment to say a prayer as I remember the individual and his or her place in my life. But I also feel the pang of sadness at their passing and a deepening sadness at the slow passing of their memory.

Last night, I watched as the chaos of our grandchildren unfolded across the house and into the backyard. No room was untouched, no toy unplayed. The sheer energy of it was explosive, and the only equal to the physical dynamism was the volume of its output. I smile as I think of another Blade Runner quotation, an encouragement to Roy Batty from his creator: “Revel in your time.”

In his book, The Fault in Our Stars, John Green tackles the pain of love, loss, and remembering, as main character Hazel reflects on her love’s death:

“The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory itself, as if the things we’d done were less real and important than they had been hours before.”

The joyful moments of last night have passed and their memory is a far-cry from the living of them, but I am grateful for the pleasure of having experienced them. My time with my friend has passed and though the memories cannot fill the hole left in his departure, the smile of the times we had offers some comfort. The edge of that loss, and the pang of return to it in remembering, only heighten the joy of living the next moment – so much more is the gift of now present in his passing.

All stories must eventually come to an end, but that only increases the preciousness of them along the way. Just as a flower blooms and then passes, so does our time and the memories we gathered along the way – some to be passed along and most to pass with us. However, we have the opportunity to remember today and find the pleasure of memory in moments lived. Not all is lost.

With that, I will close with another movie quotation. This time from Gladiator as Juba buries the figurines of Maximus’ wife and son in the dirt floor of the Colosseum: “And now we are free. I will see you again…but not yet…not yet.”

You must put your head into the lion’s mouth if the performance is to be a success.  

Winston Churchill

Eight years ago, my youngest son, Kellen, and I had the opportunity to attend a launch screening of Darkest Hour at Hillsdale College. The movie tells the story of Winston Churchill and the momentous events of his first four weeks as Prime Minister of Britain on the edge of World War II in May, 1940. The movie powerfully captures the magnitude of the events in this window of history and the complexity of the task before the newly appointed Prime Minister. For those of us poised at our own edges, it provides pointed lessons for bracing oneself in the face of destiny’s call.

Though few of us will ever be called to lead our nation through a moment of crisis, all of us lead lives marked by inflection points. Moments when, prepared or not, we are summoned to face a decision or reckoning that feels bigger than anything we have ever known. Our moments are unlikely to inspire the curiosity and scrutiny afforded the momentous events of Churchill’s life, but they may be equally dramatic and consequential for us and those in our lives. Our lives are imbued with unique purpose and a beautiful gift of our existence centers on living these moments to that purpose amid it’s place in the lives of those around us.

After the screening of the movie, we had the opportunity to observe a live panel discussion between Dr. Larry Arnn, President of Hillsdale College, Gary Oldman, who played Churchill in the movie, and Doug Urbanski, the Producer of the movie. When asked about the project, Oldman and Urbanski used the expression harmonic convergence to describe the unlikely chain of events leading to the development of movie. Isn’t that how our lives work? Plodding away on our daily routine, things wanted or unwanted appear and we are presented with a choice. Our lives reflect a series of harmonic convergences from which we launch into a particular direction and destiny is made. For my part, I don’t believe that harmonic convergences are accidental.

As we consider our own harmonic convergences, what lessons might we draw from Churchill and Darkest Hour?

Last night, we attended a wedding for the daughter of close friends of ours. Watching the couple and listening to the speeches, I was filled with the magnitude of the moment: a great edge as both culmination and point of departure. Looking at our grown children sitting around the table, moments of harmonic convergence flashed through my mind and I was swept away in a sea of images marking some destinations fulfilled and the arrivals yet to be.

What are the moments facing you now? As opportunities to rise or retreat from the occasion present themselves, what will you do? We are all called to leave our own dent in the universe – even if that universe is the block on which we live. The dramas of our days may not be written or recorded but play out quietly before a seemingly indifferent world. So what? Seize them as the moments they are and see your destiny as what it might be: the chance to make a difference. Then embrace that destiny with the resolve and effort worthy of something greater than yourself.

I have competed well; I have finished the race;
I have kept the faith.

2 Timothy 4:7

In the fading afternoon light, the cacophony of starlings caught my ear and then the flock caught my eye. I watched as the flock jumped into the air in unison and moved in mass with singular purpose – a miraculous spectacle known as a murmuration. The migration of the starlings and blackbirds and sandhill cranes mark this moment in time, this distinct change in seasons. It’s difficult not to be swept up in the moodiness of the fall shadows and cloudy breeze backdropped by the great movements of these birds. Watching them move across the sky is to witness the season changing before our eyes, like a mirror to the inexorable shifting within our own lives.

I recently spoke about my entrepreneurial and faith journey to a room of Catholic leaders. Afterward, a number of attendees approached me with comments and questions, all very kind and generous. One in particular caught me off guard. “Thank you for being vulnerable.” I thought to myself, vulnerable? I smiled and awkwardly said “thank you.” I really wasn’t sure how to respond other than to acknowledge what I recognized as an expression of support and appreciation.

What is it to be vulnerable? Exposed? Weak? Less? To be vulnerable is to be at risk, physical or emotional. Had I exposed myself? Did I go too far? Reflecting on the comment later, I realized that it struck me strangely because I did not see myself as being vulnerable in my presentation. Honest. Forthright. Direct. Yes. I shared stories of failure and success, discovery and disappointment, pride and humility. But they were part of the story and I didn’t see any of it as lessening me or elevating me. The highs and lows were just part of the story – shared in the hope that they might enlighten or entertain in some fashion.

Admitting that I’m not perfect and that I’ve made mistakes does not make me vulnerable, it just makes me honest. Acknowledging errors along the way merely affirms my humanity. We are all works in progress. If there was no failure, there would be little to learn. If there was no struggle, progress would mean less and any degree of “success” would be hollow. Yes, I put “success” in quotes – we are all moving along our own path of discovery and growth, a big part of which is figuring out what success really means. A topic for another day.

The crucible of discovery is a gift. My “vulnerability” was actually a witness to discovery. This was the struggle and here is what I found in it and past it. I see that as strength. Those lessons learned cost me something. I paid for them in time, suffering, and skinned knees – all of which I view as gifts. And seeing them as gifts is also a gift.

Millions of Catholics will hear 2 Timothy Chapter 4 proclaimed in Mass today as part of our Sunday readings. Reflecting on this scripture this morning, I was taken back to 2010 and the movie, The Book of Eli. It is the story of a man in a post-apocalyptic America. The land has been burned in a nuclear holocaust and humanity is broken and scattered. The central theme is Eli’s book, the last remaining bible, and his uncertain mission in carrying and protecting it. The tension of the story stems from the book being sought by the boss of a town who believes it will give him the words to control the masses.

The movie is dark, violent, and, ultimately, hopeful. We watch as Eli navigates a dangerous world of motorcycle gangs and ambushes, and we learn how he is special as he engages with this world and what is drawing him on. The culmination of the movie is the hero’s arrival, ironically at Alcatraz, where he delivers his special charge to a community that is trying to salvage civilization by finding and re-printing the great books. The final scene of the movie has Eli, played by Denzel Washington, reciting his prayer, a moving testament to his journey and the entire point of the movie.

I was greatly moved by Eli’s prayer and wondered about it. Looking up the words later, I discovered that the centerpiece of it came from 2 Timothy Chapter 4: “I have competed well; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith.” At forty years ol age and a lifetime Catholic, it is certain that I heard Paul’s words to Timothy many, many times over my life. However, it wasn’t until they found me through a movie that they hit home and produced a movement in my heart. It was both disappointing and profoundly encouraging to make that discovery and reflect on it many times since.

Pope St. John Paul II wrote of the Law of Gradualness, the basic premise of which was that we’re all on a journey and see the insights of life at the points where we are able to receive them. He was speaking specifically to our faith journey but it is such a wise reflection on all discovery. The books, movies, songs, conversations, presentations, sermons, editorials, headlines, et.al. of our lives tend to meet us where we are. There are moments when the clouds clear, the moons and stars align, and we finally get it. The rest of our way is marked by what we don’t see…often because we’re just not ready.

Much has been written on vulnerability, but I think the short summation is that we have grown to protect ourselves behind the masks and facades we create to hide the realities of our humanity: we make mistakes, we often don’t have the right answers, we say silly things, we do dumb things, and we frequently fail more than we succeed. We’ve convinced ourselves that others seeing these things in us makes us vulnerable – it exposes us to ridicule, risk, or may hold us back from the things we want.

In What’s Wrong With the World, G. K. Chesterton wrote, “Not only are we all in the same boat, but we are all seasick.” We are all on a journey, this great adventure we call life. We will falter, fail, learn, and succeed, in various ways throughout our adventure. All of us. Sure, we’d like to experience a bit more of the “success” part but everything we experience is forming us and helping us become. Figuring out that much of what we once thought was “success” is just one more part of the great discovery awaiting us along the way.

There is a place where sharing crosses the line into true confessions and there are simply some mistakes that are not meant to be shared outside of the confessional. However, most of our stumbling is common to our lives as human beings, and the stories we tell often bring the right tidbit at the right time to the right person – meeting them along their own journey of gradualness. We may fear our own lessening in it, but it almost always lands exactly where and when it needs to, and returns the favor in our humbling acknowledgment that we are not perfect.

In whatever season you find yourself, recognize that the giving and the receiving are gifts. Particularly when they humble in their recognition.

“Update from the flight deck. We’ll be circling for a bit as we watch this storm move through Phoenix. We’ve got plenty of fuel but timing could force us to Las Vegas. Please remain seated with seat belts fastened, I’ll get back with an update shortly.” Some hours later, I found myself walking the halls of a massive conference for the self-insured health benefits industry to discover that no one was talking about health. Risk and cost containment were the central theme, which I suppose makes sense, after all, the word “insurance” is really about managing risk. However, in halls overflowing with sport-coats and deal-making, the human being at the center of the $5 trillion American healthcare market seemed strangely absent.

Listening to the presentations and conversations in the halls, I realized that we’re not all trying to solve the same problem.

“We sat there all day, looking at the phone and waiting to fail.” The line really stood out out as the keynote speaker shared his story of starting his “business intelligence” service. A former CIA operative, he described his early efforts to launch his company, not knowing where to begin, and the big breakthrough that came from his duplicitous efforts to convince a large company that his business was really busy working with other large companies. I suppose it is a fitting start to a company with experts trained in espionage but it struck me as a particularly telling keynote address to a conference focused on serving self-insured companies in their quest to manage healthcare risk.

Sleight of hand and smoke and mirrors may win something in the short-term but it is never sustainable. Fooling people to get what you want really is a “waiting to fail” strategy.

“It’s totally bomb.” I waited for “dude” to be added to the end of his sentence but it didn’t come. Caught somewhere between 60’s flower child and millennial “you do you” vibe, I found his big smile and innocent energy totally endearing. The young bartender was busy telling me about his “drift car” and the thrill of taking it around the curves of a track at high speed, letting the rear-end “drift” around, keeping it just at the edge of losing control. The hotel bar was filling fast with a mix of tourists and regulars who appeared to be receiving treatment at a nearby hospital. The young man moved effortlessly between me, a few older couples across the bar, and a middle-aged man sporting a very large Crucifix on a thick gold chain beside me. The decaf espresso apparently workable with whatever treatment he was undergoing.

Between tidbits of car talk, photos of he and his girlfriend at prom, and his various creative interests, I watched as he “drifted” around the bar, somehow sustaining a half-dozen similar conversations while never losing a handle on the wheel of this eclectic gathering. I watched as people came and went, drifting in and out of conversations, while this young man remained fully present to each one, through courtesy and discourtesy, unflappably fulfilling his duties. I paused as I was leaving, waiting for eye contact – he caught my eye and smiled. I thought to myself, “I see you.”

“I decided that I really liked my wife.” Now about 25 minutes into my speech to a room full of Catholic couples, the crowd laughed at my anecdote from our journey on the Camino de Santiago in 2019. My presentation attempted to weave elements of Dante’s Divine Comedy with my entrepreneurial and faith journey. The image on the screen was a shot of me standing at the base of the Cruz de Ferro (Iron Cross) atop Monte Irago in northeast Spain – about 350 miles into the 500 mile journey. As I spoke, I remembered an encounter with some Americans who did a couple of stops on the Camino on a bus tour. A woman remarked, “That’s a lot of time to spend together. I don’t think we could do it.”

A tradition at the Cruz de Ferro is to leave a stone as a symbol of leaving something behind or acknowledging the “why” of your journey. I remember an overwhelming sense of gratitude at that particular moment, realizing that I had nothing to leave behind and everything to move forward to. I really did like my wife. And, I still do.

“It’s Blair, Pop,” Cooper said, pointing to my right. Looking up, I saw her standing at the edge of the patio in the dark. “I want to go home,” she said and proceeded to bolt across our backyard. We were cleaning up from a bonfire and festivities when this little three-year-old decided she didn’t want to spend the night and was simply going to run to her parents at home a few yards away. Fortunately, I’m still relatively quick and had her in my arms in about six strides. After a bit of negotiating, she decided to stay and even wanted to sleep with her big brother and her poppy. At 3am, I noticed her sit up and felt her looking my direction. She snuggled close to make sure I was still there.

The beauty of being three is the freedom to be three. We all want what we want, when we want it. One of the great gifts of maturing is the opportunity to learn the super-power of self-control. Mastering one’s passions, the emotions that can float to extremes from moment to moment, is tremendously challenging and remains a battle for all of us at all stages of life. How often does my inner three-year-old emerge to test those around me?

“Oh my!” I hit the brakes and pulled the car to the edge of the roundabout. Sally looked at me as I jumped from the car and ran around to where the young man was laying on the ground. His bike had slipped out from under him on some wet pavement and he went down, sliding into a four inch curb along the pathway. I saw it happen. My wife’s 35 years of nursing experience emerged as she assessed the situation and kept everyone calm, directing as needed. Fortunately, young Mason was wearing his helmet and somehow avoided a face-first encounter with the curb. Sporting a skinned knee and possibly a thumb fracture, he would live to ride another day.

Lead, follow, or get out of the way? I may have CEO on my business card but one of my most important skills is knowing when to defer to the person with the right experience for the situation.

These stories are from the last seven days. Seven days. Our lives are full of such moments. Some are more dramatic than others but life is happening all around us. Do you see it? Do you see the people moving in and around you? Do you see the opportunities, the shifting sand, the signs appearing to indicate your way? Do you see the suffering, struggles, and places where healing is needed? Do you see your place in this great drama?

Moving through the airport, the hotel lobby, the mall, and even the side of the road this week, I was struck by the noise. There is so…much…noise. images and sound. Motion and activity. All of it makes it so very hard to see the reality of our life. So hard to see our place in it all – where, what, and how we are called to be from moment to moment. Do you see it? That’s your life – it’s happening, whether you see it or not. The invitation is there, waiting for you to accept and respond to it.

A few months ago, I found myself standing in line to pass through security at the airport. There was nothing especially notable about the experience. I followed my normal routine, putting my wallet, watch, and phone in the appropriate pockets in my backpack, removing my shoes and belt, patting my pant pockets to make sure no random item was left behind, and then repeating the once-over two more times before I assumed the position in the scanner. I don’t really think of myself as a creature of habit but travel is one of those places where the truth reveals itself.

Grabbing my backpack, shoes, and belt, post-scanner, I walked to my preferred bench, sat my backpack in the proper place and proceeded to put my shoes on, right first, then left, put my belt on, and dutifully grabbed my phone from its pocket and put it in my pant pocket. Did I mention that I don’t really think of myself as a creature of habit? Of course, the next appropriate move after security at the airport is a stop for a cup of coffee. After ordering a large coffee (black, please), I reached for my wallet, and realized that I had left it in the pocket of my backpack. Uh oh, a break in the routine.

Smiling at the clerk, I set my backpack on the counter, went to unzip the pocket where I had placed my wallet, and found the zipper stuck. Smiling a bit more intently, I said, “Excuse me a moment,” as I gripped the zipper and gave a few tugs. The zipper would not budge. The line, now five people deep, peered around at me as I realized that this was going to be a problem. A few more tugs and I exited the line to attack the zipper at a nearby table. My routine now completely disrupted, I had no coffee, no wallet, and no idea of how I was going to undo the zipper which I had managed to jam with the surrounding fabric of the pocket itself. My Tumi backpack had become an impenetrable vault.

My fingers were now numb from the effort of gripping the zipper and I felt a bit flush, caught between the comical reality of a jammed zipper and the necessity of needing my wallet. Seeing the Tumi store across the way, I walked across, smiled awkwardly while wiping the sweat from my brow, and proceeded to tell the clerk that my zipper was stuck. She stared at me for a moment but was kind enough not to laugh as we tackled the problem together, finally determining that surgery was necessary. Of course, sharp objects are forbidden in the airport, so we were left tearing at the bag with a staple remover…a strategy that eventually worked.

Finally getting around to purchasing a new backpack yesterday, I regaled yet another clerk with my story as she impassively gave me options for a new bag. As I contemplated pockets and zippers, my mind returned to my routines as the questions of use and storage appeared. I realized that I had been carting my other backpack around for about 10 years and everything had its proper place – now, a slightly different configuration threatened the equilibrium of my storage. After all, where will I put my lip balm without that little interior pocket or my reading glasses without the upper pocket?

Zipper panic now squarely in the past, I’m left with a bit of mourning for the comfortable familiarity of my backpack. Sure, it looked pretty beat-up next to the beautifully unblemished new backpack (complete with all zippers working) but I could find every last bit of unnecessary detritus stored in each of those pockets in the dark. Earlier in the day, Sally laughed as I unloaded a decade’s worth of mystery from the pockets and I wondered if there was a diagnosis for a category of “backpack hoarder.” I knew it all so well but realized that much of it was no longer necessary.

Earlier this year, we initiated a re-branding process for Northwind. Now 17 years into this adventure, the attachments revealed themselves quickly. Logos, colors, patterns of usage, “voice,” etc. Some things have been easier to let go of than others but the process presents its own opportunities to declutter, reconsider, and adjust, the patterns and assumptions that have become so comfortable. Like the different configuration of pockets in my new backpack, the process has forced me to rethink my routines – my habits – and assumptions around our business, how we communicate, and what best supports the mission.

Looking at our beautifully simple new website and the clean, clear narrative, I’m reminded of the importance of looking on the old with new eyes and continuing to ask the questions: what are we doing and why are we doing it? For Northwind, the why has not changed and the what continues to evolve, but there is no panic, no doubt in the movement forward. The truth of who we serve and the results of those efforts continue to speak for themselves.

I really loved my old backpack and it served me well. But this new one is a bit lighter, has a bit more to offer, and looks amazing. I am certain it will be perfect for the next trip, the next meeting, and probably the next ten years. And if a zipper should get stuck somewhere along the way, no need to panic, I now know how to properly use a staple remover.

“Did Robert Redford die?” The question hung in the air for a moment as my mind struggled to absorb the question and implication. I was a bit surprised by the sensation – a strange combination of disbelief and that surreal feeling of metaphysical ground shifting around me. I wasn’t so much saddened, but more shocked at the feeling that something significant had changed in the world. If I was an actor and filmmaker whose work had spanned 66 years, I suppose “significant” would be a word I’d want attached to my legacy. Yes, as I consider it, “significant” would be a very nice word.

Charles Robert Redford Jr. died on September 16, 2025. My first recollection of him was his role in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid followed by The Way We Were – films I saw with my parents at a drive-in theater in Indianapolis in the early ’70s. I don’t think I would have described myself as a Robert Redford “fan,” I came to age preferring action movies over his more dramatic roles, however I read a description of his on-screen presence as “magnetic” and feel that is an apt characterization. Robert Redford was an American Icon.

Like so many things of my life, it was Sally who brought me to true appreciation of Redford later in his career as a director. Watching The Legend of Bagger Vance, she commented: “Robert Redford is a great storyteller. I love the pace of his movies – he’s willing to let the story unfold.” Storyteller. Pace. Unfolding. A few more great words to lay beside “significant.”

In remembrance, we decided to watch some of our favorite Redford movies this week. We started with my favorite, The Natural, released in 1984 and starring Glenn Close, Kim Basinger, Wilford Brimley, and Robert Duvall alongside Redford. Redford plays Roy Hobbs, a baseball prodigy whose career is derailed by health issues after being shot. Hobbs returns to baseball at the age of 35 and proceeds to become a superstar on his amazing hitting, leading the last place New York Knights to win the pennant in dramatic fashion.

One of the most powerful things I noticed about Redford’s character in The Natural, is how much he does not say in the movie. Roy Hobbs does little explaining and no complaining. Redford is able to convey the weight of moments in very few words, drawing the viewer in with that magnetic presence. Never hurried, the movie and Robert Redford are quite comfortable letting the story unfold. The movie is adult but reveals much innocence in its portrayal of imperfect, but good people, alongside their corrupted counterparts.

There is a nostalgic wholesomeness in the movie and much of it lands squarely on Robert Redford’s imperfect Hobbs whose only aim was to “be the greatest ever.” “Is that all?” Glenn Close asks. She plays his high school girlfriend, left behind as he went off to pursue his baseball dream and disappeared from her life after being shot. Later, she reveals to him that he has a son and the movie closes with Hobbs playing catch with the son he never knew he had.

We followed The Natural with Out of Africa, an epic drama set in British colonial Africa during World War I. Redford’s character is an American hunter who becomes involved with the Baroness Blixen, played by Meryl Streep, during her efforts to build a coffee farm in Nairobi, British East Africa. The story is complex and layered, blending the intricacies of human relationships with the tectonic shifting of the world at the end of British colonial dominion. The unfolding of the drama of their relationship amid the greater drama of the world around them makes for a powerfully engaging movie. Streep and Redford are outstanding.

Redford did not direct either of these movies but they reflected his presence, pace, and his storytelling style. Both films are unhurried. They are not in a rush to get to the climax and seem very comfortable living in the tension of the relationships and situations. This seems to be a hallmark of Redford’s career as an actor and a director. There is no striving to entertain, no grasping for reaction – only an authentic faithfulness to the story itself and an invitation to be moved by it.

I didn’t know Robert Redford and am only familiar with a portion of his work. However, I am moved by his passing, the story of his life, and the art he created to invite us in to those stories that moved him. There is a great lesson for each of us in his willingness to let those stories unfold and his devotion to his art. Our world has lost something in his passing but we remain blessed with the legacy of his efforts.

Miss Cristina drives a 944
Satisfaction oozes from her pores
She keeps rings on her fingers
Marble on her floor

David & David, Welcome to the Boomtown

Miss Christina came to my mind this week in a couple of dining experiences in which I found myself less than satisfied. Everything was fine. The food was fine. The service was fine. The experience was adequate. However, my expectations were not met and I was disappointed. Where was the hospitality? The fine wines? The captivating list of hors d’oeuvres, entrees, and desserts?

Reflecting on it, I realized that, though I do not have a 9-4-4, rings on my fingers, or marble on my floors, these simply adequate dining experiences messed with that satisfaction I hadn’t noticed oozing from my pores.

No one likes to be disappointed and, generally speaking, we don’t like to disappoint others. There is a tension in disappointment and it is usually not pleasant. Not getting what we want irritates us. Not giving what someone else expects feels like failure. At the same time, we know we can’t live in a state of satisfaction.  It cannot always go our way nor can we always meet the expectations of another.

But what does disappointment tell us? Considering my dining experiences, did I have reasonable expectations? Was it the service and food, or was it me? Having expectations is not a bad thing and receiving value for what one pays is perfectly reasonable. However, we get very comfortable in our expectations. What I want, when I want it, and how I want it become fixtures in our lives. What might my disappointment have been telling me about my own sense of satisfaction?

Disappointment is like an opposing muscle to satisfaction. If there is imbalance in opposing muscles, the joint cannot work properly. In this case, we might say the “joint” we’re working between satisfaction and disappointment might be peace and joy. If we always get what we want, the joy of satisfaction fades and we’re left with the petulant oozing of our expectations. If we’re always disappointed, then we’re left with a dry joylessness. Too much of either and we cannot flourish – there is no peace in the extremes.

Beyond our own disappointment is that place where we disappoint.

There are moments when we screw-up and let others down by being inconsiderate, insensitive, or oblivious. Sometimes it’s no fault of our own – we cannot always anticipate the wants, needs, or state of mind of the other. We are human, mistakes are made, and someone is disappointed. At other times, we act selfishly, indulging our own desires while knowing that they will hurt or frustrate another.

But most of us will go to great lengths trying not to disappoint other people, especially those close to us. This is often a good and necessary thing – it is an act of charity to anticipate the needs of another and strive to meet them. Of course, the danger here is the tendency to indulge the other to please him or her. A great danger of satisfaction is that too much pleasing makes us soft and less able to cope in the moments we are displeased.

Many years ago, I found myself in a disagreement with a friend that became a little heated. I don’t remember the specifics but I do remember putting pen to paper in a letter that began: To those I love: At some point, I will let you down. I will disappoint you. Please know that it is not intentional or out of a lack of love… Ok, you get the gist. The letter was never shared, my friend fumed for a moment, then we carried on.

We continue to see a deep struggle with disagreement within our society. Why does it drive so much emotion? I think disappointment has a lot to do with it. With my friend, I saw a particular situation differently than he did and he became irritated with me because he was disappointed that I did not see it his way. He wanted me to agree. He wanted to be right. He expected me to understand the clarity of his correctness and was frustrated when I didn’t.

When we become attached to our rightness, our expectations, or our desires, we are set up for disappointment. Of course, being right, having expectations, and having desires are not inherently bad things. But our fixation on them can become a stumbling block with other people and disappointment naturally follows. That is perfectly natural. However, an overly developed satisfaction muscle or under-developed disappointment muscle weakens our ability to navigate, and cope with, the disappointment. Peace disappears in frustration.

At its heart, disappointment is a state of not getting what I want or expect. When people cannot manage their disappointment, they tend to act out. Tantrums are not a pretty thing with children and can become quite dangerous with adults. The desire to force others to our will is natural, and acceptable, when we’re 2 years old. It’s really ugly when we’re adults.

The next time disappointment rears it’s head in your life, ask yourself, “what might this disappointment be saying about me?” rather than starting with what it says about the other. You may note some satisfaction oozing from a pore or two.

Every Sunday after Mass, we host a brunch for family members who are able to join. This routine has been a tradition for many years and has evolved from the days with just our children to include grandchildren, siblings, and friends from time to time. Our place of choice includes our trusted friend, Travis, who knows what we want before we sit down, self-serve coffee, and placemats and crayons for the kids. The paper placemats have a menus and activities on the front and are blank on the back.

Every week, each of my grandchildren asks me to draw a picture on the back of their placemat. Alas, I am no artist, but I do have some standard things I sketch out that somewhat resemble the intended subject. Walking past our table on a Sunday morning, one might see rough drawings of World War II bombers, fighter jets, submarines, rockets, battleships, castles, hot air balloons, barns, tractors, cars, trees, flowers, or mountain fortresses drawn with a view of the activities within. These sketches are suspended in time as reflections of my10 or 11 year old self and those moments of interest…and artistic development.

Occasionally, I’ll be asked to draw a dragon or a cat or some other creature, at which point my rudimentary skills fall-off precipitously and I’m relegated to stick figures and cartoonish looking characters that even my supportive grandchildren find less than inspiring. When I am asked, I go to the things I know and can draw quickly. When I attempt the things I don’t know, or haven’t tried before, the process slows down dramatically and I realize how much time, effort, and focus it takes in the unknown. That process can be frustratingly uncomfortable.

Watching my son-in-law working with the kids on throwing and catching the baseball the other day, I heard him say “two hands while learning” as he taught them to trap the ball in the mitt with their free hand. I also noticed the phrase appearing while they were shooting and passing the basketball. The words have been echoing in my mind as I’ve reflected on change and the radical discomfort that comes whenever we move into the unknown places that demand new things of us.

For all of us, the ability to stick with something through the discomfort of learning it determines whether or not we move to a greater state of mastery. Kids often get impatient with this zone of incompetence because it can be maddeningly slow and what they really want is the joy that comes with mastery. But children also have the gift of curiosity, single-mindedness, and time, that helps them push through the mundane to high degrees of mastery. When they become captivated by something, they can move into the repetitive cycle of “do it again” that gets them past the discomfort of incompetence.

As we get older, this becomes more and more difficult. We tend to avoid things that demand us to endure the extended discomfort of incompetence and the single-minded focus required to move past it. We want to go to the castles, planes, and hot air balloons that we already know how to draw.

This is why change can be so difficult. Change demands something. It’s going to cost us comfort, clarity, and maybe even our pride. In his book, From Strength to Strength, Arthur Brooks argues that we start to decline in our physical and intellectual capacities pretty much as soon as we hit adulthood and then offers some strategies for navigating the inevitable to find joy along the way. I think one thing he misses in this journey is our inclination to avoid things that will help us grow because of the discomfort that comes when we step into the unknown places where we have no mastery.

Yesterday, I smiled as I watched my four-year-old grandson ride his tricycle with no hands. Two hands while learning, indeed! The creative effervescence that is youth and the fearlessness of leaping before you look is a super-power that experience can extinguish. But all of which we are now capable was once unknown and the faltering steps we took to learn it was uncomfortable. We may have lost some pliability along the way, but there are plenty of possibilities to learn to draw new shapes, catch new balls, or ride new bikes, before us.

We just have to be willing to slow down and keep walking through the frustrating and sometimes scary unease of using two hands while learning.

In the 2007 movie, The Bucket List, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman portray two terminally ill men who create a list of “must-do’s” that they determine to pursue together before they die. Their “bucket list” takes them on wild adventures around the world and includes such things as racing classic muscle cars around a race track, skydiving, and kissing the most beautiful girl in the world. When Nicholson’s character adds the “kiss” item to the list, Freeman responds: “Kiss the most beautiful girl in the world? How do you propose doing that?”

Nicholson responds: “Volume.”

Later in the movie, we see Nicholson’s character knocking at the door of his estranged daughter. He meets his grand-daughter for the first time. After she gives him a kiss on the cheek, he pulls out a ragged piece of paper with all but two “bucket list” items marked off and puts a line through “Kiss the most beautiful girl in the world.” The last item on his list? Being buried on top of Everest…a feat managed by his loyal assistant in the final scene of the movie.

This post was started three years ago and came to mind yesterday as I gave my granddaughter, Reagan, a kiss goodbye when I dropped her off at a birthday party. Again, when I gave her sister, Blair, a kiss when I stopped by their house to remove a Nerf dart from a drain. (I’m still not sure how that happened). And again, when I was leaving and kissed their baby sister, Marin, as she smiled coyly at me from the safety of mom’s arms.

I realized, I’ve got a collection of “most beautiful girls in the world” surrounding me. Our son-in-law had an all day commitment yesterday, so I played chauffeur and general support resource for the many things that must go on in the daily carnival of a young family. For me, it was a day of deja vu as I watched dance lessons that took me back to our little Macy’s dancing days as well as the glimpses in the rearview mirror of the Jeep, top down, with little Reagan in the back…an image that took me back to days when her mom rode in the back of the Jeep with her blond her blowing in the wind.

Yesterday’s nostalgia train didn’t stop with Reagan’s drop-off after the birthday party. Shortly after, we found ourselves at a Mass being celebrated by a beloved priest, now retired, who’s nine years at our children’s grade school saw each of them graduate from 8th grade and encompassed our youngest’s entire elementary and middle school career. Speaking to him at a reception afterward, I described the beautiful ordinary of our days with our children nearby and the frequent presence of all of our grandchildren.

Laughing with old friends that evening, we spoke of our grown children, upcoming weddings, grandchildren, and the hopes of these new seasons. Another movie came to my mind as I felt the bittersweet joy of time’s passing alongside all of the joyful becomings happening all around. In 2014’s, Wish I Was Here, Zach Braff’s character is bedside with his dying father, played by Mandy Patinkin. Patinkin’s final words of wisdom to his sons, “If there’s a next time, I’ll try to do better. So fast…try to remember how fast it goes.”

As entertaining as the movie was, I find that I don’t believe in bucket lists. As Americans, our drive to get to the next thing already causes us to struggle mightily with slowing down in the moments that we find ourselves in. We receive constant streams of images and headlines reminding us of how much more fun, more fulfillment, and more stuff everyone else around us has. We live in a world where we can have, see, do, pretty much anything we want, anytime we want. There is always the next thing. There is always more. Right now never seems to be enough.

A friend mentioned a “bucket list” trip to another country. I responded that we have so many places we want to see in Europe and to return to in the states that we likely would never get to that particular country. “Oh, we probably won’t go, it’s just on the list.” Ah, yes. The list. Does an unchecked item on a list mean we failed? The crazy thing about a list, is that it tends to become it’s own end. Even crazier is how quickly we move on once we’ve checked an item off of it.

Another movie line comes to mind. This time from 2010’s The Way. Emilio Estevez’s free-spirited character tells his more grounded father: “You don’t choose a life, you live one.” There’s a lovely tension between the life we’re busy creating and the many things that interrupt our intentions. Living happens along that edge. I realize that I never had to put “Kiss the most beautiful girl in the world” on any bucket list. I’ve been living it for over 37 years.

And, my girls keep getting more beautiful over time.