Phillip Berry | Orient Yourself

In The Beatles’ 1967 hit, A Day in the Life, John Lennon and Paul McCartney take turns describing a random day of headlines and moments. The songs’ lines could be from any day and the fact the song was literally written with a newspaper in front of Lennon and a nostalgic memory from McCartney makes the whimsy of it work in a classic and unexpected way. The singers alternate their portions and we’re given a glimpse through their eyes of some moments that, for whatever reason, struck them. From Lennon:

I read the news today oh boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh

The poetry of the lyrics leaves us wondering. The gaps in the story left for us to fill as we wonder about the singer’s reaction in that moment. Lennon finishes his airy reflections on the headlines and the song shifts into an up tempo rhythm for McCartney to take us through a morning, it could be any morning, of getting ready and into work:

Woke up, fell out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up I noticed I was late

Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke
And somebody spoke and I went into a dream

Catching up with others at two events this week-end, I was asked a couple of times “What have you been up to? ” and then “How are things?” Reflecting on those questions, a tidal wave of thoughts and images washed across my mind, and I realized that 2026 has entered my life in a particularly kinetic fashion. The notions of “What” and “How” have no simple, or succinct, answers in the context of the first 39 days of the year. But isn’t that just life?

Any window of time we randomly grab might run the gamut of human experience: joy, sorrow, ease, struggle, and all the wondrous variety they encompass. The changing of a calendar year creates its own energy in the compression of time to a point of ending and then its launch into the newness of time beyond…but we will likely find plenty of life’s drama in any 30 day window we review. Drama is of course a relative term, not all human drama merits deep reflection, but the point of it is story, and the narratives in which we find ourselves can serve to entertain or enlighten; they can also serve to inspire or caution.

In the spirit of all of the above, please allow me to share a few reflections from 2026 so far.

“Why do we fall, Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up.” That nugget of wisdom comes to us from the 2005 movie, Batman Begins. A young Bruce Wayne has fallen into a well, breaking his arm. As his father carries him into the house, he serves up a line that comes back later in the movie when an adult Bruce Wayne is facing calamity in what looks like the end of the beginning of his career as Batman. The good Alfred reminds him of that moment so many years earlier.

We all love a winner. Watching the waves of red-adorned fans appear across Indiana as Hoosiers watched the impossible happen for the IU football team, I was caught up in the thrill of the story of Cignetti, Mendoza, and a performance excellence that seemed impossible. Cignetti’s matter-of-fact confidence and Mendoza’s faith-filled aura of goodness added fuel to a fire that needed little stoking. A legend is born.

End results simplify the notions of perfection and excellence. A winning score makes it clear, an undefeated record marks a place of flawlessness. Unblemished, not marred by even a single loss, we are affirmed in our assessment of greatness. But the final numbers hide the imperfections along the way. They smooth the particular errors, mistakes, misjudgments, and flaws, that accompany all human endeavors. It all seems so certain in the end but it is always wildly uncertain in the doing.

Behind the headlines of such flawless performances, are errors beyond counting. Myriad moments of what might not have been. Forks in the road between flawless and flawed. A score or record may be perfect in the sense of an absolute outcome, but that journey is comprised of moments that always includes faltering, stumbling, tripping, in the time-honored tradition of human error. The real story is the grit, the will, the focus, and the recovery from mistakes, that must happen before any inspiring narrative can come to grip our imagination. We only get there by falling, and learning to pick ourselves up, many times, before the end result affirms any level of greatness.

Do I see the struggles in my life as opportunities to pick myself up? Am I missing great progress because I’m stuck on what’s not flawless?

A few weeks ago, I was in a studio in Colorado recording a podcast with the Catholic Benefits Association (CBA). The organization exists to help protect the conscience rights of Catholic employers. I had been invited to a discussion on Northwind’s approach to health benefits and how our approach might serve CBA members. One thing that really struck me about this organization was its focus on educating member organizations on alternatives to the many drugs and procedures that we often turn to as “easy button” answers to many of the ailments of life. This low-intervention disposition mirrors our own philosophy of empowering individuals to better manage their own health.

A key tenet of Catholic social teaching focuses on the dignity of the individual in the context of how we relate to the larger communities in which we live. Solidarity is a term that refers to those communities and the Church’s call to unity for the common good. Parallel to solidarity is the concept of subsidiarity, the notion that individual human dignity is best served on the local level and that each person should be empowered to have the agency to direct their own life in the context of the community. In other words, we come together in community to protect each other and leverage the power of more while we push decision-making agency as close to the individual as we possibly can.

At the beginning of the year, I committed to a program called Exodus 90, a ninety day process of self-denial, fraternity, and prayer, to detach oneself from some of the goods of our world that have become distractions to a fuller, more faithful, and more joyful, life. There are nine men in my fraternity, ranging in age from 16 to 69, and it has been a beautiful journey of friendship in becoming better men for those in our lives. By detaching from social media, screen time, and a number of other comforts, we create space for relationship, leisure, and greater self-awareness.

This is my 7th “Exodus” and perhaps the most fruitful journey yet. The journey is one of freedom from the many attachments that entangle us and prevent us from being the men we’re called to be. However, the power for me has been in the community, the solidarity, of accompanying and supporting others in their own journeys. We are all gifted with agency over our own lives – the power of choice and initiative. The things that numb and distract us can become impediments to living fully and freely in that agency – that opportunity to be all that we were made to be for those who most depend on us.

What are the things that hold us back from living fully? Are we a light of hope to the world around us? Are we helping others live fully in their own agency?

On a trip to a recent conference, we met a man named Amin. He was born in Marrakesh, Morocco and moved to the United States about 12 years ago. Amin was working at the hotel where we were staying and took care of us one evening in the restaurant. Recently married, Amin told us about a week-end trip to Malibu with his new bride, who was an immigrant from Korea. A wealth of information, he made numerous suggestions for places we should visit while in Santa Barbara and shared some of his favorite discoveries.

We saw Amin several days later, during the final event of the conference. He saw me across the room of about 500 people, smiled broadly, came over, and hugged me. As I reflect on this young man, I wonder, what was it about him that made him stand out? What made him so striking and memorable? We were at a conference of leaders and academics, smart, successful people who were doing great things in the world. There were so many wonderful people.

However, the most memorable person we met was this thirty-something man from Morocco working at the hotel. Why? Amin glowed with a joy for life. He spoke with awe and wonder about America, the beautiful places, and the beautiful people. He was grateful for his job and delighted with his life with his young bride. He was excited about items on the menu and the many interesting places in the area. He was proud of his roots in Morocco and I suspect he meant it when he said that he would show us the joys of his homeland if our paths ever crossed there. He was happy to be alive and it showed.

Am I memorable? I wonder if I gave Amin any reason to remember me.

“And somebody spoke and I went into a dream.” Paul McCartney’s line fades into a vocal harmony cascading into an oblivion that leaves us wondering, where did he land? Lennon closes the song, “I read the news today oh boy.”

Our lives are these beautiful, amazing, surprising, disappointing, and ever-changing paths to our own becoming. A day in the life is now. It’s happening. The magic and the memorable is moving in and around all that we do. Are we seeing it? Are we living it fully?

February is here. Sun or snow. Light or dark. Seattle or New England. The extraordinary is happening amid the ordinary and time is marching on. Where are you at day 39, 2026? Where will you be at day 89? Silence the noise today and take a moment to reflect on these questions. The opportunity to shine remains, and someone somewhere needs that special light of yours amid whatever darkness they’re encountering.

I recently had the opportunity to speak to the Indianapolis Chapter of Young Catholic Professionals. The group brings together professionals in their 20’s and 30’s looking to live their faith more fully in their work life and build relationships with others seeking the same. My talk centered on my career and faith journey over the last 35 years, focusing on some key discoveries along the way.

As I opened, I quipped that, walking-in to the meeting, I finally realized that I was no longer a “young Catholic professional.” Speaking with members of this group individually before and after, I also realized that my existence as a “young Catholic” was nowhere near their level of understanding or devotion. Such is the journey of life and discovery.

In the Q&A at the end of my talk, a young man asked about “work-life balance.” Work-life balance has been a recurring theme throughout my career: in the headlines, in the office, and at home. The concept has gone through a few iterations but remains relevant with the prevalence of dual working parents, divorce, the trend toward grown children not living near their parents, and the myriad demands on parents and their families. The many things of life and changes in traditional support structures can create a sense of imbalance in our many priorities.

My quick response to the question was: I don’t believe in work-life balance. Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about the subject and recognize that such a response is provocative, perhaps even a bit antagonistic. I followed with: there is no balancing working and living, there is just living. I proceeded to talk about living an integrated life. As I later reflected on my answer, I realize it was incomplete. I understood the spirit of the question but may have focused a bit too much on semantics.

The question of work-life balance is really about time. The thing we struggle with is the spending of our time and the sense that we’re not giving one thing or the other enough. Usually, that “thing” is a person. We feel imbalanced when something we see as a priority – often a person – isn’t getting the time or attention we, or they, feel should be given.

Speaking of semantics, now we see the first word that matters: priority. Like our money, how we spend time indicates our priorities, our loves, our attachments. We must first be clear on our priorities before we can even begin to reflect on whether or not we are spending our time appropriately. Normally, the balance question centers on work and family. Does my work consume a disproportionate amount of time relative to my family? After we’ve answered the priority question, we have to answer the expectation question. What is your vision of how time should be spent in your priorities? If someone else is involved, what is their vision? If you have different expectations, the issue isn’t really about balance. It’s about coming to a shared understanding.

The first step in solving any disconnect is about reconciling expectations – it’s not about balance. It’s about desires and preferences. If we’re talking about children, it comes down to vision and priorities. What do your children need? What do you want to give or feel you should be giving? What does your spouse expect? From there, we have to honestly assess how we spend our time. Perhaps it’s not work that is really the issue but TV or sports or some other interest we’ve prioritized.

Work and family are primary vocations. Everything else is a secondary vocation or just an interest. It may be important, but it’s not the same priority. Or is it? We need to fully live each vocation to which we’ve been called. This means showing up when, where, and how, we need to. We need to make choices that create an integrated life – not one or the other but all of the above. We also need to recognize when a lower priority is impacting a higher one.

Many years ago, there was a cliche accepted as wisdom about marriage being a 50/50 endeavor – each spouse needs to do his or her share. Imbalance creates dissatisfaction. I remember my sense of surprise when I later heard a speaker say it wasn’t true. If its going to work, he said, marriage demands 100% from each spouse.

Juggling is often used as a metaphor to reflect the notion of work-life balance, but it is an act which no one can sustain indefinitely. Joy and peace are found in living fully in each of the places we’ve committed ourselves. We have to give 100% to the vocations to which we’re called. From there, we begin to realize that the “time” issue is really about correct choices based on our priorities and shared vision.

Next, we reconcile the differing demands of our vocations by realizing that life moves in seasons. There are seasons for planting, seasons for growing, seasons for reaping, and seasons for waiting and replenishing. There is a time for all seasons. The demands of the season will change. None of them last forever. We can’t juggle a season – there is no balancing planting and harvesting – both must be done…both must be lived fully in their time.

Choices must be made in the day to day, but balance is the wrong goal. You can’t balance love of a child with your duty of work. You keep loving even as you are working. Choosing to live your work duty fully is not a rejection of your child, it is an example to him or her. It becomes problematic when our choice of one duty eclipses our other priorities. This is not imbalance, it is disorder.

Sometimes the season we are in demands more in one facet of our life than another. Young children may demand more from us than teenagers. A new job or project may consume us for a time. The key is recognizing the season we’re in and making sure those in our life share our understanding of its demands. The season will ebb and flow but your life, and relationships, goes on.

We win in this by keeping our center always before us. We lose by equivocating time and affection and responsibility. There is a time for work, there is a time for leisure, there is a time for homework, and there is a time for date night. But these times don’t lessen or change our ultimate priorities. These are daily tides that must ebb and flow, but they are just part of the ocean in which we exist. Tides aside, we find ourselves floating in the ocean of our heart and soul, the loves we hold close in those waters, and the virtues that define us.

When it comes to primary vocations, it’s not either or, it’s both and. The rest is seeing the seasons and the tides, then focusing on shared expectations. We come to find that we’re not balancing anything but pouring ourself out into what matters most to us. Then we’re on to the next season.

Our eye turns toward balance because something feels out-of-whack, imbalanced. That feeling reflects disordered choices amid priorities. We can choose to sacrifice a season or a relationship or our virtue in the name of power, or pleasure, or stuff, or glory. But that’s not really about balance. Properly centered and properly chosen, we live in a daily flow of tides amid the seasons of our life. We come to find that we can “have it all” by recognizing the tide and the season, and helping those in our life see them. It is not something to swim against, but flow along with.

For those accompanying us, our right choices, right sacrifices, right efforts, and right sharing, help affirm the truth along the way. All will be well. I am here. I see you.

Live your season. Trust your tide. Don’t fight them by aiming for balance. Live them fully by embracing the moment and reassuring yourself, and those counting on you, that your choices are rightly ordered, you are fully present and working to be fully alive in your vocations, no matter the season.

The Holidays are past. Christmas trees are piled for mulching. Ornaments are put away. Unwanted gifts are returned. Reflecting on the season now past, I consider the many people with whom I was able to spend time, the many notes and cards and texts, and the beautiful opportunity to share goodwill with those in our holiday circle. We can’t see everyone we’d like to see but we work to keep in touch with people. In some cases, this is the only time of the year we communicate but it is still lovely to check-in.

Why is that? All of us maintain many relationships. Sometimes they are seasonal, closeness coming and going through a part of our life. Sometimes they are family bonds, connected in shared blood and history. They may be work related or school or church – the communities within which we move. We have neighbors who we see intermittently, interacting through a wave or a smile passing on the street. Our level of contact is driven by the closeness of the relationship and sometimes once a year is enough.

What is a relationship? Between people, a relationship is an ongoing exchange, an investment of time in encounter. There are obviously different types and levels of encounter, but they all are sustained through some degree over time. They all require an ongoing set of choices: am I in or not? What do I invest in this? How much and how often?

Digging a bit deeper, we can see that there are elements that reflect the intimacy of our relationships. Things like love, trust, belief, and forgiveness form the bedrock of our closest relationships and are critical to sustaining them over time. Though there are many feelings associated with these elements of our relationships, like the relationship with the person him or herself, they require a choice. We choose to love, to trust, to believe, and to forgive.

Looking at them a bit more closely, we begin to see that behind the relationship with the person is a relationship with those elements. How so? I suggested earlier that a relationship is an ongoing exchange but most fundamentally, it is a choice. To be ongoing, an exchange must be chosen. Again and again and again.

Do I choose love? Do I choose belief? Do I choose trust? Do I choose forgiveness? These are not one-time events, they are ongoing choices. The degree and frequency we choose them, defines the intimacy of our relationship with the other person. Therefore our relationship with love, the way we see it, engage with it, and choose it, underpins our relationship with the person with who we choose to share it. Can I believe? Can I trust? Can I forgive? They follow the same pattern. What is my relationship with each?

Each of these relationships demands its own effort. It must be worked-at, maintained, re-chosen.

But forgiveness is a special case. A difficult one. Like any relationship, it’s not a one-time event. We may choose to forgive, but that doesn’t mean the hurt is gone. It doesn’t mean the failure or mistake is wiped away. Like love, there are many feelings attached to it but they are not joyful or pleasant or desired. To choose a relationship with forgiveness will be demanding – it will cost something. It’s a choice to be in a relationship with pain, difficulty, and discomfort.

And that’s really, really, tough. No one wants a relationship with hurt. Every time it comes around, we’re reminded of injury and our own vulnerability. Such hurt is often a great injustice and sometimes there is no reparation – some wrongs can’t be made “right.” Like the people we choose for relationship, we have to keep choosing forgiveness. Or, we don’t. And it’s often so much easer to walk away from it.

But like the human relationships we choose to sustain, forgiveness gets better over time. Our relationship with it, deepens, becomes richer, evolves. And like those very few relationships that form the cornerstone of our most joyful existence, forgiveness can lead us to a version of ourself we didn’t know could be. It is a relationship that can bring us to fullness of life, moving us to something more than where we started. Over time, forgiveness can show us something greater than the cost of the hurt which first introduced us.

Eleven days into the new year might be a good time to reflect on your relationships behind your relationships. What is your relationship with love? Trust? Belief? Gratitude? They are worth investing-in, nurturing. What about forgiveness? Perhaps it’s that relationship you really didn’t want, which bears fruit in the most profoundly unexpected ways.

It’s better to risk boldness than triviality.

Here we are, a new year. The holiday parties are over. Unwanted gifts returned. Resolutions made. The first Monday of the 2026 is upon us. What’s it going to be? Where will you go? Who will you become? What will change? What will happen?

Thinking of the new year, the word boldness came to mind, reminding me of a post I wrote in 2022. Reading over it this morning, I can still hear the whisper echoing across the years. Pause and listen for a moment…you might hear it too.

From July 27, 2022.

Waking up today, I grabbed my cup of coffee and headed into my Holy Hour. What’s a Holy Hour? For me, it’s prayer and meditation – a chance to spend time with God. At 4am, the house is silent, my head is clear, and the day is still to come. When you clear your head and listen, many things appear. Some thoughts may wander to the day ahead. Some may look at the day behind. Sometimes intractable problems get an answer or the hint of an answer. Occasionally, there is reassurance on your current path or a nudge in a different direction. Often, peace appears when you are able to let go, or at least, loosen that grip on life.

Today, some meditation on Scripture turned into a bit of self-reflection. There are always opportunities for improvement and silence leaves them no place to hide. Rolling toward the end of my Hour, the whisper emerged. Sometimes, there is a whisper.

I made you for boldness.

By itself, today’s whisper is vague and of little value. Is it a call to action? Is it referring to a decision? Is it a reflection on a point of failure? I’ve spent some time with the notion already and will continue to discern it’s broader message. That is the gift of it.

But this post isn’t about me. It’s about you. I felt compelled to write it today. For some reason, it needed to be said now.

We’re all made for boldness. We all matter and we’re made to live our lives as if we matter. You see, you are a person of consequence. What you say has power. What you do changes the world.

Most of us spend too much time playing it safe. Living as if we aren’t of consequence. Acting like we don’t matter. Worrying that we aren’t noticed. Scared that we’ll screw up. Forgetting all that we are called to be. Feeling as if no one else in the world sees the infinite potential hidden within.

We are taught to color in the lines. Follow the rules. Wait our turn. Avoid the wrong answer. Respect authority. Know our place. Not to say anything stupid. We are conditioned to fear these and many other failings. We frequently equate our value to how we think others see us. We often act based upon the feelings that plague us.

Along the way, we begin to believe that no one cares. Or, that we can’t make a difference. Our worth becomes the sum total of the indignities heaped upon us over time. All of it occasionally interrupted by the flashes of brilliance that keep us hoping. A small hope that keeps us pressing forward.

In that world, boldness is the radical notion that you are consequential. That you can make a difference. That you matter. Boldness is believing something else than the sum total of those negative messages coming back to you. Boldness is daring to feel alive and vital in the skin you inhabit.

I made you for boldness.

Looking around, I see so much fear. It drives us to do terrible, craven things. Fear causes us to retreat, doubt, and hesitate before the grand possibilities that might be. Station, status, or zip code doesn’t matter. We’re all wrestling with the same demons. Find a bit of success? How dare you! Fall on your face? How dare you! Real and imagined, the demons remain.

What does it mean to be bold in your own life? Firstly, it means letting go of the fear. Fear of what may or may not be. Fear of what others think. Fear of failure. Fear of looking stupid. Fear of disappointing. Fear of a wrong decision. Fear of failing.

Letting go of fear does not mean you won’t feel fear. Letting go of fear begins with realizing that you are not in control, for so often, our fears creep in from the places in which we feel that we are not in control. Let go of control, and the illusion of it, even if just for a moment. You control yourself. You control the choices you make. You do not control your imperfections or the humanity that is our shared condition.

You also do not control what anyone else thinks, says, does, or does not do. That is not your responsibility.

Boldness starts with seeing a better future. Your future. Your family’s future. Boldness is daring to think that you might do something. Boldness is believing you are consequential – that your choices are consequential. Boldness is making those choices believing they will effect meaningful change. Boldness is moving toward your future vision despite resistance. Boldness is being fearless in that pursuit, even when it feels incredibly scary.

Sometimes we have to abandon the good to get something better. Often, we have to leave safety to begin the journey. At least the perception of safety. We’re never as safe as we think we are and rarely in as much danger as it may appear. We must imagine boldly. We must act boldly. We must believe boldly.

Denying boldness is to risk triviality. Smallness. The safe idea? Trivial. The risk-free decision? Of little consequence. The status quo? More of the same. We fool ourselves into thinking that we can remove risk from the world around us. We try to do it for our children. We try to do it for ourselves. Often, we try to do it for our companies, clients, patients, or students. Sorry, our world is full of risks. The dangers are real. To pursue this path is to risk triviality. To chase safety is to accept triviality.

Our companies need bigger ideas. Our business models need imagination. Our jobs need bold energy. Our reflection in the mirror must show determination to be more than we are today. Our challenges must be met with boldness. If we do not risk boldness, we risk triviality. If we do not choose to be bold, we will be of little consequence.

Boldness is not cavalier or foolish. Boldness follows the signs. Boldness is good stewardship. Boldness is showing up and leaving it better than you found it. Boldness is counter-cultural and self-assured. It doesn’t matter where you are. Boldness says “I matter” and I will live in a way that reflects that belief. Boldness is trusting even when I don’t feel it.

I made you for boldness.

The whisper returns. I can’t get it out of my mind. Will you be bold today? Can you be bold? Do you believe that you matter? Is your life of consequence? Whether you recognize it or not, your life is of consequence to someone. Whether you can admit it or not, there are those around you who are counting on your boldness. Don’t risk triviality.

Today, risk boldness. We’re all counting on you.

Last night, Sally and I went to see Hamnet, a movie about the backstory of Shakespeare’s classic Hamlet. No fear, there are no spoilers here. The movie is gritty, moody, and very well acted. It is an interesting and compelling story by itself. However, it was the interspersing of lines from the play itself that brought the movie to life for me in a far deeper way. Attaching some of Shakespeare’s staggeringly beautiful, and somewhat mystifying, words to events of his life – putting them into the deeper context of his human existence – brought an entirely different dimension to them. I cannot speak to the facts of the story, nor do I feel I need to – there is a beauty to the idea that is worthy by itself.

Earlier in 2025, I had the opportunity to read and discuss Hamlet in a course. Before that class, William Shakespeare’s work was quite opaque to me. I recognized famous lines from his plays but had little understanding of, or interest in, their meaning or context. Our instructor reminded us frequently to “attend to the details,” avoiding assumption and even first impressions to dig deeper into what the author really meant. With her guidance, I began to understand the words, see the images, and follow the story. Adding outside commentary, watching Kenneth Branaugh perform it, and discussing the play brought it to life in surprising and delightful ways. With understanding, it became powerfully beautiful.

Just over a year ago, we were standing in the Musee D’Orsay in Paris, looking at a dizzying array of works of art by people like Van Gogh, Renoir, Degas, and Gaugin. I recognized the names and many of the paintings looked familiar. Time was short and there were many, many things to see, so we raced through, trying to put our eyes on a few things that struck us. Curiously, the most memorable thing in that museum came while walking through one of its cafes. Glancing up at the skeleton of a giant clock on one of the walls, we noticed a window behind it with a clear view of Sacre Coeur, the beautiful basilica on the hilltop of Montmartre.

I viewed so many paintings that day, however, the image of Sacre Coeur stands out in my mind. The beautiful, white travertine limestone and striking Roman-Byzantine architecture, fill my mind’s eye. We had been there the day before and had spent several hours exploring her vaults, gazing at the artwork of her design, and learning of her history. The Basilica is beautiful to behold, but the details of its design, construction, and story brought it to life – gave it dimension beyond its towering edifice. Sally and I smiled broadly at the beauty of the vision, then laughed at the irony of seeing it amid the priceless art of the gallery and the croissants of the cafe. Knowing it made the Basilica more fully alive to us.

There are untold glories hidden in the specific but we miss them. Ours is a culture so often content with skimming along the surface. We are addicted to soundbites, platitudes, and headlines. We stand up, snacking on the crumbs at the counter, rather than sitting down to the five course meal hidden in the particular. We listen to podcasts and books at 1.5x or 2x speed so we can get through more quickly. We binge and fast-forward on shows, trying to squeeze as much as we possibly can into the allotted sliver of time. We race through museums so we can say we saw something famous – often stopping just long enough to get a selfie to prove it. Consumed with telling our story on Instagram, we miss the amazing story hiding behind us. And within us.

Down the street from the Musee D’Orsay is the Louvre, holding the famous Mona Lisa, painted by Leonardo DaVinci in the 16th Century. A story unto itself, the iconic Mona Lisa reflects the obsessive genius of its painter, whose use of light and dark – chiaroscuro – and incredibly detailed studies of human and animal anatomy informed and inspired generations of artists and scientists in and after his time. The painting by itself is simply a famous work by a famous artist, having little depth or meaning to the uninformed. But like so many great works, takes on new meaning with understanding.

We see this in so many things of life. Books, movies, buildings, research projects – the size, scope, and complexity of which are beyond comprehension – or at least beyond our ability to invest the time to understand enough to fully appreciate. But much is lost in our cursory passings. Walking through Barnes and Noble the other day, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of books. Old books. New books. Great titles, interesting covers, fabulous blurbs highlighting the incredible stories. No wonder we have book summary services to help us get to the point, get the gist, or get just enough to check the box.

Considering our tendency to race to the finish or skim experiences, I’m reminded of our time on the Camino de Santiago and how many people we found joining the journey with 100km to the destination. After 3 weeks and 400km, we found ourselves in masses of pilgrims wanting to get the compostelo, the stamp of proof, for completing the journey – or at least enough of the journey. We so often approach the epic as a collector. We want to collect the next experience, the next view, the next been-there-done-that. There is certainly nothing wrong with wanting to do, see, taste, or visit as much of this beautiful world as possible, but how much are we getting along the way?

Something happens when we slow down and attend to the details. Sure, we will learn more. Yes, we will see the thing with more depth and understanding. We might come to appreciate it more or perhaps we’ll find that in the knowing, we don’t care for it. We don’t have to love everything. But there is something even greater than the knowing and the understanding by itself. When we engage with the particular, do the hard work of knowing, wrestle with the mysteries that lead to understanding, and dig more deeply to get to the heart of the story, we come to know ourself and our place in the world more deeply.

And we often find that we are changed along the way.

When we dig more deeply, we find the gold hidden in the hills. When we dive to the depths, we find the pearl of great price, the one worth selling all we have to finally possess. There are great treasures buried in the details. It turns out that within the particular is an undiscovered country: revelations about life, others, and ourselves. Beauty revealed only after great toil and the price of sacrifice. It is a a place that can only be found with significant effort, there are no shortcuts or Cliffs Notes.

Most importantly, we discover in going deeper, that the point wasn’t finding something else to collect, but someone else to become.

Last year’s big Christmas gift was an automated espresso machine. Our coffee tastes have evolved over the years, but a couple of trips to Europe showed us that there was a tastier world of coffee than what we experience with hot water pressed through plastic pods. This machine has it all. Pictures of every coffee beverage one can imagine and endless combinations of water, grind, froth, intensity, and temperature. We bought the automated version hoping to take the guesswork out of the myriad settings and quickly found our way to desirable combinations which we locked-in with a lovely save feature.

There is something so wonderful about knowing what to expect every morning when we press the buttons. We were able to set it and forget it, knowing that we had the proper formula for a hot, tasty beverage every time. Looking around this morning, I was struck by how much this thinking permeates my life. Our thermostat is set at the proper temperature. Our gas fireplace comes on at the right flame level when we flip the switch. My Airpods give me the right volume as I listen to my Blade Runner station on Pandora, and the Apple ad reminds me how easy it is to buy Christmas gifts with all of my payments options properly set and saved in my virtual wallet.

We absolutely love these formulaic conveniences. I really notice it when some app has the audacity to ask me to re-enter a password or a Microsoft update forces me to wrestle through additional security validations. How many times have I fumed over extra steps to get logged-in that slowed me down from the quick look I needed at email or Teams? With the advent of commercialized artificial intelligence, we are promised the opportunity to set and forget huge chunks of our life, including annoying things like writing and thinking for ourselves. Who wants to waste time having to think about what to right on a post or an email?

The predictability of these many modern conveniences is great comfort to our need to know what to expect. Having the right formula to produce a desired result is an incredibly comforting state of being and, given the choice, we would likely choose to set and forget most aspects of our life…particularly when it comes to people and decisions. Imagine the power of knowing the proper formula to win arguments or the recipe for making billions of dollars or the correct algorithm to win elections. Many of us have imagined such power, that is why there are huge dollars spent on the many people, products, and services, promising to provide such things.

There is an app, consultant, algorithm, and now AI, to solve all of our greatest challenges, ranging from staying young, to finding love, to getting elected, to losing weight, or getting smarter, or winning business, or making money, etc. We can quickly find an answer to anything and there is no shortage of people willing to help us spend our money to find those answers so we can set and forget the struggles that hold us back.

Of course, the messy nature of our existence makes it impossible to solve the many struggles quickly or easily. Relationships are difficult. Markets are challenging. Electoral issues are transitory. Consumers get bored, scared, or distracted. Followers decide to follow someone else and influencers become less influencing in the shifting sands of taste and trend. No matter how hard we try, it’s hard to be right when so there are so many ways to be wrong.

Oh, and how we hate to be wrong. We don’t like it when our formula doesn’t work, and we like it even less when the person sitting across from us is right. Being wrong is right up there with losing on the scale of annoying facts of life. Being wrong is so infuriating that we’ll often burn relationships down before we admit it. We do the same thing with investments, deals, companies, laws, policies, research, etc. History is littered with the destruction of bad choices and I suspect that much of it stems as much from the inability to admit to being wrong as much as being wrong itself.

Yet, there are so many success stories despite the fact that we are often wrong and that it is really, really hard, to admit it. Successful relationships. Successful entrepreneurs. Successful politicians. Successful research projects. Successful individuals in all sorts of endeavors. How do we reconcile our capacity for being wrong with great results?

Steve Jobs was wildly successful by many measures. The Apple products that still dominate our consumer world many years after his death stem from his obsessive vision and drive for elegant design and simplicity. Despite what looks like one unified vision for the future from a single genius able to see something we didn’t, the truth is far more complicated. Or simple, depending on your point of view. Jobs was hard-driving and tyrannically stubborn, however, he often changed his mind, adopting countering views after tirades tearing them down. Sometimes almost instantly.

Some viewed this as mercurial, lacking conviction, and maddening, as he would rarely admit his error and often claim the countering idea as his own. Not the greatest example of leadership. However, he was willing to changing his mind and that in itself, was an admission of being wrong. Even if he didn’t say it out loud. Politicians are often criticized for flip-flopping on positions. Winston Churchill was one of the worst. Or was it the best? Sure, one may change a position due to public opinion or for political gain, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t the right decision to make. Admitting one is wrong, whether expressly or in making a different decision, is often prudent and necessary.

Walking away irritated from a recent argument, I found myself reflecting on my own need to be right. I recognized in the exchange that in some ways, I was right, but I could also see where I was wrong. Going a bit deeper, it isn’t hard to find a similar pattern in other arguments, business decisions, or personal choices I’ve made. Looking back on the building of our company, the many forks in the road, the numerous mistakes, and the persistently imperfect information that accompanied all of it, I realize that from a percentage point of view, I may have been wrong more than I was right. And yet, we’re still here.

The hard truth is that I often make mistakes, choose wrongly, or see things incompletely. However, through the great gift of Grace, I have been able to see it, and admit it, often enough to keep moving forward. Thank you to all those who continue to help me see the light every day.

Life is a long game. There is no secret formula. No algorithm to avoid the mistakes, no AI to show us the right path, no technology to enable us to be right all the time. However, the ultimate road to flourishing might depend less on what we did right than the times we were able to admit we were wrong. We come to see that getting to right often passes through the frustrating valley of being wrong. And that’s ok.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Shakespeare, The Tempest

Who would have suspected that the number one item on 8-year-old Cooper’s Christmas list for 2025 would be an Indiana University football helmet? The Hoosiers went to 13-0 after defeating Ohio State for the Big 10 Conference Championship last week. Last night, IU quarterback Fernando Mendoza was awarded the Heisman Trophy. To grasp just how unlikely this turn of events really is, one need only look at IU’s football season history, a winding journey of losing seasons interspersed with a few brights spots dating back to 1887. The Hoosiers were 1-8 in 2023.

I have not watched a single IU game this season and have only casually followed a few headlines. However, watching my grandson, IU hat on, tossing the football to himself in his snowy backyard reminds me of the power of stories to capture our imagination and the powerful dreams those stories foster. The unlikely nature of this particular story heightens its power to fascinate and make us wonder, what happens next?

Today, retired quarterback Philip Rivers will start for the Indianapolis Colts. Rivers, who has not played an NFL game in five years, starts today after practicing with the Colts for a week. This season for the Colts has also been quite a story. Shocking the NFL world with a 7-1 start on the surprising play of quarterback Daniel Jones, the Colts hit some bumps before Jones’ season ending Achilles injury last week. Backup quarterback injuries drove the team to get creative and the world is treated with the plot twist of Rivers’ unlikely return to professional football as a player.

The only thing more interesting than the twists and turns in this story may be the reactions to it as commentators’ heads explode with criticisms, prognostications, and quippy headlines. Whatever happens today, the drama of the story will draw fans and critics into its magic, surprising some, disappointing others, and giving all some fodder for conversation. For my part, I hope Rivers kills it.

There is something epic about such stories. Big decisions. Big implications. Like a movie or a play, we get to watch it unfold, follow along, love it, hate it, reflect on it. The news cycle gives us a chance to play along in our own way, engaging with the commentary, following the reactions, discussing it in our own circles. In a small way, we become a part of the story, or at least make it part of ours for a while.

Why do grown men in red, logo’d sweaters get so worked up about a team they’ve never met or a result that has zero implication for their life? Why do grown women in blue tops with rhinestone horseshoes emblazoned on them, sitting near the roof of a 2 million square foot stadium, yell at men in striped shirts on the ground far below? Walking into that story, they become a part of it. The drama that unfolds on that field and in the movements around it, are part of our own story. We belong to each other in a strange and magical way.

Thinking back to that little boy throwing his football to himself in the cold and the snow, I remember the old legends that inspired me. The ones in which I was the hero. We all want to be caught up in the unlikely adventure where we star, or at least have a part to play, in the great drama. Our imagination is engaged and we enter the arena, mattering in some small way to the outcome.

Of course, there is a special purity to the 8-year-old version of the story. Joyful and innocent. Alas, we can no longer claim the innocence of that vision or the self-abandonment of pretending to be the player at the center of the battle. And though it is easy to criticize the cynics and the greed and the arrogance that accompany most tales that capture such headlines, we must remember that those too are part of the epic, necessary to the drama that is our human existence.

Perhaps in celebrating the unlikely victories, the great Heisman heroes, and the comeback stories, we remind ourselves of the epic nature of existence and the rich texture of human dramas within it. In riding along on these adventures, maybe we remember that we’re still alive, there are dreams left to dream, and we might one day be called back to something epic ourselves.

Or, maybe we find ourself called to the backyard and the snow and the football hitting our cold fingers…all in the loving service of that little boy dreaming of the greatest thing he can imagine. Maybe we are already part of the most dramatic story we could have ever imagined.

I know what I have given you…I do not know what you have received.

Antonio Porchia

One of my favorite childhood Christmas movies was The Little Drummer Boy, the story of a little boy who finds himself standing with the Magi in front of the newborn baby Jesus. The humble orphan has nothing to offer the newborn King except the gift of his drum playing. “I have no gift to bring, that’s fit for a king. Shall I play for you on my drum?”

The little drummer boy reminds us that it is not the grandeur of our gift that matters, but the love with which we give what we do have. Pa rum pum pum pum, indeed.

Getting into our car after dinner last night, we were delighted to find two colored pictures laying on the console. Our six-year-old granddaughter had snuck out and placed them there during our visit. Throughout the evening, she had made several comments about the car doors being unlocked and she reveled in the orchestration of her plan, teasing us with hints and sly smiles.

For a child, such a gift is an invitation to encounter. I’m thinking of you. I want to give you something special. Here is what I have to offer. It’s a physical manifestation of love and a sharing of affection. The child’s gift is her creativity, her effort, and the fact that you were on her mind to begin with. Our granddaughter’s gift-giving ingenuity only added to the delight.

The Christmas Season brings many conflicting sensations around gifts and gift giving. The commercialization of the holidays can quickly turn the entire process into one more project with a long list of boxes to check. Working from wish lists, we search for items, colors, deals, and improvisations, when the ideal cannot be found. In the case of major misfires, the ubiquitous gift receipt protects us from total failure.

Looking at those colored pictures laying on my counter, I smile at the beauty of such a creative gift. There is no contrivance or checkbox. No wishlist or sizing. Little Reagan simply used what was available to her and put her time into it. She poured herself into the creation and then creatively delivered her work to us. The beauty isn’t finally in the craftsmanship or colors, it is in the self-giving love in the act of giving itself.

We can easily see such beauty in the work of our children and grandchildren. However, with a bit of awareness, I start to see it other places. Dinner last night was prepared by our son-in-law. He came up with a plan, bought the ingredients, and delighted in the preparation. His creative vision yielded a first time effort at whole Branzinos (European sea bass) which were delicious. It was a gift of love.

Looking around my house, I see a small painting of the Cristo Redentor statue in Rio, created for us by one of my sisters. On the wall near where I sit typing this post, I see a string-art cross created by another one of my sisters. On the piano is a framed water color by Sally, depicting the Holy Eucharist. The bulletin board in our kitchen is covered with pictures colored and drawn by our grandchildren; each with our names prominently written at the top so we are clear they were made for us.

Such gift giving is an invitation to encounter. Acts of creation are so very intimate. They make us vulnerable in that they come from inside, from our personal store of capacities. They reflect a skill or insight, a particular thought and effort. We know what we’re giving but we don’t know how it will be received. When we give such a gift, we want the receiver to delight in it. And we want them to delight in us.

Of course, we want any gift we give to delight the receiver. But we open ourselves differently when we create. The child is unencumbered with fear of failure, rejection, or imperfection. Like the little drummer boy, she gives what she has, such as it is. We adults see the blemishes, the rough spots, the crooked lines, in the things we create. So much safer to buy the properly engineered, the beautifully designed, or the perfectly produced.

There are many opportunities for creative, heartfelt, and generous gifts to be purchased and given. Many of us will delight in fun, interesting, and needed, items this season. However, I wonder if we can find some room for the intimate, the risky, the bold, and the simple, that comes forth when we draw, paint, write, perform, prepare, or craft.

The proper response to any gift is to delight in it and in it’s giver. But we find particular delight in the innocent beauty of the gift created specifically for the other. The unique gift that cannot be returned or exchanged.

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.”