Phillip Berry | Orient Yourself

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.

My daily commute to our office runs along a collection of Indianapolis city streets taking me from the suburban to the urban. The drive normally lasts about 30 minutes and runs through charming and not so charming parts of our fair city. Where interstate travel is a blur of cars, road structures, billboards, trees, houses, and buildings, driving through the city is stop and go, affording one many up close and personal glimpses of humanity, existing in its many varieties. Charming and not so charming.

The last couple of miles of my daily drive moves through narrow streets, closely edged by sidewalks amid old neighborhoods. Stopped recently in a line of cars along one of these streets, I noticed two men walking on the sidewalk on both sides of the street. The slowness of their shuffling and the curious positioning of both at about the same point on opposite sides of hte street caught my attention. Both were dressed in ragged clothing, dirty and disheveled, and moved with their shoulders hunched. They were walking toward my position but the direction seemed random, unintentional…the sidewalk moved them along but they didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

As they came close, I could see their faces more clearly. Though they looked at the ground, I could see the blank, listless look in their eyes – it was a vacant stare toward nothing in particular and I was struck by the depth of its emptiness. I wondered about them, where they had come from, where they were going, why they were here. I assumed they were on drugs and homeless, likely pushed out of the previous night’s accommodations by someone like me who didn’t want them on the front porch of their business or school or park. My assessment might not have been fair or just, but it was a relatively educated guess.

As I watched them move toward, beside, and then past me, Billy Idol’s haunting1983 song, The Dead Next Door, came to mind:

Watch the sky
For a reason why
I’m safe here
Sunday it was part
Monday it was none
Monday was none
For the dead next door
One pair of silent terror reins

And we’re the dead next door
The heat of the day fades away
Fades into the night
The heat of the day
Offering a wedding
Suffering away
For the dead next door
You see
One error, silent terror
And we’re the dead next door

The few feet between myself and those two men ambling by seemed a gulf of inestimable distance, and yet, they may have once driven along that same road looking at two other human beings wondering the same things I was wondering. What brings a person to such a place of lifelessness?

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to attend a men’s retreat. One of the topics that came up focused on the idols of our lives. Oh yes, we all have them. Everyone worships something. Everyone gives their heart and energy to something. One of the great challenges of our human existence is the propensity for the good things of this world to become bad in our single minded pursuit of them. The right ordering of our desires is a constant struggle. As I write this post, an ad for online poker and the promise of smoke-free gambling in the comfort of my own home comes on, offering one more opportunity to distract and entertain myself to whatever extent I desire.

Follow your time and money, there you will find what you worship. The idols of our lives rarely look like calves, but they are often quite golden.

Later, driving in the pristine comfort of my own neighborhood, I crossed a beautifully paved trail full of bikers, runners, and walker. These suburbanites were clean and properly attired in the latest in athleisure-wear from Lululemon and Vuori, moving with purpose. No shuffling directionlessness here. Stopping at a crosswalk, I noticed a man pushing a stroller holding a little girl. She was about 2 years old and he was a young, fit dad, taking an opportunity to have some special one-on-one time with his little girl. He passed in front of me, one hand on the stroller and the other holding the smartphone into which he was staring.

Frowning, I thought to myself, what are you doing? Then I noticed that he seemed familiar to me. Pausing for a moment, I realized that it wasn’t him that I recognized, but I did recognize the vacant, distant look in his eyes. He wasn’t in that moment, he was far away, distracted from the life happening all around him. He was traveling through scores, or email, or instragams, or stock quotes, or headlines. His head was pointed downward and, though his shoulders were only slightly hunched, I saw the reorientation of vision from what’s ahead and around to the slouching gaze of what’s in that little device.

Looking around, I saw it everywhere. People walking or riding with their phones out. Some were looking at their phone or talking on it, while walking with another person, others were ambling along by themselves, oblivious to the world as they stared at the screen. Many bikers had their phones bracketed on their handlebars. I thought to myself: we no longer need a chemical to numb ourselves.

Billy came back to my mind:

In animal land
And dark is in command
One thing you should know
Don’t hear that knocking
Don’t eat out of their hand
Don’t stumble, die
You say
Don’t stumble, cry
They see you and me
You and me
With the dead next door

Listening to a young man describe the irresistible pull of his phone and I thought of the lifeless utility of immediate gratification that comes with such an always on, infinitely available resource. I noticed the difficulty he had with casual conversation, the awkward, halting sentences and expressionless reaction to questions and humor. He wasn’t humorless or lifeless, but he struggled to interact…and he recognized the struggle. His was a struggle with human connection. “It’s just easier to go to the phone.”

We’ve all taken a bit of the Apple and this is the great drug of our time. The numbness and distraction that come with it threaten to make each of us the dead next door. We carry our idols in our pockets and they are no longer sacramentals like a Rosary or a Cross. They talk and listen and entertain and promise…more. Always more. The great utility of our time is making each of us utilitarian and the numbing expectation of everything all the time is turning our eyes more and more inward. Not toward the depths of our soul, but toward the depths of our desires. All the way to the bottom.

Reconsidering his song, I wonder if Billy might rework the last line:

They see you and me
You and me
Now, we’re the dead next door

Looking down at my keyboard, I see my phone laying there. Easy, accessible. Calling. Always calling. Aristotle challenged us to aim for the Golden Mean – the prudent middle of the extremes that persistently pinball us through our days. The things of this world call and our great struggle is to rightly order them with the desires that drive us. To be fully alive is to empty ourselves in love for the other. All else is trying to fill a hole that will never be filled with the things of this world.

Walking out into the dark this morning, I was greeted with an incredibly clear sky, resplendent with stars. Right now, Venus and Jupiter are bright white and close together in the east. Orion appears more to the south with his unmistakable belt, formed from stars named Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka, lining-up vertically to the overall constellation which runs parallel to the horizon. His right foot is marked by Rigel, the brightest star in Orion and the one marking the bottom of the “T” which St. Therese of Lisieux once looked upon as the first letter of her name. Nearby, Lepus, the hare, waits…is he being hunted by Orion?

Twelve hours earlier, I was standing in the same place in our yard watching our grand daughter, Blair, run across two neighbor’s yards, shirtless and shoeless, loudly greeting us, falling and getting back up, determined to see her Nanny and Poppy. Her mom, carrying baby Marin, was a few steps behind the nearly three-year-old little fireball, laughing and encouraging her little runner all the way. No less bright in the sunshine than Jupiter or Venus at night, I smiled at the chaos of toddler-dom in Blair’s wavy, flowing hair, weaving trajectory, and wildly joyful face. She was her own day-lit constellation.

Earlier in the day, we enjoyed lunch with Sally’s mom, now in her mid-80s and navigating the glories and challenges of long life. We happened upon a reminiscence of a family trip during the 2012 Summer Olympics, one you’ll remember as being marked by Carly Rae Jepson’s unforgettable “Call Me Maybe,” lip-synced by the beloved stars of the American men’s and women’s swim teams. Pulling up photos, we laughed as we shared stories of the trip and the fancy dinner I hosted as celebration for a company win that I can’t even remember. How thirteen years flies, the faces in the photos change, and life carries us on.

A few hours before our lunch, we were in the backyard, drinking coffee, eating kolaches, throwing the football, and blowing bubbles with four of our grandchildren who had stayed the night with us. Their parents had joined us and the maelstrom of shoeless kiddos in their pajamas and endless wonder, questions, and energy enveloped us. I laughed as the 8-year-old Cooper crushed me in checkers and not even the 5th cup of coffee could help me keep up with the pace of all four.

Where does one go after such a day? Reflecting on the joys of our day with a couple of Emma Stone margaritas, Sally and I reveled in the memories of our 2012 family trip to Amelia Island, the gift of her mom’s sharp mind and memory, the proximity of our children and grandchildren, and the grand adventure of it all. Watching the quirky Four Weddings and a Funeral a bit later, I was reminded of the many gifts that pass unseen in the toil of our days and how frequently our own neurosis get in the way of the joys sitting right in front of us. Of course, love eventually finds all of us, even if we get in our own way a bit more than we’d like.

In addition to the stars this morning, I was greeted by Chapter 11 of St. Paul’s Letter to the Hebrews: “Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen.” What is it we hope for and what are the things, despite the evidence all around us, we are not seeing?

There is a grand adventure happening and we’re right in the middle of it. The troubles that befall us, the people that besmirch us, the plagues that bedevil us, the struggles that beleaguer us, and the sorrows we bemoan are only part of the equation that is our becoming. There are also wonders that invite us, beauties that beguile us, loves that enrapture us, moments that capture us, and opportunities that enliven us.

Though I reflect on the evidence of things unseen today, I realize that I have seen much. I may lament the uncertainties but the evidence counters my doubt, the moments defy my discouragement, and the real joy standing right in front me challenges me to rise to the occasion of my own life.

Your life is a grand adventure and there are blank pages yet to be filled with the words, deeds, and moments that will echo across all the other pages of those living alongside you. The bright stars that are joy and peace and love mark the constellation that is our heaven on earth, and we get the chance to move within it every, single, day. It is the greatest of gifts and the most fitting way to give thanks for it, is to live it well – to live it fully and faithfully. And, if the things unseen persist in troubling you, just remember all the good that you have seen and know that faith and hope also are gifts.

Of course, we have to be willing to accept them.