Author: Jason

I would like to tell you the story of the greatest milkshake ever made.

Although it happened in Wisconsin, the land of dairy cows, it could have been anywhere, and it could have been concocted by anyone. It was made in January, a month not particularly ideal for milkshakes, at least in Wisconsin.

The hourglass of my father-in-law’s life was down to its last grains of sand. Gary suffered from severe rheumatoid arthritis since being diagnosed as his marriage was just getting started, and he suffered heroically. I don’t think there was a day he wasn’t in pain, although most days, you wouldn’t have known it.

I doubt the doctors expected him to live much past fifty.

He made it to an early retirement after qualifying for disability at 55.

And there he was, still going at 77.

But as it is with all of us, time is undefeated. He landed in the hospital, and as the doctors tried to fix one issue, another emerged. They were like sailors trying to bail out a boat that had sprung a leak. Any success was followed by another leak, and then another, and another.

Gary was a house of cards. All the medication, therapy, and artificial joints were no longer enough. The house was falling, and Gary was out of fight. He’d finally had enough of the pokes, the prodding, and the pain that would have done in lesser men decades earlier. When given the option of halting all tests and treatments to round third on his journey to his real home, Gary eagerly said yes. Arrangements were made for him to be transferred to a hospice center. It was a wonderful time of relief and peace for him and the whole family.

One particular moment stood out to me.

In the first hours after his arrival, the hospice team gave him a menu and told him to pick whatever sounded good. It was his first chance to eat real food in weeks. Gary scanned the menu, but what sounded best was not on it.

“Boy, I’d really love a chocolate shake. Can you make me a chocolate shake?”

They could have said, “Sorry, that’s not on the menu,” which is a close cousin to “It’s not our policy.” They could have even softened it by saying, “But we’d be happy to bring you absolutely anything on the menu.”

If they had said that, I wouldn’t be telling you this story.

Without hesitation, the nurses jumped into action. It took a while to pull things together, but they eventually emerged with a chocolate shake.

And then a miracle happened.

It reminded me of something Willy Wonka would have been proud to create. This seventy-seven-year-old man, who was completely spent from a fifty-plus-year fight with a devastating disease, magically transformed into a seven-year-old boy. Joy burst forth as he attacked that shake with reckless abandon. He was no longer a broken-down body in its last days; he was a zealous youngster who would not be cheated out of even one sweet spoonful of that delicious treat.

It was a magical moment.

A Milkshake Moment.

A Milkshake Moment is when you embrace an opportunity to use what you have on hand to ease a burden or enrich someone else’s life, making them feel seen and valued. It may not be everything you wish you could do, but at least it’s something. Something is always better than nothing. And sometimes it’s the best thing because it comes from the heart.

A Milkshake Moment is the encapsulation of the value of whimsy and the supernatural power of small things.

We almost always wish we could do more. We see what’s possible if only we had a little less regulation or red tape, a little more money or time. It’s frustrating.

The tragedy is that too often, we let that lack keep us from doing anything.

If they could have waved a magic wand, I’m sure those nurses would have loved to give Gary another five or ten years of pain-free living.

That wasn’t something they could manage, so they made him a milkshake instead.

It may not have seemed like much. A drop in the bucket in the grand scheme of things. Something they probably thought little of.

But they made him feel seen.

They made him feel special.

They delivered a time machine that made him a boy again, reminding him of the sweetest parts of life while serving up a small foretaste of Heaven.

And that’s not nothing.

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🤔 I wonder…what’s a milkshake moment you’ve had the chance to experience?

I recently spent time tracing the footsteps of Orville and Wilbur Wright.

I had two speaking engagements in North Carolina, less than a week apart. Rather than fly back and forth, Kim and I decided to have me stay down there. She found me a cool place on the Outer Banks, near Kitty Hawk, where the Wright Brothers had their historic first flight. I used the time to think, pray, and make progress on my first-ever children’s book about, of all things, a penguin with a dream of flying.

It felt perfect, and you can be sure I will be sharing more about my experience in the weeks and months to come.

One day, after spending time on the beach, I took the boardwalk back to my condo. There on the handrail, I spotted a rock. I identified it as a “kindness rock,” but rather than being a more typical hand-painted version, this one was engraved with a Bible verse. 

I was going to leave it there until I remembered something I wrote a few years ago: these are made to be left behind for someone to find, and whoever finds it is who it’s for. 

I was definitely the one who found it, but still, the fancy engraving almost prevented me from taking it. Alas, my disdain for hypocrisy prevailed, and I picked it up. 

Here’s the crazy part. Just that morning, as I was praying and pondering how to use the remainder of my life, I was listening to a reflection on a meditation app called Hallow. The person was sharing some of the things God says to us in the Bible. I recognized a snippet from a passage in Jeremiah: “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord. ‘Plans to prosper you and not harm you, to give you hope and a future.’”

I remember thinking to myself, That’s gotta be my all-time favorite Bible verse. It’s served as a source of great comfort so many times in my life, especially when my dreams felt like nothing more than figments of an overactive imagination.

I’ll let you guess what verse was engraved on the rock I found.

In many of my speaking engagements over the last year, I’ve encouraged people to follow the example of Mister Rogers, who was a master at making people feel seen. He did this by practicing what I call the intention of attention. He intentionally paid attention to whomever he was with, making them feel like the only person in the room. He’d notice something special about the person and share his observations with them. 

We can do this, too, and we should! I always remind people that the more specific we are in our compliment, the more the other person feels seen because it’s obvious that it’s not a generic praise that could’ve been given to anyone.

I think this is how God works, too. The rock I found on the Outer Banks in North Carolina that featured my favorite Bible verse during a time I was specifically pondering my future is but one example. 

I’m no theologian. I am not armed with bulletproof arguments for the existence of God that will win over the most ardent atheist. All I have is my personal experience including many moments like these.

Some call them Godwinks. Some call them coincidences. Because I have encountered too many of them that have been too personal, and too specific to things only my heart is privy to, I ascribe to the idea that “coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

If you’ve never had one, here’s an idea: why not ask for one? If there’s one thing I know about God, it’s that he’s ridiculously generous in showing Himself to one of his children who is earnestly seeking Him.

Too often, however, we find ourselves feeling unworthy to even ask, afraid of what he might say, or so sure that we’ll be met with silence that we don’t even bother.

Children have an openness to wonder and enchantment, and a willingness to believe in impossible things. Adultitis has but one mission: to harden our hearts and choke that spirit of possibility right out of us. For too many of us, it succeeds. 

I’m glad it failed in the lives of those brothers who came to Kitty Hawk.

Just as I am no theologian, I am no mystic, either. It’s not like I receive these personalized messages all the time. 

Just often enough to remind me that he’s there and just specific enough to let me know it’s me he’s paying attention to.

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🤔 I wonder…have you ever experienced a godwink or a moment that felt way too personal to be a coincidence?

What’s she up to today?

We’ve homeschooled our kids since day one. Our style is closer to “unschooling” than the “schooling at home” version that was predominant during the pandemic. As such, there is no set curriculum, no set times, and no set workspaces.

I love seeing where my youngest daughter Ginny sets up shop for the day and what fruit will come from her labor. Sometimes it’s in the maker space downstairs with the band saw from Grandpa. Sometimes it’s on the couch in our library. And more times than not, it’s at the kitchen table, surrounded by scissors and markers and her trusty glue gun.

Ginny is always making something. From wood to fabric to cardboard, her creativity knows no bounds. I’ve been making art for almost fifty years, and the way she sees the world and solves creative problems astounds even me.

Sometimes Kim and I try to imagine where all of this might lead someday. We have many guesses, but we know, as Steve Jobs said in his 2005 Stanford commencement address, “You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backward.”

Someday, God willing, if we’re around to see what she’s doing when she’s thirty years old, it will be fun to look back at the dots and say, “I remember when she used to…”

But for now, we know that our role as homeschooling parents is to keep fanning the flame we’ve observed. This includes stopping whatever I’m doing to supervise her on the saw, making countless trips to thrift shops and craft supply stores, and saying yes to whatever project is about to take over the entire kitchen table.

The one thing we don’t want to do is snuff out her enthusiasm by forcing her to spend time on subjects that will make her more “well-balanced.”

It’s been a hard philosophy to abide by, particularly because it goes against that of traditional schooling, of which Kim and I are both products. But we persist, having seen too many kids on the precipice of college with no idea whatsoever what they want to do with their lives, not to mention so many middle-aged adults dissatisfied with careers they have no enthusiasm for.

Writer and philosopher Aldous Huxley said, “The secret of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age, which means never losing your enthusiasm.”

We were each born for a specific purpose, and our childhood leaves clues. Whatever lit you up as a kid is a hint at why you were made and how you should spend your one precious life. 

Granted, it’s too simplistic to assume a direct connection. I don’t think Ginny should prep her resume for Mattel because she’s spent the better part of the last few months sewing Barbie clothes and crafting accessories out of clay and cardboard.

But too often, we are dissuaded by well-meaning adults who see no “realistic” future in our enthusiastic pursuits. Remember, we can’t connect the dots looking forward.

For Wilbur and Orville Wright, a passion for flight began as children, when their father gave them a small wooden toy helicopter from France. Biographer David McCullough wrote, “Orville’s first teacher in grade school remembers Orville at his desk, tinkering with bits of wood. Asked what he was up to, he told her he was making a machine of a kind that he and his brother were going to fly someday.”

Of course, at the time, that was a preposterous assertion. Experts everywhere agreed that human flight was an impossibility. The brothers pursued several career paths before an interest in and study of birds helped rekindle their childhood flame. They never attended college, but mostly taught themselves math and physics by reading books and running their own experiments. This pursuit of deep knowledge was fueled by their passion, not by being forced to take a science class from 10:00 to 11:00 am every day.

This is not meant to be a treatise on the pros and cons of various forms of education.

It’s a reminder that childhood leaves clues and that you can’t connect the dots looking forward.

If you have kids or grandkids, keep an eye out for what lights them up. See what you can do to fan the flames, and don’t worry too much about how well it maps to a potential career path.

If you’re feeling stuck in life right now, look back at what fired you up as a kid. Is there any way you can resurrect it, perhaps in the form of a tinker project? Rekindle that spark, and you never know what wildfire may emerge.

Why are you here? What purpose do you serve? What should be your next step?

These are daunting, intimidating questions.

Just remember that childhood leaves clues.

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🤔 I wonder…is there something that’s a major part of your current vocation that you can trace back to your childhood? if not, could there be?

Candyland is the worst game ever. It’s generous to even call it a game, for there is no strategy involved. I still cringe thinking about the times my kids begged to play it.

Of course, although it may feel like a modern-day torture device to torment adults, it was designed for children. It introduces the basics of gameplay: following instructions, taking turns, and counting spaces.

Eventually, we graduate to a game like checkers, which offers more strategy but is simple enough to pick up in a short amount of time.

And then there are games like chess, which are infinitely more complicated and reward long-term thinking.

As we make our way through life — not the game, the real thing — we encounter a similar progression, starting with the basics in childhood and advancing as we grow in knowledge and experience.

There are times when it feels like you’re playing chess. You’ve got the rules down and are confident in thinking a few steps ahead. You’re making great progress. After a series of strategic thinking and many well-executed moves, you’re starting to feel like a Russian chess master.

Then all of a sudden, life takes a left turn.

You lose someone close to you.

The pregnancy test declares you’ll soon have a new mouth to feed.

You get downsized and are struggling to find a new job.

Your doctor just delivered the kind of news no one wants to hear.

Suddenly, strategy goes out the window. Instead of dominating the board like a Grandmaster, you’re getting triple-jumped and running out of checkers. You’re no longer thinking three steps ahead. It takes everything you have to get out of bed and advance even one space.

Meanwhile, it’s easy to feel frustrated and resentful to be forced to play a game that seems so basic and beneath you. At least that’s how I felt.

A few years ago, I was in the midst of a very long, multi-year chess match. Momentum was on my side. I was finally winning. Then a very non-metaphorical storm came along that overturned my chessboard, and with it, my family’s life and finances.

The season that followed left a dried-up cash flow and a depleted savings account. It felt like I was back in the early days of my business, when our checkbook was always running on fumes and I didn’t know how we’d pay next week’s bills.

After years of financial success and business growth, this was a huge step backward. We were back in debt at no fault of our own, and here I was, having to get creative to pay bills and worrying about the future. I was angry, frustrated, and resentful. Just as I was finally getting the hang of chess, I found myself back playing checkers.

Heck, some days felt like I had been banished to Candyland.

Maybe this describes your current season of life. In situations like these, it seems as though no one can resist telling you what you “should” do. I don’t know your situation, so I can’t offer an opinion about what you should do. But here’s what you shouldn’t do: Keep trying to play that old game.

Sometimes life doesn’t go the way we expected or hoped. Sometimes there are setbacks. Sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in Molasses Swamp. It’s common to feel resentful about being in the position you’re in, especially if you think you should be somewhere different. I know I did.

I figured I had two options. I could be all frustrated that I was forced to play checkers. I could shake my fists and throw a tantrum, screaming, “This is not how it’s supposed to be! I am beyond this. I should be playing chess!!!”

Or.

I could choose to remain calm and play the game in front of me.

It was obvious that I currently wasn’t winning anything. Being angry that I wasn’t playing chess wasn’t helping me win at checkers. So I let go of my long-term plans and spent a good year getting back to basics, making one uncomplicated move at a time. As our situation improved and the game evolved to allow for more strategy, I found that not only was I finally playing chess again, but I’d become a better chess player.

If you’re in a season where your chess pieces have been replaced by checkers, remain calm.

Maybe later you’ll get another chance to play chess, or backgammon, or something else entirely.

But for now, just play checkers and try to win.

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🤔 I wonder…what game does it feel like you’re playing these days?

The grass in our yard is the faded yellow of a brittle old newspaper. 

Had I not experienced it happen every year for nearly a half-century, I’d think it ludicrous to suggest that it would somehow come back to life. But soon it will be a vibrant green, and I will be paying some teenager to drive all over it on a tractor to keep it from growing into a jungle.

Spring is a miracle.

Unfortunately, like most miracles we encounter in life, we don the proverbial “Been there, seen that, got the t-shirt” t-shirt.

I remember planting beans in elementary school, pressing them into black potting soil that was packed into a white styrofoam cup. I remember drenching the dirt with water and placing it near a window so the sun could do its mysterious work. I remember waiting, and waiting, and waiting, before eventually giving my attention to something more exciting.

Then a miracle happened. Unannounced, after God knows how many days, a tiny fleck of color played peekaboo through the dirt.

Little is more miraculous than the transformation of a humble, unremarkable seed into something green, alive, and beautiful. It starts life in darkness, but it doesn’t stay buried for long. Called to the light, it wills itself upward, pushing out of its false grave. It absorbs the sun’s light and the rain’s refreshment and the soil’s nutrients to transform itself into something different and better than it was before. It delivers on its promise of potential, bringing forth something valuable to the world, in the form of fruit, or shade, or beauty.

This is the invitation spring offers you as well.

It’s an opportunity to move toward the light, leaving a dark season you may have been inhabiting. Like a seed, your origins might be humble and unremarkable, but you are given the chance to contribute something special to the world in your own unique way. The world needs what you have to offer.

Of course, none of this happens all at once. Few worthwhile things do.

Remember, the crap you’re dealing with can become fertilizer. And results require time, patience, and attentive weeding of the Adultitis that can choke progress. But when all hope seems lost, often then is the precise time that something new bursts forth, and the promise is fulfilled. We may be surprised by its sudden appearance, but progress has been advancing all this time, albeit in hidden and mysterious ways.

What are you patiently waiting for in your life?

What weeds do you need to uproot, such as distractions, relationships, routines, or possessions that are no longer serving you?

This week, I invite you to draw your attention to miracles. Miracles that reveal themselves slowly, not with a flourish of flair and showmanship, but in a deliberate unfolding of something no less magical.

As you watch spring do its thing, and new life bursts forth all around you, may you be reminded of the power of patience and the miracles hidden within you.

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🤔 I wonder…what is something miraculous you’ve noticed lately?

My dad tells a story from his childhood when he received a report card with less than stellar marks. He didn’t want to show his mom but knew she’d have to sign it before he returned it to his teacher. So he had the bright idea of placing gold foil stars over the offending grades, explaining they were a new sign of stellar performance. Once the signature was secured, he joyfully skipped to school, chucking the carefully peeled-off stars to the wind.

Years later, when cleaning out Grandma’s things, we found the evidence: an old brittle report card with a few stars still holding on for dear life. It’s unknown how many packages of gold stars Dad went through during his career.

Apparently, my grandmother was quite gullible. And if you remember the story I told of the altar my father built for our parish priests, you’ll now see that his actions were not always so angelic.

As we head to the end of the year’s first quarter, I am reminded of report card time, and the version that persists into adulthood: the quarterly performance review.

For those in almost any work environment, these performance reviews are times for employees to celebrate wins and receive constructive feedback from their employer.

As our own bosses, Kim and I conduct a big annual review (we recently shared tips on what that looks like with members of the Wonder & Whimsy Society) and do regular check-ins on walks and date nights.

In some environments, it might feel more like a dog and pony show, but there is a lot of value in taking some time in the midst of any endeavor to reflect on what’s going well and what improvements need to be made.

But why limit this ritual to our school days and professional lives?

Consider this: If you asked your kids to give you a report card on how you were doing as a parent, how would you get graded?

Gulp.

What if you asked your spouse for a performance review of the last quarter, how would that go?

It’s easy to laugh off. You probably just wondered if you’d also be able to conduct a review in the other direction…right?

Or how about an exercise where you gathered three of your best friends to share their appraisal of your friendship?

Work is an important aspect of life, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is more important than our relationships. If there’s value in evaluating how effective we’re being at work, there’s value in seeing how we measure up with the people we care about.

It’s dangerous to pretend that these reviews aren’t already happening, by the way. Unfortunately, we may not realize it until the feedback comes in the form of divorce papers or a broken, estranged relationship with a child. 

Don’t wait till it’s too late. Have the courage to ask for an honest performance review from the people closest to you. 

Here’s one tip I got from author Jack Canfield years ago that can deliver powerful results. First ask, “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rank me as a husband/wife/parent?” If it’s an honest “10,” congrats. Keep doing what you’re doing.

But it’s probably not. 

In that case, ask a follow-up, “What would I have to do to earn a ten?”

Do with the feedback what you will, but there’s a very good chance you’ll receive some actionable insight that will make your relationship stronger.

And yes, for best results, take it seriously and allow both parties to rate one another. And pay attention to the time and setting. Bringing it up on a busy Saturday while pushing a full cart at Costco is not your best bet. 

While you might be afraid to hear the answer, you might be surprised how far a few small intentional efforts can go. 

Is this a fun activity? No. Is it easy? Also, no. Would you rather sign up for a double root canal with a single Kenny G song playing endlessly on repeat? Probably.

But it doesn’t matter how many accolades you earn at work if you fail at what matters most. While you can hope you’re performing better than you probably are, working to improve your relationships is always worth it.

You might not score a perfect 10, but who knows? Maybe you’ll earn a gold star.

Teaching is overrated.

Oh, did that get your attention?

Good. Now let me tell you what I mean. As parents who homeschool, Kim and I have thought a lot about our role as teachers. And I’ve been fortunate to speak to thousands of educators over the years, encouraging them in a job that’s become more difficult with each passing year.

I don’t think that teachers are overrated, just one particular part of their job.

The teaching part.

I’ve made many observations over many years as a homeschooling parent. It’s clear to me that kids have no trouble learning. It’s a built-in feature. After all, you don’t have to teach a baby to crawl, talk, or walk.

And when they get older, they somehow figure out all on their own exactly what buttons to push to get what they want!

Look, I believe that a person who takes on the role of teacher in any child’s life is one of the best kinds of people. It’s just that the idea of imparting knowledge to someone else is not as useful as we might think.

Our schools may be helpful in imparting facts. But learning, in the final analysis, means a change in behavior.

Since so much of school feels boring and irrelevant, students put on a lid, closing themselves off from real learning. You can pour all the knowledge you’d like on a student, but if they’re going through life with a lid on, you’re not going to be very effective.

A teacher’s true, most important, (and most difficult!) job is getting the student to remove the lid. 

Part of the reason school feels boring is that the teacher is bored.

One of my favorite teachers ever was Mr. Newland. He was a balding, middle-aged middle school teacher with giant glasses and a bigger smile. He had a downright nerdy love of history and his passion for stamp collecting. Stamp collecting! His enthusiasm was contagious. It bordered on embarrassing, but it made history come alive and piqued my curiosity. Only then was I willing to remove my lid and take in the knowledge he was trying to impart.

Children need adults like this, people who do are doing what they love.

Fred Rogers agreed when he said, “If adults can show what they love in front of kids, there’ll be some child who says, ‘I’d like to be like that!’ or ‘I’d like to do that!’” He told a story about a sculptor in a nursery school he was working in when he was getting his master’s degree in child development:

“There was a man who would come every week to sculpt in front of the kids. The director said, “I don’t want you to teach sculpting, I want you to do what you do and love it in front of the children.” During that year, clay was never used more imaginatively, before or after…. A great gift of any adult to a child, it seems to me, is to love what you do in front of the child. I mean, if you love to bicycle, if you love to repair things, do that in front of the children. Let them catch the attitude that that’s fun. Because you know, attitudes are caught, not taught.”

Attitudes are caught, not taught.

My appreciation for history and geography was caught from Mr. Newland, not taught by him.

Think back to your favorite teachers or coaches. Is it not true that every single one of them loved what they were “teaching?”

How many people do you know who love what they do?

This rare quality can turn anyone into a teacher, whether you have an education degree or not.

Kim and I have shared a love for learning, reading, traveling, making, and building with our kids. Not on purpose, necessarily, but because we love these things ourselves.

Along the way, they have watched us build a business, a movement, and a community, because we did it right in front of them. Who knows how that will serve them? I don’t. But I do know they are learning from it.

We are on the same page as artist Kelly Rae Roberts, who said:

“Not only does living our dreams give our family and children permission to do the same, but it also creates an energy in the family – we’re happier, more inspired, more energized. By the same token, I think it’s important for our children to witness us taking risks and reaching toward our potential. How will they ever do the same if their mamas and papas haven’t shown them it’s possible by living that very possibility into reality with their own lives?”

Teaching is a tough gig. But the hard part has nothing to do with dispensing facts.

Dream big. Take risks. Do what you love in front of others.

May we ALL be teachers.

Ron Swanson, Timothée Chalamet, and my dad walked into a bar.

Out came this article.

Let’s start with Mr. Chalamet, the brilliant young actor who received a Screen Actors Guild award for his portrayal of Bob Dylan in A Complete Unknown. His acceptance speech caused a stir, not because it was controversial, but because it was so uncommon:

“I know the classiest thing would be to downplay the effort that went into this role and how much this means to me, but the truth is this was five years of my life. I poured everything I had into playing this incomparable artist, Mr. Bob Dylan, a true American hero. It was the honor of a lifetime playing him…

…I can’t downplay the significance of this award. Cause it means the most to me. And I know we’re in a subjective business, but the truth is, I’m really in pursuit of greatness. I know people don’t usually talk like that, but I want to be one of the greats. I’m inspired by the greats. I’m inspired by the greats here tonight. I’m as inspired by Daniel Day-Lewis, Marlon Brando, and Viola Davis as I am by Michael Jordan, Michael Phelps, and I want to be up there. So I’m deeply grateful. This doesn’t signify that, but it’s a little more fuel. It’s a little more ammo to keep going. Thank you so much.”

We’re not used to people admitting that they want to be great.

I appreciate the honesty and drive. Some might see it as prideful, but he demonstrated tons of humility. Not just by acknowledging the greats who came before him, and not just by describing the award as fuel to keep going, acknowledging that he still has a long way to go. 

Pride is acting like you deserved the award and that it came easily. It takes humility to display the vulnerability of letting us know how much you care. And when you plant your flag as someone who desires to be great, you invite the entire world to remind you why you’re not.

These days, it’s not cool to admit that you care or show how much effort you put in.

These days, apathy is seen as a virtue.

It’s not.

Magnanimity, on the other hand, is a virtue. It means “greatness of soul.” It is the virtue by which one pursues what is great and honorable in life, even if it is difficult. The magnanimous person seeks to do great acts that are deserving of honor.

The opposite, I’m afraid, is more of what we commonly see in our culture today.

It’s not cool to try too hard.

The person lacking in magnanimity suffers from a vice called “pusillanimity,” which means “smallness of soul.” The pusillanimous individual shies away from noble, arduous tasks because they are uncomfortable and will demand a lot out of him. He instead pursues the path of least resistance, opting for whatever is easier. (Hat tip to St. Thomas Aquinas and Edward Sri for their insights on this.)

The path of least resistance is always tempting.

It’s easy to settle for good enough.

Greatness is hard.

Of course, greatness and magnanimity are not exclusive to the realms of sports and entertainment. We are called to pursue greatness wherever we find ourselves, even if it’s unlikely to earn us an award or even be noticed at all.

Our family is helping our parish priests convert a spare room in the rectory into a prayer chapel. My dad built the altar for them to use when praying Mass. He put a lot of hours into it, and triumphantly texted me when it was finished.

A few days later, I received another text. This one wasn’t so triumphant. Apparently, he determined that the top was warped, and he deemed it unacceptable.

I didn’t see much evidence of the problem in the photo, but he was convinced it needed to be better and decided to redo it.

Ultimately, my dad redid the top of the altar twice. When he sent me a photo of the finally completed masterpiece, he added these thoughts:

“One thing that I have learned about woodworking: there is a reason for everything. It seems like whenever I face a challenge, mistake, or problem, it always turns out I’ve learned something that helps me somehow down the road. And in the end, I become a better me.”

My dad doesn’t have a blog, but he’s been toying for years with writing a book. Until he does, I guess it’s up to me to pass along gems like these.

Because of course, this isn’t just a lesson about woodworking.

It’s a lesson about life.

That’s the result of pursuing greatness, even if you don’t quite reach it: You end up with a better you.

How do you achieve greatness?

Well, it won’t come easily or comfortably, that’s for sure. A strong work ethic appears to be on the endangered list these days. We live in an age of “good enough,” which rarely is.

And it’s not by being sidetracked and distracted by a bunch of other things. Chalamet dedicated five years to his portrayal of Bob Dylan. Likewise, my dad put all other projects he was eager to get to on the back burner to focus on the altar.

As Ron Swanson said, “Never half-ass two things. Whole-ass one thing.”

Good advice.

But the first step to achieving greatness is to decide to be great because you’re grateful for all the gifts you’ve been given and you strive to use them the best that you can.

To do any less is a tragic waste of time.

We were not created for comfort but for greatness.

The time between Christmas and the New Year is Puzzle Season in our household. (Except for my wife, who is not the least bit interested in them, but is eager to take advantage of the fact that we are all distracted.)

The kids and I usually enjoy the 1000-piece varieties, but hate the unnecessarily hard ones. (All double-sided puzzles, or those made entirely of pieces that are mostly one color, should be rounded up and incinerated.) 

Our biggest accomplishment thus far was a 3,000-piece behemoth that featured Peanuts characters. 

At first I thought, “This is totally doable. Not too difficult.”

Reality set in when we started sorting all the pieces, putting them face-up. To have space for them all, we had to shift our operation to the ping-pong table. Ginny had the idea to set aside the edges as we found them, which turned out to be a stroke of genius. But that too was sobering, taking way longer than I expected.

Everyone contributed — except Kim — but eventually, Ben and I signed up for the bulk of the job. 

We would scale Everest or die trying.

There were times I never thought we’d make it. I reminded myself, one piece at a time, knowing that every piece added successfully was one less to sort through. 

Sometimes I got delightfully lost in the quest. I was in the zone, and hours passed like minutes. Other times I was frustrated, going half an hour having placed only a few pieces.

When I was away from the puzzle, my subconscious would conjure up a strategy to try the next time I returned. (Look for everything of a certain color. Group all the like pieces together. Work on all seven hundred Snoopys separately before adding them to the larger puzzle.) 

Eventually, we finished it. We were older, wiser, and furious at Charles Schulz for creating so many characters whose faces are so dang similar.

I also came away with some helpful lessons (reminders?) for any of us who are in the midst of an overwhelming endeavor:

• At the beginning, a project always seems easier than it will be. (I can see the top of that mountain from here; how hard can it be to walk up there?) Perhaps this is for the best, or else we may never get started. Nevertheless, it’s a good truth to keep in mind to help ward off the inevitable discouragement that will come.

• We should listen to and be open to the ideas of others, even people who are younger or less experienced than us. They may have suggestions that could help us greatly. (Thanks, Ginny!)

• There are times when everything is clicking: You’re in the zone. You’re having fun, and it’s easy. Roll with it, as long as you can. This rarely happens early in the process. It’s often a reward for putting in the hours.

• There will be a point where the task becomes overwhelming and looks unfinishable. In those moments, remind yourself to take one step at a time. It’s simple math: Each step taken is one less step to take.

• Working harder isn’t always the answer. Sometimes we need to get away from what we’re working on. Take a walk. Do something else for a while. Forcing it only leads to frustration, and our subconscious will work on the puzzle while we are away, giving us ideas and strategies we wouldn’t have otherwise considered.

Perhaps you are in the middle of a 3000-piece puzzle in your life, one that isn’t made of colorful paper and cardboard. 

I wish you well and hope one of these reminders sustains you on your quest. 

You’ve got this!

Just take it one piece at a time.

“Today or never, that’s my motto.”

Now that’s a good motto. Thanks for that, Mary Poppins.

Looking back at the last year, I lived a lot of it scared.

The after-effects of the storm that ripped through our property two years earlier lingered longer than I expected. The debt was a leviathan, and we slayed it sooner than seemed possible.

Maybe too soon.

The finances didn’t snap back the way I thought they would after we moved heaven and earth to exorcise that beast.

Maybe it was the lousy economy. Maybe it was the uncertainty of an election year. Maybe we were just exhausted.

Maybe a little of all three.

Or maybe our number was up.

That’s what I was most afraid of.

Can you be faithful and fearful at the same time? If it can be done, I did it. I fought that fear every day, and I like to think that more days than not, faith won.

The maddening thing was that we were making more than we ever did in that dumpy apartment all those years ago. But there are more mouths to feed now. More responsibilities. More people to answer to.

Every week I wondered if this was the week the tank would finally run dry.

Well, despite the cliches, January has a way of begging for something better.

It was the last day of our annual retreat. It’s when the kids are at Grandma and Grandpa’s, the home is all ours, and we review the year that was and all the blessings that make me blush when we count them all up.

My bride and I went for a walk. I floated a topic. It wasn’t an abandonment of sanity. I wasn’t resorting to recklessness. But I did confess to Kim that I didn’t want to keep livin’ scared.

Our family has prayed for a whole year for the opportunity to embark on adventures to Alaska, Africa, Italy, and London. (What can I say, we’re an eclectic bunch.)

A whole year and none of them felt any closer to reality.

And yet.

I reminded Kim that Alaska is a place you only want to visit in the summer and although it’s far, it’s not jumping oceans far. If we didn’t try it this year, it would be another whole year before we could try again. And our kids would be that much closer to leaving the nest.

Another year of staycations felt like a defeat.

I don’t know how it happened…one thing led to another. A miraculous void in an already crammed calendar was found. We discovered flights that could be had for miles and a song.

It all happened so fast.

It was reminiscent of another quote from Madam Poppins, which has been lingering in my notebook for damn near seven years:

“We’re on the brink of an adventure, children, don’t spoil it by asking too many questions.”

My wife and I are not prone to flights of financial fancy. One reason we live in our dream house is that we saved and sacrificed and sweltered through hot, air-conditionless summers in that dumpy apartment on the run-down side of town.

Yes. This could indeed end up being a bad financial decision I’ll soon regret.

It could also be true that I won’t make it another three sixty-five.

“Today or never, that’s my motto.”

We got to tell our kids last night.

We’re going to Alaska.