Kim and I grew up in small towns. Occasionally, a train would pass through, blocking a road and putting traffic at a standstill. This was incredibly inconvenient when you were already running five minutes late. Sometimes you could backtrack and take an alternative route, but most of the time you had no choice but to wait. And wait. And wait. It’s one of the most annoying things ever.

Not once did I ever see anyone take a photo of the train.

Things work differently in Yellowstone National Park. People get super excited about traffic stoppages. You might even say they hope for them.

When any sort of wildlife — from bison to bears to elk —  blocks the road, cameras come out quickly to document the occasion. It almost feels spiritual. We want to capture the moment so we can carry it with us and show it to others. We might make it a wallpaper on our home screen or print it out and hang it on our wall.

This is not a moment of annoyance, it’s a moment of awe.

Both of these scenarios, fundamentally, are disruptions of forward progress. How then can we explain the difference in our reactions? Could it be that the only difference is our perception of the circumstance?

Isn’t it possible to see both instances as an invitation to slow down? To be present? To notice and maybe even be amazed at something that would otherwise pass us by?

What would happen if we looked at ALL the roadblocks in our life as an encounter with the divine?

In Star Wars lore, the Bantha is a large, hairy, four-legged mammal. It has an unpleasant smell, produces blue milk, and is domesticated by Tusken Raiders.

But in real life, they are just an Asian elephant in a costume.

I put the bantha in this painting because it tickled me to think about seeing one in the wild. But also to remind us that things aren’t always what they seem.

What disgusting things that cross our paths are really something else underneath?

Is that obstacle in your path right now an annoyance? Or an opportunity?

Maybe the traffic jam just saved you from a fatal accident that would have happened five minutes down the road.

Maybe the impossibly long red light is an invitation to enjoy a few minutes of silence, a break from rushing around, a chance to say a quick prayer for someone who needs it.

Maybe instead of allowing frustration to mount, and if we practiced being present, an insight into a problem we’ve been struggling with will materialize.

Maybe the illness is a chance to slow down.

Maybe the delay is a chance to evaluate if you want to continue on this path.

Maybe the storm that just leveled your life is the beginning of a blessing you never saw coming.

Maybe it’s a bantha. Maybe it’s just a train. Maybe it’s an encounter with the divine.

Maybe you just need to change the way you see it.

🤔 I wonder…has there ever been a moment in your life when an unwelcome delay ended up being a good thing?

The Grand Prismatic is one of the things I was most looking forward to seeing on our family trip to Yellowstone National Park. It’s like I had to see it to believe it was real.

This is not an uncommon sentiment when it comes to this magical place.

The early explorers who came back with stories from Yellowstone were written off as crazy people. Surely a loose screw, an overindulgence in booze, or insanity caused by being alone for too long was easier to believe than the tall tales that returned. Upside-down waterfalls? Boiling rivers? Bubbling mud? Twenty-foot beasts?

Please.

Well, if you’ve never seen a geyser, hydrothermal activity, or an angry grizzly bear reared up on its hind legs, you’d deem these reports as unbelievable, too.

I have been to Yellowstone, and in the words of Han Solo when speaking to Rey and Finn about the Force, “It’s true. All of it.” (Even the grizzlies, although I didn’t experience an angry one.) The place is filled with the unbelievable.

But of course, now it is believable. Because we’ve seen the pictures and millions of us have visited, having driven through it on roads that weren’t there 150 years ago. And so the amazement has dimmed.

Just like it has with all the wonders of this world.

We are surrounded — besieged! saturated! deluged! — by the unbelievable, but because it’s familiar, we treat it like an afterthought. Every day becomes ho-hum.

But pretend with me for a moment that you’re from Mars, a barren red wasteland, and you’re hearing about Earth for the first time. What if I told you it was a place where…

Food grows right out of the ground.

Water comes from a sky that regularly changes color throughout the day.

Sometimes that water turns into trillions of tiny crystals that cover the ground and shine like diamonds when the sun hits it just right.

Small flying insects use flowers to create a delicious, sweet liquid called honey.

The people living there are created when two microscopic cells meet under just the right conditions.

The majority of the oxygen those people depend on for survival comes from a vast army of invisible sea creatures.

The people can fly across a vast ocean in a matter of hours.

They burn ancient sea creatures to fuel their vehicles.

They can significantly improve their vision by applying small slips of soft plastic to their eyeballs, and they just throw them away at the end of the day.

They have small handheld devices that allow them to listen to any song ever recorded, communicate across continents by video, tell them how to get anywhere on Earth, and share cute photos of cats.

And yes, there really are rainbow pools in this land that once teemed with animals bigger than a house.

Balderdash! you say?

Well, I’ve been there and it’s true. All of it.

Unfortunately, the sad fact is that most of the people who live there take it all for granted. It’s all familiar. Ho-hum.

Now that’s balderdash. Today, my friend is not just another day.

Keep your eyes peeled. Don’t miss it.

The unbelievable is everywhere.

🤔 I wonder…what was a part of your week that someone who lived on Mars might have a hard time believing?

Quick! You’re on the beach with a friend and you spot something approaching on the horizon. To your amazement, you make out an armada of giant rubber ducks coming to shore. What is your reaction?

Are you excited? Overjoyed? Concerned? Skeptical? Worried? Afraid?

Are they visitors or invaders?

Do they bring good tidings or dark intentions?

Sometimes a painting can just be a fun picture that makes you smile. And sometimes it contains a deeper meaning. I asked people on social media to share their perceptions of this painting, and it may or may not surprise you that their responses varied greatly:

• “Pure joy. I have a jacket printed with rubber ducks. They always make me smile, as does the ocean, and riding my bike!”
• “Here comes whimsy!”
• “Hope is on the horizon”
• “I’m a little worried.”
• “Terrified.”
• “Invasion from a Trojan Horse.”
• “Plastic pollution and impending doom from climate change.”

It turns out that the meaning of this painting, as well as the meaning of almost everything in life, is largely determined by you. 

Our perceptions impact our actions. For example, whether you’d run for cover or organize a welcoming party would depend on whether you see these rubber ducks as friends or foes. One side sees the other as hopelessly naive. The other side sees the other as paranoid. Both sides have a point.

If we respond too enthusiastically, we might fall into a trap.

If we respond with animosity, we may sabotage any chance of something good happening.

We can assume the best, assume the worst, or…perhaps the best, wisest, most productive thing we can do is keep an open mind and wait and see.

Now, let’s put the shoe on the other flipper. Imagine if you’re one of those ducks. You’re fun. Lots of people like you. You want to be helpful and bring joy to others. You’re new in town, but you have good intentions. But what are those locals on the shore thinking?

Do they see you as a visitor or an invader?

Do they think you bring good tidings or dark intentions?

We’ve all been the new guy. The new kid in class. The newest employee. Or most recently for us, the new family in town. I like to think of this painting as a metaphor for our mission to bring wonder and whimsy to distant shores. I unveiled it at the first Wondernite we hosted in Sheboygan, having moved from Madison two years earlier. As relative unknowns, we wondered if anyone would come.

It turned out to be our biggest and best one yet.

It’s scary to consider what the natives might think of you. You feel like you stick out like a sore thumb because it seems obvious that everyone can tell you’re not familiar with the local culture, the shorthand, the inside information that everyone else takes for granted. 

It’s tempting to want to appear big and important. Maybe pretend to be something you’re not. After all, you’ve got a clean slate. None of these new people know all your history and baggage. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, so it’s a chance to put forth something impressive.

I’ve found it’s easier, more effective, and frankly, less exhausting to just be yourself. People are drawn to authenticity, and we are very good at spotting a fake. Your weird flag may not inspire everyone, but it will attract your people.

It’s more beneficial to check your expectations.

If you expect the natives to be hostile, you’re likely to protect yourself by being hesitant, and withdrawn, which may make you appear cold and aloof to others. But be warned: if you assume the locals will be hostile, and unwelcoming, guess what you’re likely to get.

You see, there is this thing called confirmation bias. (Perhaps you’ve heard of it.) It’s applicable whether or not you see yourself as the kids on the beach or the newcomers floating to shore. How it works is that we make an initial judgment or tell ourselves a story about a person, group, or situation. Then we reflexively look for evidence that supports our case and confirms our bias. 

Meanwhile, we subconsciously filter out any information that runs contrary to our story. We interpret new information as being supportive of the opinions we already hold, and it doesn’t matter how poorly it fits. Our dutifully protective brain finds a way without us having much of a say.

If you think your spouse is ignoring you, you’ll be on the lookout for all the evidence to make your case.

If you expect to have an awesome day, your antenna will be up and scanning for proof all day long.

If you think Republicans are the worst, you will notice and remember every example that proves your point.

If you think Democrats are the enemy, well, you get the point.

So…what if we paused at the very beginning to realize we don’t yet know the truth and take a wait-and-see approach? Thanks to confirmation bias, if you expect the best in others, the odds are better you’ll find it.

This might just be a fun whimsical painting that makes you smile.

Perhaps something light-hearted to hang in your bathroom.

It might also be a reminder to always be yourself while giving other people a chance to do the same.

On our very first date, Kim and I agreed to live on a lake.

As we began the process of getting to know each other, we got talking about our ideal place to live. For some reason, Idaho was mentioned. (When you grow up in a small town in Illinois surrounded by cornfields, almost everywhere feels more exotic.) We talked of mountains and potatoes (obviously), but pine trees and lakes took precedence. 

We both agreed that living on a lake surrounded by tall pine trees would be an ideal place to settle down. (We didn’t necessarily know it would be together.)

The two of us dated for five years before getting married, and that vision of lake living stayed with us. We never lived on any of the four lakes that make up the heart and soul of Madison, Wisconsin, in the twenty years we called it home. We did spend hours and hours walking along those lakes, dreaming and scheming together, trying our best to figure out how to make it happen. 

We were also open to other lakes in other locations. We just knew it needed to be bigger than a pond, something large enough to accommodate a pontoon boat. We tried on lots of places, including Idaho, where we finally visited for the first time while celebrating our twentieth wedding anniversary. After all those years, we couldn’t shake the dream of living on a lake.

We never anticipated it would be a Great one.

Sheboygan didn’t hit our radar until one day during the height of the pandemic. A friend of ours knew our dream. He took note of the fact that we often took vacations near the ocean because we loved the sound of the waves, and suggested we check out Lake Michigan (which looks a lot like an ocean when you’re standing on the shore, unable to see the other side).

The idea had never occurred to us. We pulled up a map and surveyed the cities east coast of Wisconsin. What about Sheboygan? I had spoken there once, and remember enjoying a few moments I had to spend sitting by the lake. We googled it, and learned it was known as the Bratwurst Capitol of the World and the Malibu of the Midwest because of its unique geographical qualities that provide ideal surfing conditions.

That kicked off a magical and miraculous journey, a long story made short by saying we now live in Sheboygan. On a lake.

This painting celebrates Sheboygan, the funny-sounding city on the shores of Lake Michigan, known for brats and surfing. But it also represents our prayers.

Saying a prayer is like launching a message in a bottle into the ocean. Once a prayer leaves your heart, you lose all control. You hope it reaches God, but once it floats out of sight, it’s easy for doubt to creep in: Did it get lost? Swallowed by a shark? Did it reach its destination only to be rejected or forgotten? You might be tempted to wonder how you could have been so foolish to trust in such an uncontrollable, unpredictable, mysterious method. Did you think this would actually work?

Our prayer to live on a lake was a message in a bottle. It floated out there for two decades.

The dream felt more and more foolish as the years wore on and our business took longer to grow than we’d expected. There were times I thought the dream was lost at sea. There were moments I wished it really was, because I was so weary from wondering what happened to it. I figured it would be easier, and less painful, to have never dreamed the dream or prayed the prayer at all.

Maybe you have a prayer like that, a message in a bottle that you’re certain is lost. I can’t tell you how your prayer will be answered, but I know for sure it’s not lost. It’s definitely not forgotten. 

Somehow, our prayers find our way back, with answers washing up on unexpected shores at unexpected times. But it’s always at exactly the right time and delivers exactly what we need, even if it looks different than we imagined.

God will not let you miss your future. 

It takes faith to release a prayer into the great unknown, and that faith is always rewarded.

It’s the curse of every author. 

The exact millisecond you finally release a book from your tight grip and allow it to run free in the world, it happens. An anecdote comes your way that would have been perfect for it and you immediately think of seventeen other insights you should have added. 

When I wrote Must Be Nice, I didn’t spend any time addressing the holidays, but boy, does that phrase pop up this time of year. And perhaps the bitter tone that accompanies our “must be nice” is a smidge more resentful.

The holiday season looks different to everyone who celebrates. We have different backgrounds and circumstances and inhabit different seasons of life. In certain ways, some people have it “better” than us. But the truth we miss when we utter “must be nice” about someone else is that we also have it better than others. Maybe even the very same people we wish we could be more like. 

Those struggling financially may be quick to say it “must be nice” to have the means to provide a bountiful harvest of presents and food for their family. And no doubt, it is.

It also “must be nice” to not be distracted from the true meaning of the season by the trappings of consumerism, a slippery slope that leads to greed, jealousy, and unhappiness. 

As a parent whose children are outrunning their childhood, I catch myself thinking it must be nice to have a wide-eyed five-year-old again or a newborn to snuggle this time of year.

But I can also acknowledge that it must be nice to be at this stage; where I can talk about the deeper, more meaningful messages of Christmas with my kids, and be humbled by the selfless generosity I see growing within them.

The person who feels alone might say, “Must be nice to have a family to spend holidays with.”

And the person with the big family might say, “Must be nice not to be pulled by everyone else’s expectations, and to have the freedom to make the holiday your own.”

One person missing a loved one might say, “Must be nice to have your husband with you at the dinner table.”

And another might say, “Must be nice to have ever had a husband at all.”

While yet another says, “Must be nice to have good memories of the holidays; my alcoholic husband made so many of mine traumatic.”

Warning! This is not a contest to prove who has it worse. Nor is it an argument to convince you that other people aren’t better off in certain respects. 

It is a reminder, however, that it’s a waste of time to wish for someone else’s must be nice and that a better path might be to identify and truly appreciate your own.

Most importantly, it’s also an invitation to accept the secret, often overlooked gift of the season, beautifully wrapped and waiting just for you.

What is it?

It’s an opportunity.

An opportunity squandered by stewing in jealousy and discontentment.

An opportunity that will not present itself ever again in quite the same way.

It’s the opportunity to create a new memory this year that becomes a must be nice to look back on with gladness for years to come. 

And also the opportunity to be a heaven-sent must be nice for someone who desperately needs one this year.

Hmm. An opportunity that offers two gifts in one.

Must be nice.

🤔 I wonder…what is a “must be nice” you are appreciating this time of year?

This just in: The world is a dumpster fire. 🔥

When we left for a recent trip to Hawaii, I made the decision to unplug. I’d monitor my business email every other day or so, but detach completely from following the news and my social media feeds.

It was awesome. I felt present. My heartbeat slowed and my anxiety melted. It was so glorious, that I maintained the distance even after returning home.

Oh, I’ve snuck a peek, but it’s like opening an unmarked door to reveal a gigantic infinity room filled with fires, explosions, kung fu fights, screaming chimps throwing poop at evil clowns, and rows and rows and rows of dumpsters, all literally on fire.

You don’t need an invite to close that door as fast as you can.

I don’t need to plug in order to “stay informed” that the world is a dumpster fire. Just this week, we’ve got war, natural disasters, scary economic news, the death of a celebrity, and at least one senseless act of violence we will fight over the correct solution to.

The thing is, that true sentence I just wrote was true ten years ago in the same way it was true two thousand years ago and will be true two decades from now. (Or until the world actually ends, whichever comes first.)

I read a newsletter this weekend in which the author opened by hinting at his anxious state of mind. It’s not the first time he’s expressed his distress over the current status of world events. Knowing a little bit about him due to the fact that I’ve been reading him for years, I wanted to scream, “Quit watching the news!”

We need to understand that regularly following “the news” is like injecting pure poison into our veins. Whether it’s broadcast news, your favorite newspaper, or your carefully curated feed of trusted sources, it’s a rerun of the same show over and over again. The quickest way to clicks, ratings, and revenue is by feeding on your fear and fury (while making it seem like they’re doing you a service).

War. Natural Disasters. Scary economic news. The death of a celebrity. Senseless acts of violence. Outrage!

So let me begin by agreeing with Oliver Burkeman, author of Four Thousand Weeks, who wrote, “What you pay attention to will define, for you, what your reality is.”

I’m not suggesting we bury our heads in Hawaiian sand. What I’m suggesting is that you pay more attention to what you’re paying attention to.

If you are always paying attention to the news, the world is a sad, scary, corrupt, dangerous, unredeemable place. Of course, in many ways, it is.

But when I was in Hawaii, I paid attention to the powerful blue waves and the warm sun on my skin. The patient and daring surfers. The pink and purple flowers. The lush green mountains. The delicious fresh pineapple and smoky kalua pork. The happy smiles of my children. And the aspirational conversations I had with my wife.

Yet, somehow, I was not oblivious to the fact that there were wars raging, natural disasters, scary economic news, the death of a celebrity, and senseless acts of outrage. Spend any significant time “unplugged” and you’ll see for yourself: The real news finds you.

So the first step is not to be alarmed that the world is a dumpster fire, but to understand that the world has always been a dumpster fire, a grand battle of good versus evil. Recency bias would have us believe it’s never been this bad, but trust anyone who’s a hundred years old, it’s been worse.

The second step is to acknowledge that although it is, in fact, your job to do SOMETHING about it, it’s not your job to do EVERYTHING. And the only way to have a chance of doing ANYTHING worthwhile is to filter out the negative and pay attention to the good.

That will give you a good attitude, a clear mind, and a deep well of hope and energy from which to draw as you do your small part to extinguish the dumpster fire in your corner of the world.

Pay attention to what you’re paying attention to. 

🤔 I wonder…what is something you’re inspired to pay more attention to?

I wanted to throw my phone into the raging river a thousand feet below.

Its camera stubbornly refused to reflect the beauty I was seeing. It wasn’t fitting everything in. The colors were off. I’d take a picture and it looked nothing like what unfolded before me. It was like a reporter only telling half the truth.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson. I experienced the same feeling when I visited the Grand Canyon. No camera on the face of the earth could sufficiently encapsulate the full grandeur of the feeling one has standing before it. I chuckled at the tourists with their tiny point-and-shoot cameras, preserving nothing more than a postage-stamp slice of the mighty mural sprawled out before them.

And yet here I was, at Yellowstone National Park, desperately trying to capture the colors and majesty of what I was seeing, feeling, and experiencing.

It’s a lot like life, which can’t be captured, only experienced.

Photos are great for capturing slivers of an experience, just enough to remind us of how we felt at a given moment. The trouble comes when we get so hung up trying to freeze time that we forget to actually live the moment.

If we’re honest, part of us wants to record the moment as proof of our exploits for our friends and family, perhaps drumming up a “must be nice” from them in the process. But It’s also an attempt to slow down time and preserve it, fearful of our forgetting it.

As if I will ever forget making eye contact with a mighty bison as he carved through the morning mist and ambled past my driver-side door!

Which I would have missed had I been fiddling with finding the proper f-stop.

Near the end of our trip, we had the good fortune of stumbling upon a ranger talk in the auditorium at Old Faithful. He was giving a spirited account of the history of Yellowstone, a presentation that was equal parts interesting and inspiring. He concluded with this:

“I have two invitations,” he said, as he held up his smartphone. “Take this device we all have and use it. Take all the photos. Share them with people. Tell the others about this place. But I also invite you, every once in a while, to put the phone away. Just experience this place. Be in the moment. Live it.”

Good advice. 

I won’t be abandoning my camera any time soon. But I will continue to remind myself that photographing a moment is not the same as experiencing it.

The best parts of life are all too fleeting. Let’s not leave them half-lived.

🤔 I wonder…what’s an unforgettable moment you’ve experienced that you just couldn’t capture with your camera no matter how hard you tried?

The baseball deflected off the bat, soaring high and out of play. It reached the roof over the grandstand above us, but I suspected it might roll back. It did. I watched as gravity reversed the ball’s course and it fell back into the crowd. Hitting the aisle about twenty feet away, it ricocheted wildly off the concrete, and raced through a forest of arms, right toward me. I kept my eye on the ball and relied on the instincts and reflexes honed in my days as a second baseman. I alertly shifted my hands to my left and the ball stuck.

I had just caught a foul ball at Wrigley Field on Father’s Day weekend.

Still in shock as I handed the ball to my son (but acting like it was no big deal), I wondered, What are the chances?

There were about 37,000 fans in attendance. According to foulballz.com, roughly 46 foul balls are hit per game. Assuming 25 actually made it into the crowd, I had a 1 in 1,500 chance of catching a foul ball that day. The weird physics in play that conspired on my behalf makes it feel even more unlikely.

To top it all off, the Cubs won after hitting 3 home runs in one inning and scoring six runs in another. We got to sing “Go Cubs Go” with the Wrigley Field faithful.

What a difference a year makes.

You see, exactly one year earlier — to the day — a kind neighbor was helping me clear trees from our driveway with a chainsaw so that I could make it to the airport for a speaking engagement. A 112-mile-per-hour straight-line wind had descended upon Sheboygan the night before, ripping 150 trees out of the ground in a matter of seconds, leaving a splintered mess in its wake.

What are the chances?

For weeks on end, we lived with the constant reminder of the trauma, as our backyard was a jagged landscape of splintered trees and shredded memories. 

We had to hire professional lumberjacks to take them all away, leaving behind an uneven patch of land, a bumpy scar reminding us of all that was lost.

Eventually, fifty-seven dump trucks of dirt were brought in and the land was leveled. Grass seed was sown, but for a long time, it lay barren and lifeless.

Progress was being made, but it was happening so slowly that it seemed like life would never return. The financial aftermath still hangs heavy over our household.

But exactly one year later, not only did I experience the highlight of catching a foul ball at a Cubs game, but I sat at the edge of our bluff, overlooking the grandeur of Lake Michigan. 

With my bare feet in luscious green grass.

It’s a reminder to me of the baffling duality of time. It goes from dragging on mercilessly to passing by in the blink of an eye.

We went from, “Will this fresh hell ever end?” to “Wow, that happened a year ago?” 

When things are going bad, it feels like time stands still and the odds of a turnaround seem impossibly low. Yes, good times are fleeting, but so are the bad. 

As the young girl reminded Eric Draven in The Crow, a favorite movie of mine, “It can’t rain all the time.

Blessings can appear out of nowhere when we least expect them. If you’re in one of those “will this ever end?” periods right now and you need to know the odds of a turnaround, take heart.

The chances are very good that something amazing is about to happen.

🤔 I wonder…what is the most amazing unlikely thing that happened to you in the last year?

I have an odd experiment I’d love to try someday.

I thought of it during a family visit to the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago, after going through a number of exhibits in a row in which the animals were either hidden or off exhibit. (It’s hard to tell if the jaguar is sleeping in a corner out of view or at the vet for a check-up.) After a few minutes of fruitless searching, we just shrug our shoulders and head to the next one.

So I thought it would be interesting to remove all the animals from every exhibit at a particular zoo. How long would it take for the average visitor to realize that the zoo was empty? Pretty long, is my guess. And I suspect that if you allowed a few birds to fly around freely, you’d trick people into going longer before realizing there was not one animal on display.

My family loves zoos, and we’ve been to a lot of them. (We even went to a few on a book tour!) I have discovered that there are two Zoo Truths you can count on:

Truth #1: At least one of the animals you were looking forward to seeing will be off-exhibit or out of view. A bust. Of course, animals are animals. They are unpredictable. They can’t be made to always be “on.” The question is, will you let your disappointment ruin your day?

Truth #2: There will also be at least one animal you’ll get an unexpectedly great experience with. Maybe one you never noticed before, or an up-close encounter with an animal you’ve previously overlooked. If you’re not too busy sulking after Truth #1 materializes, I guarantee you something magical will happen. 

As I said, my family has been to a lot of zoos and has found these two Zoo Truths to be remarkably consistent. At the Lincoln Park Zoo, the giraffes were a bust and the red panda was MIA. (Maybe she was on a sabbatical?) But we saw snow leopards super close and the young gorillas goofing off were an absolute hoot. Because we are well aware of the Truths, the disappointments were taken in stride and we were able to savor the magic that was served up to us.

Why don’t we have the same perspective on life? 

Like animals, life is unpredictable. It doesn’t always go as planned. Why are we so surprised when things go sideways? 

Sometimes we become overly invested in having things go a certain way and we get derailed when they don’t. Maybe you thought you’d have found Mr. Right by now. Maybe you expected your career path to be a little less wonky. Maybe your big dream is taking its sweet old time.

The thing we were hoping for might just be temporarily hidden. It might even be off the table for good.

Not every dream comes true.

That’s Truth #1. But don’t forget about Truth #2.

If we limit the time we spend sulking, and we keep our heads up and our eyes open, we might notice something we didn’t expect. Something wonderful and magical and equally awesome. (Or dare I say…better?)

Alas, none of this is possible unless we practice non-attachment from outcomes and open ourselves to surprises that come out of uncertainty. Kids are natural at this because they don’t have enough life perspective to know what to expect. Everything is new, so they more often experience surprise and delight than adults. 

We can experience it, too; we just need to be more mindful about it. 

I’ve found, at zoos and in life, that reminding myself that some things won’t turn out as I’d hoped, but there will be other cool surprises I never could’ve predicted, serves as a powerful reframe that makes a big difference.

You might miss the giraffe you came to see, but maybe the baby gorilla will be worth the price of admission.

They don’t make Super Bowl rings like they used to.

A recent speaking engagement in Ohio provided me the opportunity to take my son Ben along for a side trip to Canton, home of the Pro Football Hall of Fame. One of the standout displays was its collection of Super Bowl rings.

You can see and compare every ring, from the first commemorating the Green Bay Packers’ victory in Super Bowl I, to the one awarded to the LA Rams for winning Super Bowl LVI. 

The recent versions look less like rings and more like diamond-encrusted paperweights.

The Super Bowl LVI ring is shaped like the stadium, with removable(!) elements that reveal intricate details like the roof, the Infinity Screen, and the field, which is colored with remnants of the actual turf where the game was played. Each ring includes about 20 carats of white diamonds in total, the most of any sports championship ring in history.

Meanwhile, that first Super Bowl ring, designed by Vince Lombardi in 1966, was a one-carat diamond set in white gold.

It was striking to see so many life lessons crammed into one compact display.

For one, I think it’s safe to say the NFL is doing very well, especially compared to the humble founding days when owners were required to pay a $100 league entry fee. But while some might see an opportunity for a sermon on greed or the ills of capitalism, I choose to see it as an invitation to consider the progress we’ve made in our own lives. Some of my dreams are still a far way off, but I am grateful when I think about how far Kim and I have come from the early days of our marriage, with our air-conditionless apartment and a steady diet of Hamburger Helper.

Of course, it is true that each Super Bowl ring was bigger and more valuable than the one that proceeded it. Apparently, we human beings just can’t keep from comparing ourselves to others and trying to one-up each other. 

Also, it’s clear we have a thing for chasing shiny objects. Sometimes they look like rings and trophies. Other times they look like homes, cars, job titles, and reserved parking spots. The fact that sometimes those Super Bowl rings get pawned reminds me that those shiny objects don’t lead to lasting happiness or solve all our problems.

It was an interesting display, but also a sad commentary on how out of whack our priorities are. If you follow the pattern, there’s a good chance that by 2050, players will be parking their Super Bowl “rings” in their garage.

I am not optimistic that our culture will change much by then.

But maybe we can.

We can change for the better if we spend more time being grateful forhow far we’ve come and take a few moments to ask some honest questions. 

Does what I’m currently chasing after hold true value, or is it merely a “shiny object” I can’t take with me?

Am I more focused on beating someone else, or besting the person I was yesterday?

In our fast-paced culture, it’s uncommon for someone to step off the treadmill long enough to ask hard questions like these.

But then again, that’s what makes real champions.

One day Kim wrote a social media post about how ugly our backyard is after having been ravaged by a cataclysmic storm. The harsh, violent, apocalyptic hellscape is heartbreaking.

And very, very ugly. 

A well-intentioned commenter felt the need to correct her, “No, it’s beautiful.”

Of course, the commenter is right. It is beautiful, in many real and metaphorical ways. And the photos Kim has taken of the carnage have captured some of that beauty.

But you know what? It’s also ugly. Especially in comparison to what it was before.

It can be both. It is both. And that’s ok.

As I pointed out in my book, A Chance of Awesome, some people look at dandelions and see weeds. 

Others – mostly kids – see wishes.

The thing is, both are true. 

Or take cars. Automobiles are modern marvels that give us great freedom and save us enormous amounts of time. The industry employs nearly two million people. But about 40,000 people die in motor vehicle traffic crashes each year in the U.S.

So are cars good or bad?

Unfortunately, our rotten news media has conditioned us to operate without any nuance whatsoever because there is profit to be made in conflict. We no longer seem to have the capacity for critical thinking; we’ve been reduced to the infantile reflex that things are either “good” or “bad.” Every issue is presented as either black or white, red state or blue state, right or wrong, good or evil.

Ugly or beautiful.

When it comes to any story – especially the headline-grabbing issues of the day – we’ve been duped into believing we only have two options: be right or be wrong.  

But life is more complicated than that. Life is both / and.

When your kid heads off to college for the first time, it’s natural to feel a sense of pride as they move into a new season of growth and independence. It’s also natural to feel sad that your day-to-day interactions with them are coming to an end. 

Or when a loved one you have taken care of for years has passed away, you probably feel sad that they are gone. It can also feel nice to believe that they are in a better place. 

But you can also feel relieved that your burden has been lifted. 

That doesn’t make you a monster; it makes you human. 

We live in a complicated world with unlimited shades of grey. (Yes, even more than fifty.) It’s not helpful to force everything into an absolute. We don’t have to walk around wearing rose-colored glasses, deluding ourselves into thinking everything is unicorns and rainbows.

Nor is it especially healthy to point out every potential storm cloud. 

Both approaches are childish. 

A mature perspective is acknowledging that life is filled with contradictions. There is good and evil, joy and pain, hope and fear intermingling in all of it. 

We do have a choice about where we want our attention to dwell, which is one of our most overlooked and underused superpowers. But it’s important to remember that focusing on one doesn’t disappear the other. 

Life is painful. It is also joyful. Sometimes on the very same day. 

And that’s ok.

Acknowledging the ugliness is what keeps us from taking beauty for granted.

I wanted to share an update with you about what happened in the middle of our season finale 99th episode of Escape Adulthood LIVE. Kim and I had a lot of fun dressing up as 99-year-olds. There was much shenanigating (the first five minutes were worth the price of admission!). Near the end of our “Let’s Draw” segment, a severe storm knocked out our power, abruptly cutting the show short.

As it turned out, the storm produced a 100-plus mile per hour straight-line wind, which from what I understand is like a tornado but instead of rotating, the wind comes in one direction. Kim ran upstairs to collect the kids. When she came back downstairs, one of the kids mentioned a tree had fallen, and Kim confirmed there was “significant tree damage.”

After the storm settled a bit, I went upstairs to assess the situation. I was not ready for what I saw.

I expected to see a few fallen trees, not a preview of the apocalypse. A hurricane-force wind had done its damage. Our backyard, which had at least a hundred trees, was nearly bare. They were just…gone. Uprooted trees were everywhere. A few jagged sticks jutted out from the ground – the remains of trees that had been snapped in two. Most of the rest were diagonal, ready to fall at any moment. 

I walked outside into the dusk. It was raining lightly. Two trees had fallen on our roof, and another landed on our car, shattering the back window.

Carnage was everywhere.

By the time I went back inside, Kim had a cozy nest set up downstairs with blankets and candles, and flashlights. We were in shock, still in our silly costumes, trying to process what just happened. We were grateful to all be safe.

The days since have been a blur. It took about 24 hours for the power to be restored. I was scheduled to leave at 6:45 the next morning with Ginny for a speaking engagement in Chattanooga. It was supposed to be her first Daddy Daughter trip.

In bed that night, every time lightning flashed, the eerie silhouette of the craggy trees lit up like a living nightmare. 

After “sleeping” for about an hour, Kim and I were up early to see about clearing the driveway. A friendly neighbor stopped by and helped me chainsaw the fallen trees and push them out of the way, clearing a path for the other car that was still in good shape. 

After much deliberation, we decided to continue as planned, and Ginny and I headed to the airport. I tried to refocus my mind on the job at hand. Kim took on the Herculean task of calling insurance agents and tree guys and sorting through the mayhem that attracted a steady stream of onlookers perusing the devastation.

I am writing this from a hotel room in downtown Chattanooga. My youngest daughter is still sleeping, tuckered out from two hours spent in the pool yesterday afternoon. My talk for the Tennessee Pharmacy Association was well-received, and Ginny served as my beautiful assistant, checking bingo cards and handing out books as prizes to attendees. My goal has been to be professional, deliver a remarkable presentation, and make this trip as memorable and fun for Ginny as possible.

Meanwhile, my wife has been an All-Star, with her titles of “Director of Everything” and “Little Miss Details” proving to be accurate labels. My parents came up to help, bringing years of wisdom and a generator to power our refrigerator. So many people have stepped up to help in mighty ways. 

Even amidst the shock of processing the initial damage, we have tried to turn any fear we’ve had into curiosity. We are heartbroken over the devastation of our property, but are already asking the question, “What does this make possible?” We are grateful for our safety, an outpouring of support, and amazed at the ways we are already seeing God work.

I’m sure there will be more to report on that front in the coming weeks and months.
​
One seemingly miraculous development is that even though close to a hundred trees were uprooted and tossed about all over our yard and house, the new studio renovation was completely untouched. This is especially significant because it had yet to be insured since the walls and roof were so recently finalized. 

“Turn fear into curiosity” was one of the pieces of advice my 99-year-old self gave me in the monologue I delivered just a few minutes before the storm hit. I think it was one of my best monologues yet – definitely one of the most emotional – and I’m proud to be able to show it to you here.

Thank you in advance for your thoughts and prayers as we continue to sort through this. It could have been much worse, and I am reminded yet again that it’s awfully hard to be mad or afraid when you’re busy counting blessings.

🤔 I wonder…what’s something you’ve recently been reminded to be grateful for?

A stamp is a miracle.

For just fifty-eight cents, someone will come to your house to collect a letter you’ve written and hand-deliver it to the house of someone else anywhere in the country.

Heck, back in the old days, you had to be royalty with great wealth and servants at your beck and call if you wanted a personal message delivered to someone in your kingdom.

Even now, if you lived in Miami, how much time, money, and effort would it take you to hand-deliver a birthday card to a friend in Seattle? Depending on whether you took a plane or car, and if you had any overnight stays involved, it might cost you a thousand dollars or more.

Instead, a mailman will do it for the tidy sum of fifty-eight cents, and you can stay on your couch in your pajamas polishing off a pint of Chubby Hubby. 

Miraculous.

It makes me wonder why we don’t avail ourselves of this magic more often. Because perhaps the best part of the whole thing is receiving a real greeting card or a handwritten letter from someone else. You have a permanent record of someone’s inner thoughts, and a relic of them, in the form of their own handwriting, their unique signature. They had to lick the envelope. They affixed the stamp. It’s like a little craft project, made just for you.

It’s extraordinary because it’s rare. We don’t do snail mail much anymore; it takes too long. An email or a text is quicker. 

In this harried world, there is something special knowing that someone had to hit pause on their day, on purpose, to complete a physical action that took longer than pounding out a few keystrokes on their laptop. That’s the coolest part: the indisputable fact that they were thinking of you. You mattered to them. And they gave someone very specific instructions to deliver that message directly to you, as quickly as possible. 

All for fifty-eight cents.

This isn’t an advertisement for the postal service, although they do have some amazing people in their ranks. It’s a reminder that there are miracles all around us. 

If you can’t see them, you’re not paying attention.

I hope this inspires you to send a miracle to someone today.

[ 💌 Want a printable version you can print and share with your favorite postal worker? Here you go! ]

As the final in a series of reflections on the lessons learned from my family’s hike up the Lanikai Pillbox trail, this might be the one I needed the most. 

When we began the hike, the summit was the agreed-upon destination. Anything less would have been a disappointment. We wanted to see the best view.

But it’s been said that life is the journey, not the destination, and for good reason. There are a lot of cool things to see on the way, and if you keep your head down, you’re liable to miss them. 

Take the pandemic as an example. We haven’t yet reached the destination, but perhaps you can use this moment as a lookout. I think it’s worth appreciating how far we’ve come. Starting with the fact that we know a lot more about the virus and how to treat it than we did a year ago. Also, vaccinations are readily available for all who want them.

And we somehow made it through the great toilet paper shortage of 2020.

I’ll admit that when striving for a goal, I have the tendency to keep my head down until it’s accomplished. No sense looking up until the job is finished, I figure; otherwise you’re just giving in to distraction and wasting time.

At the risk of stating the obvious – but with a desire to remind myself – there are plenty of reasons to stop along the way to appreciate how far you’ve come.

For one, it helps avoid burnout. Whether it’s a two-hour task or a two-year adventure, little breaks actually improve efficiency and help maintain your energy levels.

Secondly, moments of reflection allow for much-needed perspective. You can consider what’s been working well, what might need to be adjusted, and consider if this is still the path you want to be on. 

Finally, stopping along the way keeps you from missing your life and the beauty hidden in each moment. John Lennon was right when he said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

We all want this pandemic to be over. The temptation is to keep our heads down until things get back to “normal.” We are always eager for trials to pass, just like parents who yearn for the day their child finally sleeps through the night. But each season has blessings that accompany the trials. I might be happy that I no longer have to change diapers, but boy, do I miss holding a sleeping baby in my arms. With each new season we enter, the old one fades away, never to return again.

Don’t ever wish away time. Don’t rush past the lookouts.

Don’t be so eager to reach the finish line that you miss the scenery along the way.

Of course, when you do reach a summit, celebrate it! 🎉

It may seem obvious, but to a driven person like myself, I need the reminder. When I’ve completed a goal, I rarely savor the accomplishment. I’m more likely to think, well, this was the goal, this is what I set out to do. No sense celebrating like I won the lottery; this was the expected outcome. What’s next?

To make matters worse, sometimes when things are going well, I can’t help myself. I’m tempted to wonder when things will take a turn for the worse. I look around for the other shoe to drop. Which is dumb, because any second I spend on that robs me of the joy of the present moment.

Call it pessimism, realism, or a huge sense of unworthiness, but it’s not great, Bob.

The midwife who helped us out with the birth of all three of our children had a saying she usually aimed at Kim: “Don’t go looking for trouble.” It was meant to be a caution against needless worry, a reminder to stay at peace in the present, not entertain the anxious thoughts of an uncertain future.

So yes, we finally made it to the top. I was able to slow down and put the return trip planning on hold for a hot minute. The view was as good as advertised. We lingered there for a good long while, savoring our triumph. 

Please take a few moments to do the same with your life. Enjoy the season you are in, and look for the blessings amidst the trials.

When you have a good day, accomplish a goal, or achieve a small victory, appreciate and savor the gift that it is. 

And don’t be so quick to worry about the time when things will start moving downhill. Life is long. There are sunny days and rainy days. 

Don’t waste a sunny day scrolling the weather app on your phone searching for a rainy one.

Ready for a fun fact about COVID-19 (you know, the virus you’ve been inundated with information – and misinformation – about for an entire year now that’s wreaked havoc on a global scale)?

It has been recently calculated that all of the virus circulating in the world right now could easily fit inside a single Coca-Cola can.

Yep, British mathematician Kit Yates figured out there are around two quintillion – that’s two billion billion – of the virus particles in the world at any one time. Even calculating the fact that the spherical shape and spiky proteins would leave gaps when stacked together, they’d still fit easily into a single soda can.

“It’s astonishing to think that all the trouble, the disruption, the hardship, and the loss of life that has resulted over the last year could constitute just a few mouthfuls,” Yates said in a statement.

Astonishing indeed.

But it goes both ways. Just as one very small thing can unleash an enormous amount of devastation, so too can something small lead to an astonishing amount of good.

One of Fred Rogers’ earliest jobs was as a puppeteer for a local children’s show in Pittsburgh.

The Simpsons started out as a bumper sticker on the Tracey Ullman Show.

Michael Dell sold his first computers out of his college dorm room.

Eunice Kennedy Shriver started the Special Olympics in her backyard.

The Missionaries of Charity, which now consist of over 4,500 sisters active in 133 countries, started with one humble woman helping one poor person.

It’s astonishing to think of all the opportunity, progress, and positive impact and changed lives that can come out of very small actions.

People who are burdened with glorious purpose, the ones intent on changing the world, started small. They often look a little foolish at first. But purpose mixed with tiny actions is very powerful. All the big, world-changing things had humble beginnings.

John S. Pemberton was a pharmacist and a colonel in the Confederate army during the Civil War. who was trying to find a safe substitute for morphine when he invented Coca-Cola.

Let the naysayers laugh and the doubts roll off your back.

You are not too small to make a dent in the universe. 

My wife took the beautiful photo that inspired this painting.

There was something about this dandelion that captivated me.

He’s reaching the end of the line. He is weary, but remains proud and steadfast. Some called him a weed, disrupting the status quo and infecting the neighborhood. But he knows the truth. He has run his race, and is now ready to give it all away, to multiply himself by scattering the seeds in order to bring forth new life. And in the midst of his sacrifice, with the sun setting on his last day, light shines through as a symbol of the grace within. 

I call this piece “Good Friday” because it reminds me of that seemingly dark Friday, centuries ago, when all hope seemed lost and that evil had won.

As I write this, the United States is in turmoil over the results of the Presidential election, which went all 2020 on us. Because of course it did. Most of the polls were way wrong, but one thing is certain: it is a nation more divided than either side probably realized. 

I think it’s fair to say that both sides hoped for a decisive result and this is everyone’s worst-case scenario. And yet here we are. Regardless of the outcome, half the country will be elated and the other will be plunged into despair. What intrigues me is how thin a line it is between them.

As I think back to that original Good Friday, I consider how preposterous it would have seemed for anyone who lived through its heartbreak to hear it labeled as “good.” Such a declaration would seem ridiculous, possibly even blasphemous. It sure didn’t seem good at the time. But for those who believed, it actually turned out better than good.

During times of great uncertainty, I find it helpful to return my attention to things I know are true. I don’t know about you, but I feel like I may be able turn pro at this by the end of 2020, I’ve had to do it so often.

Let’s starrt here: I know that the sun rose today. 

I know that there’s a good chance it will rise again tomorrow.

I know that I could make a list of 100 things to be grateful for and it would remain incomplete.

I know that, contrary to the media narrative, the things we have in common are infinitely greater than that which divides us. 

I know that the quality of my life has almost nothing to do with who happens to be President.

I know that I am not called to worry about things I can’t control.

I know that I am called to focus on the things I can.

I know that asking the question, “How can I help?” is the best place to start.

And, if I’m honest, I also know that nothing about the political climate we find ourselves in seems good.

And yet, I am confident that this moment – and indeed, this year – will prove to be Good, in the end. I grant that may seem ridiculous, perhaps even blasphemous.

A big part of what will make it so is how we choose to respond in this moment. We can have our say by seeking to heal divisions that so deeply divide us. Not by trying to win others to our way of thinking, but through what always works: kindness, humility, and love.  

And by trusting that the same God who called light forth from the darkness is still in control and is working all things…for good.

It is always dawn somewhere in the world. That fascinates me. When someone is in the middle of the blackest night, someone half a world away is experiencing the joy of a new day. That’s how life is: seasons of light, seasons of dark.

I can hardly believe that just a little over a year ago, my family was on Lanikai Beach, watching the sun rise over these two small islands called Na Mokulua, aka the Mokes. I was booked to speak in Honolulu and this trip seems like an even greater blessing considering how this year has unfolded.

Some days Kim got up to watch the sunrise while I stayed back as the kids slept. Some days we traded places. And a few times, we went together as a family. Every morning’s show was unique, but always spectacular; a living watercolor painting, with a cavalcade of new colors seeping into the sky. The kids enjoyed scouring the beach for treasures that the sea brought forth during the night.

I can’t help but wonder now, after this slog marathon of a year, if I’ll ever go back there with my family. And I don’t necessarily mean that specific beach, but any beach, far away from any fear wrought by a pandemic, or civil unrest, or a divided nation. I wonder if a time will ever come when the future looks bright, and hope isn’t constantly being trampled underfoot. Will this dark night ever lift?

But then I remember something about that week. We didn’t have tune in to the television meteorologist to tell us if the sun would rise each day. We didn’t have to wonder, or cross our fingers and hope for the best. It did, just like it always does.

We were also on the beach at night a few times, when it was so dark the ocean could only be heard, not seen. I didn’t bother worrying that it might stay that way indefinitely. The sun would most certainly rise again, in time.
 
And yet, when we find ourselves in the middle of a dark and lonely season of life, it can feel like the sun will never shine again. But alas, it is always darkest just before dawn. 

Maybe you find yourself there, right now.

There is no reason to lose hope. You just need to hold on. Dawn is coming.

It always does.

Another thing to consider. Even though we had gotten up early and made it to the beach, had we been looking west, we would have missed the sunrise entirely. It still would have happened, but we wouldn’t have seen it. 

Perhaps you’ve been missing some of the magic currently happening in your life because you’re not looking in the right place. In some ways, this has been a dreadful year. But in others, it has exploded with new opportunity and unveiled some hidden blessings.

And so yes, I am confident that although things seem bleak at the moment, this pandemic too shall pass. Darkness will dissipate and we will see that we weren’t as divided as we thought we were. And we will be back on the beach to soak in the sun and bask in the blessings that arrived during the night.

This painting is a reminder that in these dark nights of the soul, sometimes we need patience and sometimes we need a new perspective.

Either way, dawn is coming.

Every so often in my life, things are going along swimmingly. I know where I’m going, the path is clear, progress is being made. Everything makes sense and the future is bright. I like when life is like that.

But then, seemingly overnight, everything goes dry. Sand has obscured my path, and I feel like I’m in a barren wasteland, uncertain of which direction to head. I wonder if all the progress and clarity I’d experienced was merely a mirage, because suddenly all signs of life are absent.

I am stranded in the desert and all hope is drying up.

Perhaps you’ve felt this way recently. Maybe you feel this way now.

Growing up in the Midwest, I didn’t have a lot of experience with deserts. Acres and acres of cornfields, yes; barren expanses of desert, no. To me, deserts were hot, sandy, stretches of nothing, save for an occasional cactus and those ominous cattle skulls. Of course, they can be those things. Officially, a desert is a dry, desolate and barren area of land. It often looks dead, void of life and hope.

But that’s only if you’re not looking closely enough.

Deserts are harsh, but not lifeless. I took the picture that inspired this painting whilst exploring the Saguaro National Park a few years ago. It was spectacular, and unlike anything I ever experienced growing up in Illinois. The signs of life aren’t as obvious as in a jungle or forest, but they are there, just hidden.

I can’t help but draw some parallels to my roots in the agricultural heartland. Consider planting: After you cover a seed with soil, is the moment you see its first green shoot emerge from the earth the first time growth happened since you buried it? Of course not. It was always in the process of transforming, it just wasn’t immediately visible. When you see rows and rows of tall sweet corn or endless fields of amber waves of grain, it’s easy to forget that in the springtime, those acres of soil seemed barren and lifeless even though they’d already been planted.

Similarly, it can take several months to visually notice the effect of pregnancy. But cells began multiplying and growing rapidly since the first moment of conception.

In deserts, life is always on the move. We just aren’t always able to see its progress.

When we feel stranded in the desert, we need to remind ourselves that all is not lost. It’s hard to be patient and stay hopeful when all evidence seems to suggest otherwise. Please know that when you find yourself in the desert, you are not deserted. God is always working, even when He seems silent or absent. 

It’s hard to believe a plant so hostile and forbidding could produce a bloom so magnificent.

Hang in there. Good things are happening, right this moment, and will spring forth in time.

Keep a sharp eye out for proof of life.

“All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

iPhone screens. Windows. Windshields. Bones. Baseball bats. Helmets. Even Humpty Dumpty.

When something is cracked, we often think of it as ruined, useless, irredeemably broken.

But when a bird’s egg cracks while in the confines of its nest, it is a sign of new life, a fresh beginning. Only moments before the first crack, the egg is pure, smooth, unbroken. Then the crack happens, disrupting the calm surface of the egg. 

But what emerges next is something new and beautiful.

Our business had its best year ever in 2019. Speaking, in person, on live stages was the biggest driver of revenue. Who would have predicted that such a business model could vanish so quickly? But of course, it did, thanks to the arrival of a tiny, unwelcome virus.

Almost overnight, as speaking engagements went up in smoke, our business model cracked. Our future looked bleak. But we clung more fervently to our faith and were bolstered by the support of past clients and the merry band of Adultitis Fighters who had assembled behind us over the previous twenty years.

We pivoted to a virtual world, developed a super secret membership community, and developed new skills that ushered in new opportunities. Not only did we survive, but we thrived, and ended up buying our dream home on the edge of Lake Michigan amidst the turmoil.

It was an imaginable outcome twelve months earlier, but made possible thanks to an unwelcome disruption.

A year and a half after we moved in, we countered another bad “break.” A 112-mph straight-line wind tore through our neighborhood and decimated our backyard, leaving a mess of uprooted tress and an enormous pile of debt in its wake.

It was rough. We were safe, and it could have been worse, but we were broken. Fast forward another year and a half, and I am only now fully realizing the full scope of blessings that came forth from that challenging chapter.

Sometimes our life cracks.

Plans go south. Failures mount. Tragedy strikes.

We lose the game, our health, or someone we love.

We feel irredeemably broken.

But that doesn’t have to be the end of the story. In fact, it might just be the start of a new and better one.

This painting is a reminder of that first Easter morning, when something that undoubtedly felt like the end of the line miraculously turned into a glorious new beginning.

Maybe something in your life has cracked recently.

Is it broken, or the start of a new opportunity?

Eating a peach, in season, perfectly ripe, is pure magic. But also messy.

Oh, sure, you can eat peaches before they’re ripe and they might drip less, but they’re not nearly as good. The best peaches are always messy.

Now I’ll admit it: I prefer tidy. I like the structure of a good plan. I feel good when the dishes are done and the counter is cleared. I’m easily disturbed when piles stay piles for too long.

Is that an Adultitis-fueled trait? Perhaps. But I do find that I am more present, relaxed, and creative when clutter and chaos are minimized. In general, I don’t think it’s a terrible trait to have. And I don’t believe that an Adultitis-free life is one that disregards any sense of order.

That said, I think we can all agree that 2020 has been less than tidy. I recently reviewed a list of all the goals I’d set for the year, and I had to cross about 80% of them because they’d become either irrelevant or impossible. This year has been a real mess of confusion, conflict, and anxiety. In many ways, it has been a bonafide dumpster fire.

But can I let you in on a secret? We’re only halfway through, but I suspect I will look back on this year as one of the best years of my life. It might take me a few years to fully own that, but I can already see hints of its truthfulness.

At the very beginning of the pandemic, Kim and I started doing daily live-streams from our kitchen table. We didn’t know what the future had in store for us, but the message we hammered on over and over was this: look for the opportunity. We encouraged you to ask yourself, “Now that this has happened, what does this make possible?”

It was the advice we shared, but also followed. 

This pandemic has strengthened my relationship with God in untold ways. It brought my family closer together. It has pushed me and Kim into making changes in our business that we’ve talked about for years, but never had the time for. It forced us into trying new things and learning new skills that will yield new fruit in the years to come. It birthed a brand new initiative – the biggest one we’ve ever undertaken – that seems destined for a time like this, but twenty years in the making. (More on that VERY soon!)

I share this because I don’t think this can be chalked up to luck or talent. I share it because it’s a technique available to anyone and because it’s possible for 2020 to be your best year ever, too. 

Preposterous?

Look, we all have things outside of our control that work against us, obstacles that rise up to thwart us. But the bigger the obstacle, the bigger the opportunity. Our attitude, our mindset, the frame we choose to operate within, is entirely within our control. 

You can feel under attack and choose to not play the role of victim.

You can feel anxious and choose to not cower in a corner and give in to despair.

You can feel like everything is a mess and still choose to look for beauty. 

I remember the day we let our oldest daughter take control of her own ice cream cone for the first time. It was a beautiful Madison summer afternoon and we were hanging out at the Memorial Union, overlooking picturesque Lake Mendota. We braved the super-duper-long line for ice cream and figured that rather than micromanage each lick, we’d give Lucy full reign over her Zanzibar Chocolate ice cream cone.

Kim handed it to her, and she gave a look of surprise and wonderment that appeared to say, “Are you serious?”

After getting assurance that she was on her own, Lucy dove right in, her hazel eyes shining with joy. She licked. She smiled. She concentrated. She beamed.

And she ended up with the cutest brown goatee I ever did see.

Meanwhile, the chocolate mess invaded everywhere from her nose to her toes. Her shirt and shorts were stained. The real breakthrough came when Kim, seeing the mammoth mess unfold before her very eyes, resisted every ounce of motherly urge to wrestle the cone back from our daughter. She let go of the dirty shirt, the sticky fingers, and the crazy sugar buzz that would be left behind.

She let it all go.

Later, she coined a great saying: “Never let making a mess get in the way of making a memory.”

Please note, I’m not ignoring the mess and the less than ideal outcomes that come from it. I’d like to offer a moment of silence for Lucy’s tank top. Several washes and stain-stick treatments later, it was unable to be revived and ended up in the trash bin of history. That’s okay, though; we’ve decided that we’d much rather have the memories of that moment than the shirt. 

That “deciding” part is the key.

Seeing with new eyes isn’t about ignoring the mess. It’s about choosing to sort through it to find something good.

You may find a lifelong memory, stumble upon a new business model, or uncover the opportunity of a lifetime.

You know how when people are asked if they would like to change a negative thing that happened in their past, they often say they’d leave things as is, because of the good things that came from it? That’s how I feel about 2020:

I may not want to RELIVE it, but I don’t think I’ll want to UNDO it, either.

Sometimes life doesn’t go the way we planned, expected, or even hoped. 2020 will probably go down as one of the messiest years we’ve ever experienced. The question is: Are you improving the odds that this year will go down as one of your best?

Adventures are rarely tidy.

Sometimes the greatest blessings spring forth from the biggest messes.