Category: Uncategorized

Are you sabotaging your own success and happiness?

We recently exhibited at the Midsummer Festival of the Arts in Sheboygan. I’m no stranger to this sort of thing, between participating in art fairs and the gift shows we did in the early days, selling prints and greeting cards to retail and gift shops.

I’ve noticed that exhibitors fall into one of two buckets. 

The first consists of people like the two gents next to us. A father and son team were selling metalwork to be displayed outdoors. It’s clear they are there to do a job. They’re pros who are purposeful, efficient, and positive. Not chatty, but friendly. 

The second type is like another neighbor we had. Always quick to comment about the weather (which is somehow always too hot or too wet or too windy) and complain about the attendance (which is somehow always too low). This one is regularly straying from their booth to find someone to commiserate with, and makes declarations like, “They love my art, but they don’t have any money to buy.” And if you seem to be doing better than them, they’ll gladly share their opinion of why that is in a way that doesn’t feel much like a compliment.

I both cases, the work itself was very good. But the attitude was miles apart.

Without fail, it’s the first type that consistently enjoys more success.

Coincidence?

Look, we’ve had some rough shows over the years. It was tempting to blame the promoter, the weather, the low attendance, or the buying power of the attendees. It’s comforting to commiserate with others experiencing slow sales, and hurl “must be nice” at the ones doing gangbusters. 

It feels good — in the moment — but it’s not very productive. 

I eventually found it’s a better use of time and energy to use those occasions to revisit my approach. Is my work as good as it could be? Are we presenting it in the best possible way? Could we improve the clarity of our message? Come up with a more appealing offer? Adjust our sales technique?

In case you haven’t figured it out, the message here is bigger than exhibiting at art fairs. 

It’s a valuable lesson for all of life.

One option is to play the victim and complain about all the outside factors that are conspiring to keep you down. You can mutter “must be nice” about the people doing well. Direct it at their natural talent, their good connections, their Ivy League education, or their dumb luck of being in the right place at the right time. You can also blame the weather, the economy, or politicians.

Unfortunately, this is the equivalent of spraying success repellent all over yourself. It creates an invisible aura of negativity that is palpable to the people you encounter. Meanwhile, you’re too busy blaming all the things outside of your control that you don’t have time to improve the things you can.

Or.

You can accept the fact that there are disadvantages you can’t control, and decide to focus on the things you can, choosing to make the best out of whatever comes your way. 

That’s really what it is: a decision.

When you make a decision over and over and over again, it becomes a habit, a way of life, and that’s what makes it feel like it’s not a decision.

The good news is that bad habits can be replaced with better ones.

Which starts with a decision.

You can decide to focus on what you can control: working hard, being kind, and maintaining a positive attitude. 

You can practice noticing when you’re playing the “must be nice” game, and pivot to a spirit of curiosity about how to better leverage your own strengths.

You can decide that you’re not going to get sucked into conversations with people who want you to share in their negativity.

Oftentimes, the reason we find ourselves afflicted with Adultitis is because we opened the door and invited it in.

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🤔 I wonder…what is a technique you use to get yourself back on track when you find yourself swerving into comparison and complaining?

Kim and I were on our way to San Diego. For reasons known only to Delta, our seats got reassigned, and we were split up. Considering that part of the reason for our trip was to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary, and because we still actually like each other, we looked for an opportunity to switch seats with another passenger.

I was in the middle seat, and a lady sat in the aisle seat next to me. Kim, herself in an aisle seat one row behind, asked the woman if she wouldn’t mind swapping spots so we could sit together.

None of us was in any kind of preferred seating. No First Class, Comfort Plus, or exit rows involved. And yet the woman hesitated, immediately exhibiting a perturbed attitude, as if Kim had requested both kidneys and another vital organ to be named later.

Picking up on her prickly vibe, Kim calmly but firmly responded to the woman with four words: “You can say no.”

After a short pause, which perhaps provided the time to realize she wasn’t losing anything in this exchange, the woman willingly switched places without any further incident or passive aggression.

Now, I don’t know this lady.

Maybe she was feeling settled and didn’t want the hassle of moving.

Maybe she really has a thing for seat 21D.

Maybe she was disappointed that she wasn’t going to get a chance to hit on me.

All I know is that Kim’s short reply felt like such a baller move.

And it was. Not in some sort of “I’m going to bully you into this” or “I’ll share this on social media to shame you in front of the world” sort of way. Rather than an attempt by Kim to exert some kind of power, it was an act of generosity in which she gave power away.

It’s easy to go from one choice to the next, feeling like we are a tiny vessel whipped to and fro by the waves of life, forever at the mercy of our boss, our kids’ school, the government, the airline, or the passenger one row behind us.

Maybe for this woman, it felt like one more example of having to bend to the whims and wishes of someone else. Another moment of feeling powerless.

And with one simple statement, Kim gave her a gift.

“You can say no.”

Four words that gave her permission to pause and be reminded that she has agency over her choices and life. In this case, I’m grateful for her yes. But I’m glad she allowed me to reflect on how difficult it is for us to say no.

We forget how much power we have. Sure, sometimes there are dire consequences for ignoring certain directives. But they are far fewer than we presume.

You really don’t have to say yes to every invitation, opportunity, or request for help.

You really don’t have to say yes to the offer to join the board, accept the position, or sign your kid up for one more thing.

You really don’t have to say yes to that social event when you were looking forward to a quiet weekend you so desperately need.

And you know what? You don’t even have to give a reason. You can simply thank them for thinking of you and tell them it’s not going to work out this time.

We can say no. We can change our minds. We can choose to reverse course and abandon this path we started down, but no longer want to follow.

It’s ok.

You can say no.

I am an art nerd.

Many guys in Wisconsin count Bass Pro Shops as their happy place. Me? I’ll take a good art supply store any day of the week. Oh, I have a few tackle boxes, they’re just packed with paint tubes, pen nibs, and drawing pencils of varying lead grades.

When I was in high school, I loved getting the latest Dick Blick publication in the mail. More than just an art supply catalog, it was filled with pages and pages of creative possibilities. 

As I perused materials and mediums I’d never seen before, much less worked with, my eye was always drawn to the top-of-the-line sets. It didn’t matter if it was professional markers, colored pencils, or paints; I dreamed of having the set that featured every color the manufacturer made. In those days, they were way beyond my means, and perhaps that’s what gave them part of their appeal. I dreamed of one day getting to a point where sets like those would be in my reach. Why, there’d be no limit to the art I’d be able to make!

This reminds me of even earlier in life, back to the days of pining for the Rolls-Royce set of crayons: Crayola’s box of 64, complete with a sharpener in the back!

It featured exotic colors not to be found in the pedestrian collections of 8 or 24: Periwinkle. Brick Red. Cornflower. Thistle. Goldenrod. And of course, gold and silver. (Which I was convinced were made of real bits of the precious metals.)

There’s no doubt about it: if you possessed the box of 64 crayons, there was nothing you couldn’t draw. You were a true artiste. (My mind would simply not have been able to comprehend that one day they’d make a box of 120!)

Even though we are no longer turning out drawings to be hung on the fridge, we still assume the role of artist, so to speak. We are now tasked with creating better communities, businesses, and teams. And we often yearn for a bigger budget, less red tape, or more cooperation from colleagues, upper management, and politicians. We could use more training, more structure, more resources.

How we long for the unlimited possibilities that box of 64 crayons represented! If only I had brick red! Can you imagine what I’d do with periwinkle? We could make a real difference with silver and gold in our crayon box!

If I had double the budget, I could really make some strides with these students.

If I had a few extra hours a week, I could make some real progress on this plan.

If I had another acre, an extra room, or a few hundred more square feet, I could be so more productive and efficient.

If I had a bigger team, we could get so much more accomplished.

Money. Time. Space. Manpower.

Silver. Cornflower. Brick Red. Periwinkle.

You may want the big box of 64 crayons, but there is never a time when you’ll have everything you wish you had. Most of the time, it feels like you’re a few crayons short of filling the humble box of 8.

Short of the resources that would make our work significantly easier or more effective, we often let the disappointment over what we don’t have paralyze us from making the most of what we do.

There was a time when I could only afford a set of 24 colored pencils. I pined for the complete set of 150 I saw in the Dick Blick catalog and fell asleep dreaming of the possibilities they would provide and the art I’d be able to make.

In the meantime, I didn’t stop drawing. I made do with what I had, mixing colors by layering them over one another to make new ones. In the process, little by little, my skills improved. My high school art teacher, impressed by my potential and passion, gifted me with a bigger set. I kept drawing. Eventually, all that drawing led to my art becoming the foundation of my career, and now I can afford to get whatever colors I want.

No, you might not have the box of 64. Not yet.

Don’t let that keep you from making art.

I know how painful it can be to exist in a place where you don’t have access to all the colors you wish you did.

But thanks to my art training, I also know this: just about any famous painting you can think of can be recreated with just four colors: red, yellow, blue, and white.

Almost any color can be created with these humble hues.

Even though art supply stores feature walls of paint tubes in a dizzying array of colors, the master teachers implore their students to proactively limit their palette to a handful of colors to ensure a harmonious, pleasing result.

True creativity thrives when constrained by limitations. During the Renaissance period, blue was a very expensive pigment. But when you are using a lot of warm earth tones, as those painters did, a neutral made from black and white can take on a blue tone by comparison.

Having access to all the colors does not make one an artist. It’s about knowing how to use the ones you have.

Whether you are an educator, a healthcare professional, an entrepreneur, or a parent trying to raise great kids, I understand that you wish you had more time, more resources, and more freedom to do the important work that needs to be done.

Unfortunately, that may never be the case. It rarely is in the real world.

But that’s ok.

You are simply called to do the best you can with what you have.

It’s ok to want and wish for ALL the colors.

But you can still make a masterpiece with just four.

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🤔 I wonder…what masterpiece is being left undone while you’re waiting for more colors?

Here in America, amidst the parades and fireworks and meat on the grill, it’s easy to overlook an important fact: July 4th used to be a blank square on the calendar.

On many calendars throughout the world, it still is.

But almost 250 years ago, a ragtag bunch of rebels stood up to the world’s power and the premier fighting force of its time. It started a pretty big fight that eventually, they won.

No one gave them permission. It’s not like there was a day on the calendar that said, “Today’s the day, guys!”

They got together and just…decided.

A lot of blood, sweat, and tears followed, but it couldn’t have started without a decision. Because of that fateful declaration of independence, a nation was born, and the world changed.

And so did our calendar.

I am grateful for those brave men and women. I love the fireworks and the parades and the meat on the grill. But perhaps it’s time to take a cue from the calendar and make a new declaration of independence.

Against Adultitis.

It’s strategically hidden and doesn’t get much press, but I’d argue it’s the premier fighting force of our time. It’s definitely a bully that keeps you under its thumb.

You don’t need permission to declare independence from the ruts and comfort zones that rob you of a feeling of adventure and aliveness.

You can declare independence from the melancholy that deprives you of joy and wonder.

You can declare independence from pessimism and the cynical belief that the world is beyond saving and that hope is old-fashioned.

You can declare independence from a calendar that strangles you with too many obligations and extracurricular activities.

You can declare independence from the stress that comes from trying to do it all, measure up, and keep up with a culture of busyness that continues to accelerate.

You can declare independence from past regrets that keep you from creating something better here in the present.

You can declare independence from the discouragement that life is meaningless and from fear of the future.

Of course, then the real work begins, just like it did for the revolutionaries two-and-a-half centuries ago. But the work is doable when tackled bit by bit, one step at a time. (Don’t forget about this free community of fellow Adultitis Fighters you can plug into and gain strength from every day.)

And the work is worth it because the other side of standing up to the bully brings freedom.

The freedom to slow down and delight in the little things.

The freedom to stress less and play more.

The freedom to spend more time with people you love. 

The freedom to become who you were uniquely created to be.

The freedom to initiate adventures and reawaken your biggest dreams.

The freedom to live the life you want to live, not the one you feel like you should. 

The freedom to do work that matters. 

The freedom to make your life a masterpiece. 

Parades are not guaranteed, but there will be fireworks — at least the metaphorical kind. (The grilled meat is up to you.)

This is a callout to the brave men and women of our time.

It all starts with a declaration of independence.

Is today the day?

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🤔 I wonder…what aspect of adultitis do you need to declare independence from?

Be positive! Be optimistic! Everything is unicorns and rainbows and sunshine and lollipops, yadda, yadda, yadda. 🦄🌈☀️🍭

I am very suspicious of people who are always positive.

I know this may sound weird coming from me, Mr. Anti-Adultitis, whose own father wears a “Bee Optimistic” pin every single day.

Yes, I believe in the power of positive thinking. And optimism is way more attractive than pessimism. But a deep dive into the Wright Brothers reminded me about how the real world works.

Changing the world (or even just our week) requires a little more nuance than the ill-fated advice to always be optimistic.

First of all, there are positives about being negative.

Wilbur and Orville were known to have great arguments and disagreements, with heated words flying between them at the tops of their voices. Their friend Charlie Taylor insisted they were never really mad. Their discussions were rooted in a great mutual admiration of each other and carried out only in pursuit of the truth. The brothers were not afraid to consider the negative, especially when it came to their theories and plans. 

It was characteristic of all his family, Wilbur said, to be able to see the weak points of anything. This was not always a “desirable quality,“ he added, “as it makes us too conservative for successful businessmen, and limits our friendships to a very limited circle.“

The Wright Brothers actively looked for problems. After they were identified, the brothers could begin figuring out how to solve them helped the duo minimize risk, avoid disaster, and increase their odds of success.

There’s no doubt that the pair’s optimism fueled their achievement by helping them to persist despite the onslaught of skeptics and critics. But they were also human. They experienced failure and were prone to doubts.

Before their big breakthrough, Wilbur got invited to speak to the Western Society of Engineers in Chicago on the subject of gliding experiments. It was his first request to speak in public, and it came after some failed experiments. He wanted to turn it down, but his sister Katharine urged him to do it. As he was making preparations, she asked him, “Will it be witty or scientific?”

“Pathetic, by the time I’m done with it,” said Wilbur.

In the end, reviewing his notes and records while preparing for the talk helped him to crystallize his thoughts, and the reaction he received from the audience emboldened him, serving as a wind in his sails.

One of their biggest lows came during their trials at Kitty Hawk. After experiencing a series of failures, the brothers realized that the data from their predecessors that they had taken as gospel was incorrect and could no longer be trusted.

The brothers experienced many such moments of discouragement. But they didn’t stay that way. In his book, The Wright Brothers, David McCullough recounts:

What they talked about on the train heading back to Ohio was neither recorded at the time nor discussed in any detail afterward. Yet it is clear from a few of their later comments that they were as down in spirit about their work as they had ever been, and especially Wilbur.

According to what Orville was to write years later, Wilbur was at such a low point he declared that “not in a thousand years would man ever fly.” Wilbur’s gloom on the train was only momentary. As Orville said, “He was at work the following day and it seemed to me was more hopeful and determined than ever.”

Later on, Orville was part of the first fatality in the history of powered flight, when his passenger, Lieutenant Selfridge, died of a fractured skull during a crash. Orville himself was laid up in a hospital for months. Wilbur was in Europe when he heard the news. McCollough writes:

Wilbur looked up, his eyes full of tears, and said if anything could make him abandon further work in solving the problem of flight, it would be an accident like this. Then, springing to his feet, he declared, “No, we have solved this problem. With us flying is not an experiment; it is a demonstration.”

The Wright Brothers changed the world; where does this leave us?

We can remember that although Wilbur and Orville were positive thinkers, they wisely used negativity to their advantage. However, had they dwelled in negativity too often, they never would have gotten off the ground.

I think the real goal is to practice focusing on where you fall on the spectrum between optimism and pessimism. What’s your default mode?

It’s impossible to be optimistic every second of every day. Life’s too hard for that.

It’s ok to be discouraged.

Just don’t stay that way.

Practice keeping optimism as your default mode.

That way, when the winds of life blow you down, your optimism can help dust you off so you can rise again.

And soar.

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🤔 I wonder…when in your life did a healthy dollop of negativity turn out to be just what you needed?

The Penguin Who Flew is an inspiring book about a persistent little penguin. It’s the kind of book that brings light to a world that seems darker than ever. And it offers up encouragement that we all need to hear, no matter how many birthdays we’ve celebrated.

Maybe you have an extra copy (or four) on hand. Or maybe you’re a Dream Maker like Marty’s grandma and want to encourage as many people as possible. Either way, here’s a list of 31 things you can do with extra copies of “The Penguin Who Flew.”

1. Give them to your favorite kids in your life.
2. Send them to all of your grown children or grandchildren.
3. Celebrate your own or someone else’s birthday by giving books to all the guests.
4. Gift a bundle of books to preschool & daycare classrooms or send one home with each child.
5. Stock the Little Free Library in your town or start a new one with a kid-friendly design.
6. Offer books as part of a lesson or during a special children’s service at church.
7. Add a “Book Table” at food pantries or clothing drives where families can pick up books along with essentials.
8. Donate books to domestic violence shelters, homeless shelters, or foster care agencies.
9. Host a “shopping” experience at a school, community center, or church where each child picks a few books.
10. Leave a small bin in pediatric offices: “Take a book, keep a book.”
11. Include books in backpacks during back-to-school supply drives.
12. Set up a mini reading area at parks, farmers markets, or community events with a “Take a Book” sign.
13. Leave a book and a cheerful note at neighborhood doorsteps like a reverse trick-or-treat.
14. Hide books in public places (with weather protection) and give clues on social media or flyers.
15. Use them as client gifts.
16. Give them to people you’d like to become clients.
17. Reward employees for being awesome.
18. Give one to your boss for extra brownie points.
19. Use them as end-of-the-year gifts for your kids’ teachers or coaches.
20. Gift them to the people who make your life better, such as your postman, pastor, chiropractor, hairdresser, yoga instructor, barista, or butler.
21. Help fight Adultitis by randomly giving one to the person sitting next to you on the bus, train, or plane.
22. Finish your Christmas shopping in one fell swoop.
23. Put them in Easter baskets.
24. Instead of candy at Halloween, hand out books to trick-or-treaters.
25. Include them in care packages you send to long-distance friends or relatives.
26. Give them to recent grads to encourage them to chase their dream!
27. Raffle prizes!
28. Housewarming gifts!
29. Silent auction items!
30. Host or hostess gifts!
31. Share it with your super famous celebrity friend and ask him or her to tell their followers about it.

This past week was…not great.

It was already slated to be a busy week during a very busy month. Then, in 72 hours, we went from a simple wellness visit to the emergency room to a training session at Milwaukee Children’s Hospital to learn how to check blood sugar and inject insulin into our kid.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled life to bring you this important message: your son has Type 1 Diabetes.

Just like that, speaking gigs were postponed, daily planners were whitewashed with white-out, and Ben’s life changed forever.

He’s handling it well with a great attitude. I’m so proud of him and his sisters, who have stepped up to shower him with love and support. As parents, Kim and I have been living under a weighted blanket of fears and worries, sadness and overwhelm. Weirdly, we rotate between grief over having been dealt this hand, and guilt for feeling sad because we know how much worse it could be. Visiting a children’s hospital has a way of making that abundantly clear.

It’s early, but I feel called to share some thoughts publicly, to offer a live look as we ask the very question I’ve shared on hundreds of stages to thousands of people: “Now that this has happened, what does this make possible?”

It’s not an empty platitude. It’s a way of seeing that helps one find rainbows amidst life’s tumultuous thunderstorms. So we’ve been asking the question, and we’ve already found some answers…

This diagnosis has brought us even closer together as a family. Team Kotecki is stronger than ever.

As Ben rises to the challenge, I can already see him becoming more responsible and gaining confidence.

The necessity of counting carbs to know how much insulin to administer has the potential to make our entire family healthier as we become more aware of our choices.

That’s only the beginning. My faith compels me to think even bigger…

The nurse who trained us has Type 1 diabetes herself. I can’t help but wonder if this will impact Ben’s career someday, with the empathy he gains impacting hundreds or thousands of people.

Maybe this will put him on the road that will lead him to meeting his future wife someday.

Maybe he’ll have some part to play in helping to find a cure.

Of course, I don’t know if any versions of these rudimentary visions will come to pass. But I do know this: the good that will ultimately come from this diagnosis, the number of people it will impact, and the multitude of graces that will abound are no match for my meager imagination.

I can’t predict what it will look like, but I can plan on it being better than I can imagine.

And it’s not wishful thinking, either. 

I have seen it in my own life.

When I look back, there are so many instances where the connected dots go back so far that it’s hard to see them all. “If this hadn’t happened, then this wouldn’t have happened, and this would never have been possible.” On and on it goes, an endless tapestry of threads, expertly woven and interconnected with the lives of others. I can’t think of a single instance where I’d remove any horrible thing that I’ve gone through in my life, because then I’d have to sacrifice the abundance of good that came with it.

Of course, sometimes, not enough time has passed to see anything good or any glimmer of hope. Asking the question, “What does this make possible?” helps prime us to see the silver linings when they eventually appear.

Like most people, I prefer comfort, and I spend a lot of time and effort chasing it. Suffering, however, is unavoidable. Sooner or later, the storm finds us. We eventually receive news we didn’t want to hear.

One benefit of being this close to fifty is that I have enough experience to know that time after time, failures, disappointments, tragedies, and traumas have yielded blessings beyond my wildest imagination.

God writes the best stories.

He does his best work when we surrender.

After we returned home from our first of three big training sessions at the hospital, I was feeling overwhelmed by all the things that instantly changed about our lives, and the new responsibilities and financial burdens added to our plates. As we finished dinner, a small rain shower passed by, and the largest, brightest rainbow I’ve ever seen appeared on the horizon over Lake Michigan.

We rushed out to behold its majesty, which brought forth our neighbors from their homes, too.

It was an emphatic reminder that everything was going to be ok and that the Master Storyteller was already at work. Not necessarily easy, but OK. That’s what gives me every confidence that this diagnosis will prove to be a gift that will help Ben become the best version of himself.

So yeah, the past week was not great.

But we will continue to ask, “What does this make possible?”

I know that the answer will be something good.

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?