There’s a kind of emptiness I’ve seen in students who seem perfectly capable—present but not present. It’s like they’re slipping through the cracks of their own potential. That’s what made the Parable of the Talents hit me differently. The servant who buried his gift wasn’t lazy—he was afraid. My dad, by contrast, never waited for work to come to him. He collected soda bottles, worked without complaint, and never sat idle. Real faithfulness isn’t always flashy—it starts in those quiet, everyday choices to show up.
What Faith Looks Like in an Unraveling World
Four years after the chaos of COVID-19, life is still shifting underneath us—economy, unrest, people at each other’s throats. Some say faith means no fear; I wonder if that’s reckless. Scripture doesn’t say faith equals bravado. It balances trust and wisdom—like avoiding the oncoming traffic even when you’re brave enough to cross the road. Sometimes faith is pausing, not running. It’s not a failure of belief. Maybe it’s a decision to walk wisely—and continue being a source of light anyway.
Enduring Like a Mighty Oak: Finding Strength in Psalm 1
Living among Texas oaks has its lessons: storms leave scars, but the tree stands firmer for it. Psalm 1 paints that same image—one rooted by streams, standing through seasons, bearing fruit. Not a symbol of perfection, but perseverance. It’s tempting to drift like a tumbleweed, but a life grounded in truth can weather the chaos. Real strength is quiet. It’s nestled in deep roots, consistent nourishment, and choosing where you walk, stand, and sit—in ways that let life grow from the inside out.
A Con in a Can: The Relentless Chase for More
As kids, we thought a ham in a can looked glamorous—until we tried it and found it slimy and disappointing. That quick lesson stuck: packaging can lie. Casinos push the same fantasy—flashy lights promising big wins, but mostly draining pockets and hope. And real stories? Like the lottery winner who cursed his fortune instead of celebrating it, remind us that “more” doesn’t always mean better. Proverbs matters: wealth gained quickly seldom lasts. True gain grows slowly—and quietly holds meaning long after the shine has faded.
From Humble Beginnings to Grateful Lives
On our last morning at sea, I watched a sunrise break through gray skies while an older couple walked by hand in hand. That simple scene broke through me. Back in our cabin, Becky and I shared coffee as the world began moving again. We ate a fancy brunch that felt both absurd and perfect—soups poured with flair, fruit towers, steak plated like crown jewels. Yet all I thought about were the pancakes we fed our kids twenty years ago. I’ve learned contentment grows in welcoming what’s present—not chasing some bigger, grander image of happiness.
The Surprising Power of Small Gestures
Sometimes it’s the tiniest things that shift everything. A hand on the shoulder from a friend—nothing dramatic, just quiet support—stuck with me long after our conversation ended. That small moment taught me to notice more: the early-morning knock of room service, coffee steaming on a quiet cruise ship, the absurdity of two salt shakers meant only for decoration, and the lone cleaner greeting us in the dim hallway. Kindness isn’t about grand moves—it’s about noticing, and acknowledging, the unseen. Little gestures thread grace into our ordinary, reminding us that small always matters.
The Servant’s Heart: Gratitude in Action
Looking back at a photo of Kyle Field during the pandemic, I was reminded of how often ordinary people are called to extraordinary service. Teachers masked up, doctors worked endless shifts, and countless quiet acts of love carried us through uncertain days. Servanthood rarely looks heroic—it’s usually disguised as persistence, sacrifice, or care. I see it most clearly in Becky, whose tireless devotion in both small and large ways embodies what Jesus modeled when He washed His disciples’ feet. Gratitude isn’t only about receiving blessings—it’s about honoring the love and service that make them possible.
One Last Lesson Before You Go
The last day of school is loud with relief—teachers and students alike ready to bolt for the door. But for me, that walk to the car is never simple. Each year, I feel the pull of goodbye, knowing many students I’ve poured into will disappear from my life. What do you say in a yearbook line when what you really want is to hand them a compass? Over time, I’ve realized the best lesson isn’t clever advice—it’s reminding them that joy, courage, and kindness outlast possessions. That’s the message I’d stamp in every heart, if I could.
Reclaiming the Classroom from Cell Phones
As I near the end of my 27th year in teaching, I have observed a recurring trend in the past several years of my career: Every April for the past 7 or 8 years, I have experienced an inner tug urging me to explore career opportunities beyond the realm of teaching. I’ve discovered that many…