What Ruby Taught Me

What you’re looking at here is a real-life image of power.
This is Ruby Jane, age 3, absolutely thriving.

Wrapped in her favorite blanket.
Fresh from the bath and glowing.
New mani/pedi from her older sister, Lila.
Cucumbers on her eyes.
Hydrating mask in place.

Not a care in the world.

She wasn’t performing rest. She wasn’t trying to prove anything.
She just let the moment hold her.

As funny and adorable as it was to witness, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was teaching me something.

I think that’s sort of the gig as a dad—if you’re paying attention, you catch these little flashes of something bigger and let them work on you a bit.

I’ve never been great at rest.

I like building. Creating. Solving problems. Moving things forward.

Rest has often felt like a pause I had to earn.
If I’m honest, I’ve spent a lot of my adult life confusing rest with laziness.

Somewhere along the way, I bought into the lie that movement equals value.
That my worth was tied to how much I could carry, how quickly I could move, or how well I could hold it all together without flinching.

And while that drive has served me in a lot of ways—built things I’m proud of, pushed me through hard seasons—I’m learning it’s not the whole story.

I don’t want to lose my bias toward action. That’s in my bones.

But I am learning to quiet the voice that says I have to earn rest.
I’m learning to trust that being still doesn’t mean I’m falling behind.

It’s a heavy way to live—always proving, always pushing.

But the older I get, the more I realize:
Sometimes, forward looks like stopping.
Sometimes, growth looks like stillness.

And every now and then, something interrupts that pattern—quietly, beautifully—and reminds me of a better way.

So maybe this is just a post about a 3-year-old with cucumbers on her eyes.
Or maybe it’s about something deeper.

Maybe it’s about remembering that rest isn’t weakness.
That stillness isn’t laziness.
That sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is stop striving long enough to remember we’re already loved.

Ruby wasn’t trying to earn anything in that moment—she was just receiving what was offered.

And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us.

To slow down.
To be fully where we are.
To let the moment hold us.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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My Little Girl

This is my little girl, Lila Blue.

Now, I know what you’re thinking—she doesn’t look so little anymore.
Trust me, I know.

I also know you’re thinking, “Wow, she’s gorgeous.”
Trust me, I know.

Before I go any further: if you happen to be an adolescent male, I kindly invite you to keep scrolling. She’s not dating until she’s 30.

She turns thirteen this week, and we have a family tradition—when you hit the big 1-3, you get a destination trip with just Mom and Dad. No siblings, no distractions. Just time carved out to celebrate you.

So this week was full of sunshine, sandy toes, shopping bags, and plenty of ice cream.

It was a blast, but here’s the part that sneaks up on you as a Dad:

Somewhere between chasing her on the playground and watching her pick out lip gloss at Sephora, she turned into this young woman—one with opinions, style, wit, and a quiet strength that doesn’t ask for permission.

She’s becoming who she was always meant to be and I’ve got a front row seat. What a gift.

This trip wasn’t just about celebrating her age.

It was about recognizing the shift.

She’s crossing a bridge into something new.

And as much as I want to slow time down, I also don’t want to miss a second of who she’s becoming.

So here’s to Lila Blue—confident, curious, and kind.

You’ve got your Momma’s heart and your Dad’s stubbornness (also his jump shot ).

Keep walking with purpose, laughing loudly, loving deeply, and staying true to yourself—even when the world tells you to be something else.

Because you, exactly as you are, already carry something rare and bright.

And the world needs more of it.

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Prone to Wander

There’s a song I keep returning to—not because it’s catchy, but because I feel like it knows me. Every time I hear it, something stirs deep in my chest.

The song is Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.

There’s a line in the final verse that gets me every single time:

“Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love.
Here’s my heart, Lord, take and seal it—

Seal it for Thy courts above.”

Something about that part wrecks me.

Not in an overdramatic way—but in that quiet, lump-in-the-throat, soul-level kind of way.

I’m not an overly emotional guy. Most days, I take pride in being steady. Disciplined. Focused. I like being the strong one. The protector. The one with a plan.

But something about those words unlocks a part of me I don’t always know how to access.

Prone to wander. Lord, I feel it.
Same.

There have been seasons when I felt so aligned—spiritually, mentally, emotionally—that wandering felt impossible.

But then life happens.

Work piles up. Kids get loud. Deadlines stack. Priorities blur. And I convince myself I’m just “in a season.”

Before I know it, I’m on autopilot—present in body, but not always in spirit.

Truth is, I stopped listening to Come Thou Fount for a while. Not because I didn’t love it—but because it hit too close. It exposed the part of me that prefers performance over presence. Strength over surrender.

But recently, I stumbled across an old playlist I’d titled “All-Time Favorites”. Right there at the top was that song. Against my better judgment, I hit play.

And just like that, the tears came.
Right on cue.

Here’s the thing I’m learning:
a tender heart isn’t a liability. It’s a gift.

For years, I’ve trained myself to be strong—physically, mentally, emotionally. I run. I lift. I lead. I like knowing I can protect my family and provide for them.

But more and more, I’m realizing: my kids don’t just need a dad who’s strong. They need a dad who feels.

A Dad who tears up in worship. Who pauses in the chaos. Who apologizes without defensiveness. Who says, “I was wrong.” “I’m still learning.” “Let’s figure this out together.”

I’ve said before—I don’t want to be remembered as a man who had all the answers.

I want to be remembered as a man who kept asking better questions.

A man who kept coming back.

That line—“prone to wander”—it doesn’t shame me anymore.

It reminds me I’m human. That I need reminders. And that even when I drift, there’s still a place for me at the table.

That’s the heart of legacy, I think.
It’s not about perfection.
It’s about direction.

It’s about the posture of our hearts—even when our steps falter.

So if you’ve wandered a bit lately…
If you’ve stopped listening to the songs that used to move you…
If your faith feels a little numb, or your heart feels like it’s been on lockdown—

Maybe today’s the day you hit play again.

Maybe it’s time to stop pushing past the lump in your throat and start paying attention to it.

Not because you’re weak.

But because you’re strong enough to know that strength alone won’t carry you through.

You were made to feel. To worship. To wrestle. To return.

To come back again and again and say:
“Here’s my heart, Lord. Take and seal it.”

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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The Subtle Work of Being Better

Hey guys, it’s me again.
I’ve got something I think might resonate with a few of you.

But before I get into this post, I want to call something out.

Facebook posts perform better when accompanied by an image. I’ve known this for a while. And, as silly as it sounds, I’ve let that keep me from sharing the things on my heart.

Said another way: If I don’t have a good photo to post, I don’t post anything.

That’s dumb.

I’m not here for the “likes” anymore (even though my monkey brain may try to convince me otherwise).

Read or don’t read.

Here goes:

—

I’ve been noticing something about myself lately.

It’s not flattering—but it’s honest.

Sometimes, I’m one of the most critical people I know.

I can make it sound reasonable—like it’s just “being honest” or “having high standards.” But deep down, I know what’s really going on.

Judgment tricks me into thinking I’m in control.

It’s like a shortcut my ego takes so it doesn’t have to do the hard work of growth.

It lets me slap labels on people without doing the uncomfortable work of asking questions—or turning the mirror back on myself.

Let me give you an example.

A while back, I caught myself getting irritated at one of my kids for being overly emotional. They were overwhelmed. Crying about something small.

My first instinct? Get frustrated.

My second instinct? Fix it.

But in that moment—thanks to my wife, who has the wisdom of ten lifetimes—I slowed down. I listened.

And I realized what was really bothering me wasn’t their emotion.

It was that I was emotionally tapped out.

I’d been running too hard. Too fast.

My margin was gone—and so was my patience.

It had nothing to do with them.

It had everything to do with me.

I'm going to say that one more time for those in the back:

It had nothing to do with them.

It had everything to do with me.

This happens more than I’d like to admit.

I get irritated when people lack discipline—but it’s often because I’m frustrated with areas where I’m still inconsistent.

I get judgmental when people seem lazy—but sometimes it’s my own exhaustion talking.

I roll my eyes at neediness—but if I’m honest, I crave affirmation more than I care to admit.

You get the idea.

So lately, when judgment starts creeping in, I’ve been asking myself a better question:

“What might this be revealing in me?”

Sometimes the answer is simple.

Sometimes it’s uncomfortable.

But it’s almost always worth paying attention to.

It reminds me of something I wrote a while back:

“If left unchecked, our feelings can result in a lot of missed opportunities and squandered lessons. The older I get, the more I realize life is less about our circumstances and more about the way we respond to them.”

That’s been true in parenting.

It’s been true in marriage.

And it’s especially true when it comes to how I see and treat others.

I’m not saying we should ignore unhealthy behavior or pretend everything’s fine when it’s not.

But I am learning that mercy has more power than judgment ever will.

Judgment distances us.

Mercy invites us closer.

One drives disconnection.

The other creates room for change.

I often think about the kind of man I'm becoming. Not what I’ve done. Not what I’ve built. Just who I am when no one’s watching.

When my kids look back, I hope they don’t say I had all the answers. I hope they say I kept learning. That I listened more than I spoke. That I showed mercy when it was easier to judge.

I hope they say I owned my mistakes. That I stayed when it was hard. That I loved them well.

That’s the kind of legacy I want.

So here’s my simple encouragement for the week:

Next time someone irritates you—pause.

Before you say anything, do anything, or react—just ask:

“What might this be revealing in me?”

You might not like the answer.

But it might be exactly what you need.

We’re all works in progress.

We’re all trying to love well, lead well, and live with purpose.

And if we want to build something that lasts—whether it’s a marriage, a business, or a family legacy—it starts with getting honest about the man (or woman) in the mirror.

No image today.
No algorithm boost.
Just a guy trying to be honest and do better (probably failing at both).

Godspeed.

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