Fresh Grace Daily
My stubbornness and selfishness tend to stick to me like old gum on the bottom of a shoe. I’d love to claim that I’ve outgrown the tendency to wander off like a toddler in a department store, but the truth is I still try to drive the bus and immediately get lost in the weeds. Thankfully, God doesn't require a sparkling resume—just the admission that I need a fresh batch of mercy before the sun even comes up.
The Snuffle Mat for the Soul
I have a seventy-five-pound golden retriever named Max who suffers from a chronic case of the "zoomies." We bought him a "snuffle mat" to give his hyperactive brain a job, and it didn't take long for me to realize I’m a lot like Max. My mind wakes up at 5:00 AM with its own version of the zoomies, usually chasing the digital dopamine of news feeds and chatter. If you feel like your brain is constantly on the offensive against you, come read why the "words of eternal life" are the only thing that can finally settle an overcast soul.
The Spinach Can
I spent my teenage years embarrassed by a father who used pliers to change the TV channels and an old broomstick to jumpstart a hallway fan. I didn't understand why a man with a steady job lived like the Great Depression was still happening right outside our front door. It wasn't until I was a struggling father of three, looking at a can of spinach my father had written on, that the scales finally fell from my eyes. Come read why that handwritten mark became my most treasured reminder that love isn't always spoken—sometimes it’s stockpiled.
Finding Joy in the Now
I spent years chasing the next season—summer break, holidays, even retirement—as if joy was always waiting just around the corner. Too often, those moments fell short of the anticipation. With time, I’ve learned the best days aren’t out ahead. Joy shows up in the ones we’re already living.
A Brunch of Thoughts
In a neighborhood of big houses, our modest starter home became the gathering spot for our boys’ friends. Maybe it wasn’t the square footage, but the warmth. Contentment isn’t in extravagance—it’s found in the quiet places that feel like home.
Unbonded
I can still picture the toughest teachers I ever had—not the ones who challenged us academically, but the cold, drill-sergeant types whose classrooms felt like battlegrounds. My wife tells of one who yelled time from the girls’ bathroom, warning of doom for the tardy. These teachers might have pushed for excellence, but what did they truly feel for their students? When there’s no bond, the job feels hollow. Without a connection, the classroom becomes mere routine — and teaching loses its purpose.
One Teacher’s Journey
Tomorrow begins my 24th year of teaching, yet I still remember the first hour of my first day—hands shaking, voice thin, wondering what I was doing there. Since then, the classroom has been both a crucible and a gift: seasons of exhaustion, unexpected laughter, heartbreak, and joy. I’ve taught lessons in economics and literature, but life always had lessons waiting for me too. Students grow, but so do teachers—shaped by storms, successes, and the steady rhythm of showing up. This journey has never been perfect, but it has always been worth it.
Teaching Through the Pandemic (Part 2)
By the second year of pandemic teaching, exhaustion had settled in like a fog. Lessons felt heavier, students more distant, and the energy I once carried into the classroom drained away. I kept moving—grading, planning, adjusting—but often wondered if I had the strength to finish the year. What carried me wasn’t technology or training, but people: colleagues, family, and the quiet resilience we found together. Survival gave way to something deeper. We learned that even in uncertainty, strength grows step by step, and sometimes just finishing the journey is itself a victory.
Teaching Through the Pandemic (Part 1)
When schools closed and classrooms went online, I thought technology would carry us through. Laptops, webcams, and digital platforms promised connection, maybe even innovation. Instead, I stared at blank screens and muted microphones, unsure if anyone was really on the other side. Teaching became a strange mix of isolation and improvisation—part lesson plan, part troubleshooting call. I learned quickly that technology can support learning, but it cannot replace presence. The real work of teaching has never been about the tools in our hands, but the people on the other end.
Teaching: A Most Unusual Rollercoaster
A school year really does feel like a rollercoaster. You strap in, ready or not, and the chain pulls you up that first hill—names to learn, lessons to plan, routines to set. Then come the drops and turns: surprise assemblies, lessons gone sideways, and the kid who asks to go to the bathroom right after the bell. There are slow climbs too, like grading piles that never shrink. But every ride has its high points—student breakthroughs, laughter, small wins. And just when the ride stops, you find yourself back in line, ready to go again.