Your Options Are Clear: Procrastinate Or Start

 

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“Don’t you ever feed him?”

It was the kind of question people asked my wife frequently because I was so skinny. Then, when my wife became pregnant with our first child, I outpaced her weight gain two pounds to one.

In all, between our wedding day in June 2001 and the end of 2007, I gained 65 pounds.

By then, I never slept or felt well for a number of reasons, but the weight and my diet were major contributors to both.

Going back a bit, when we moved into our first apartment, my wife really wanted a treadmill. I wasn’t into running at all. I had a physically demanding job, so I got all the exercise I needed at work. We purchased the treadmill and it promptly turned into a convenient coat rack.

In late 2007, when I was at my heaviest, I plugged the treadmill in for perhaps the first time since we moved into our home in 2004.

I think I “ran” two miles that day.

Up went the miles and down came the weight. I’d taken drastic measures to improve my work situation and my dietary habits.

On three separate treadmill runs, I cleared 20 miles. The effort forced me to think about what else in my life I had been avoiding and what other challenges I was too afraid to tackle.

Eve Arnold wrote something recently that resonates around that idea. The substance was:

• Do you want to sit and wonder what might happen in your life if you went all-in, if you tried, you know really tried?
• What will happen if you ignored the noise, forgot other people’s opinions, and just built the thing you wanted to build or did the thing you wanted to do?

The Choice at the Fork in the Road

My friend often paraphrases Elon Musk in this way: “it’s like you’re chewing on glass and staring into the void.”

We’ve all be there in those moments that are bigger than they appear when we’ve got an important, sometimes existential, decision to make. We either commit to “do the thing” or we don’t.

Unconsciously, there must have been a lot of standing and staring at that treadmill before I actually got on, but the decision itself took little more than telling myself I was ready for a change then sticking with it. I finally reached a point where the pain of changing was less than the pain of staying the same.

When I first stepped onto that treadmill, something shifted. The physical result wasn’t immediate. I finished my runs day after day and still felt lousy. . .until I didn’t. Consistently showing up was the only path to go from where I was to where I wanted to be. Most things in life don’t have viable shortcuts. You just have to show up and do the work.

In those early days on the treadmill, it was as much about proving to myself that I could do something hard and uncomfortable as anything else. It’s about tenacity as a character trait.

Robert L. Millet is a multiple award-winning author. He said:

Character is not a product of a [flawless] life, not a result of never making a mistake or an error of judgment, but rather it is never staying down once we have fallen.

What he said has been said by many people in many different ways, but it resonates differently because of his phrasing. Character is most often built because of mistakes and errors in judgment. When we choose to grow from our mistakes, those experiences are often more defining than our successes.

For anyone who has completed more than a few laps around the sun, we all recognize that anything big starts with something small, whether it’s stepping onto a treadmill, sending an email, making a phone call, or making a hard decision. Progress often won’t be dramatic, it just has to be consistent. The fork in the road is always in front of us: procrastinate or start. Failure is inevitable, so the question is whether you’ll stay down or get back up.

For my part, I’ve been sitting around and wondering what might be for a long time. Today, I’m actually taking a step. I’m doing the work, and I’m going to keep showing up. The rest will take care of itself.

How about you?

Rewriting the Stories We Tell Ourselves

 

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We all live by telling stories. Sometimes they are stories we tell others, but more often are stories that we tell ourselves — stories about who we are, what we value, and why we make the choices we do. Most stories are never written down, but the stories we tell and the ones we hear shape every aspect of our lives.

Growing up, Command & Conquer was my favorite computer game. Before the Internet made it easy to connect with people around the world, and before I could drive, I would load my home-built computer into a wagon and pull it down the street to my best friend’s house. Along with some smarter friends on the Chatterbox chat board, we figured out how to connect our computers with a null modem cable, creating our own two-person LAN game. We were on the cutting edge of technology.

Fast forward a few years: the Internet was becoming more common, though dial-up modems and grocery store Internet CDs were still the norm. One evening, I was sitting on the laptop I’d bought with my wife’s student loan money, playing Command & Conquer. My GDI forces were about to breach the NOD base when a thought occurred to me: there’s a beautiful woman sitting in the next room alone, and I’m here, playing a video game!

I don’t have a problem with video games — they’ve brought joy and connection to my life. I play simpler games with my youngest son now and bond with him by talking about what makes them fun. He teaches me a lot about the other games he plays. But in that moment, more than 23 years ago, I realized something important: I valued time with my wife far more. To this day, one of my favorite things to do is sit on the couch holding her hand. I’m incredibly blessed in my relationship with her. Those moments are more important to me than anything.

Self-identifying as a gamer wasn’t something you heard back then, but I played my fair share of video games. That evening, however, I stopped and questioned my own story. The “gamer” narrative, in one moment, stopped serving the person I wanted to be.

This isn’t about video games, though. It’s about small moments of self-awareness that cause us to evaluate where we are and decide whether it’s time for a rewrite. Over the years, I’ve reevaluated other stories I’ve told myself, most recently, about my career.

A few weeks ago, I quit my job with a company that I helped found (as the smallest percentage owner) to pursue something I’ve been talking about doing for more than fifteen years: start a software development company and consultancy. To most outsiders, it’s not the smartest financial decision — in the short-term anyway. What has happened since quitting, however, is that I’ve been more energized about my work than I have been in several years.

Don’t get me wrong: I still believe in the mission of the company I left, but it doesn’t fit the narrative of what I want to do professionally anymore.

The realization that I wanted to move on came a long time ago, but it took years to work up the courage to act. I’m almost fifty now, but the experience of quitting a stable job to pursue something that’s exciting to me is a good reminder that our stories aren’t set in stone. To borrow from the Bible, Paul wrote about things being written “not in tables of stone, but in the fleshy tables of the heart,” which is a great reminder that we are responsible for shaping our own lives, and that it’s okay to push back against rigid external expectations.

Maybe the story you’ve been telling yourself for years isn’t about your career choice. Perhaps it’s about being healthier, devoting more time to a hobby that brings you joy, or revitalizing cooled relationships. Maybe it’s about learning something new.

Whatever it is, the hardest part of questioning our own narratives is giving ourselves permission to do it. Most of us get stuck feeling like we need to stay where we are or how we are because of the real and perceived expectations of others.

I believe strongly that I have a moral, ethical, and societal obligation to provide for my family as long as I’m able. There are, however, myriad ways I can do that. I’m extremely blessed to be in a position to move on from one job and start something I’ve dreamed of doing for many years.

We’re all living stories — sometimes by choice, sometimes by habit, and sometimes by sheer inertia. The hardest part isn’t necessarily knowing when a story needs rewriting. It’s giving ourselves permission to pick up the proverbial pen and write it.

Maybe your story feels stuck, or maybe it’s been humming along just fine, but you’ve started to feel a seismic shift disguised as as quiet pull that something needs to change. It could be as simple as spending more time with people you love, pursuing a hobby you’ve been putting off, or finally admitting that the story you’re living doesn’t fit who you are anymore.

I’m not saying it’s easy. Change comes with uncertainty, risk, and often with more than a little discomfort. But I’ve learned that the cost of staying in a story that no longer fits is far greater. If a 23-year-old with a laptop purchased with his wife’s loan money could realize there was something more important than a video game, and a nearly-50-year-old could leave a stable job to chase a dream, maybe there’s room in your story for something new, too.

It’s not about perfection or figuring everything out. It’s about taking that small step toward the life you know you want to live. The story isn’t set in stone. You can rewrite what’s written on your heart, one word, one moment, and one choice at a time.

Why Helping Others Is the Perfect Holiday Gift

 

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Eight days before Christmas 1995, I said goodbye to my family as I entered a training center for volunteers bound for countries all over the world. In my group, there were 12 young men. 4 of our group didn’t speak any English and 8 spoke little Spanish. We were scheduled to send the next three months living, learning, laughing, crying, and serving together.

Two days before Christmas, we decided on a simple gift exchange with a maximum price limit of $5. While snow fell outside, the twelve of us sat together in a meeting room exchanging rolls of film, small notepads, lint rollers, the odd assortment of candy, and broken expressions of gratitude in languages we barely spoke.

We were all committed to spending the next two years of our lives serving others in countries some of us still couldn’t find easily on a map. For some, the days leading up to and following Christmas were hard. It was the first time most of us had been away from our parents for an extended period of time as most of us were barely nineteen years old.

The following year, I had been in Guatemala for almost ten months. Christmas in Guatemala back then was less about extravagant gifts and more about the time spent with family and friends; the way Christmas should be. We had the privilege of sharing short messages of joy and hope with people on their doorsteps and on crowded streets. We ended the day with two of the biggest meals I ate during my nearly two years in the country, meals that were prepared specifically for us by people who had little in terms of this world’s riches.

That was more than twenty-five years ago, but still rings in my memory of one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had. Don’t get my wrong, I’ve loved watching the dazzle and delight in my children’s eyes as they’ve opened presents early Christmas morning, but the simplicity of that Christmas is something I hope I always remember.

Fast forward twenty years. I received a call on Christmas, about midday, that a good friend’s granddaughter, who had come from another state, fell tragically ill on Christmas morning and had to be rushed to the hospital. A simple but profound sense of urgency came over me that I needed to be with these people I hardly knew because they were the children of some of my dear friends.

Armed with nothing more than a couple of meals in brown paper bags, I set out on icy roads for the hospital. I arrived and spent a few hours with the children of my friends as they waited anxiously for test results on their daughter. Gratefully, a short time after that incident she made a fully recovery.

That experience created a lasting bond between us, one that has endured for nearly a decade. I had the chance to see them recently, and their daughter, now a beautiful young woman, has grown into someone full of life. Seeing them fills my heart with a profound sense of love and gratitude.

All that from a simple sack lunch shared in a hospital room on an icy Christmas day.

Over the years, I’ve thought back on those Christmases a lot. I’ve also allowed myself to become somewhat jaded by the over-commercialization of Christmas. The real joy of Christmas isn’t found in glittering packages or the perfect decorations, but in the quieter moments of connection, gratitude, and service.

Through our simple gift exchange on that snowy night, the broken words we shared, the meals prepared by those who gave more than they could afford, and a moment spent comforting grieving parents, I came to understand that the heart of Christmas lies in giving out of love, not abundance. Giving from abundance is easy; giving from love takes effort.

Serving others has a way of stripping away the distractions of the season and reminding us of what matters: reaching out, lifting others, and sharing a part of ourselves. Serving others makes Christmas become more than a holiday. It makes it a celebration of what’s best in each of us.

Are You Too Comfortable With Comfort?

 

Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

It was a warm June morning when I laced up my running shoes. One of my good friends signed up for a 50-mile back-country race and asked me to pace for him the last 26 miles.

The race course changes every year and the race organizers were not careful with measuring the distances to each aid station so my 26 mile leg turned into 31 miles.

31 miles!

It was a hard run through mostly back country on rocky trails. Honestly, I don’t understand the appeal at all to run that far, but that friend had been there for me during a pretty difficult time in my life so I was returning the favor.

We joked before the event that ultramarathons are really eating contests with some running in between. The way ultramarathons work is that you have to reach certain aid stations by a specified time or you’re not allowed to continue the race. We were okay on time until we hit the bottom of Bosun’s Hill which was a grueling climb almost 1,000 vertical feet essentially straight up the mountainside. If we were moving a quarter mile per hour I would be surprised.

Following the intense training of that summer and the event itself, I didn’t slow down much. I set a personal running milestone in 2023, ending the year with more than 1,400 miles under my soles.

In many respects, those were pretty uncomfortable years. I ran 200 miles in December 2023 when it’s typically below 30 degrees in the early morning hours. I had to work through multiple injuries sustained from running too far and too hard on worn out muscles.

Since then, however, I’ve basically given up running. Stress and anxiety have been my go to excuses for not exercising. It’s interesting that running used to be my primary stress relief until the stress got so bad that I couldn’t deal with it by running anymore. So naturally, stopping running was the correct choice, right?

Wrong!

Before I go any further, I don’t want to minimize the impact of mental health on everyday things like exercise. There have been days in the last year when I’ve slept very few hours a night for sometimes weeks on end and have been in survival mode. Exercising and self-care were fleeting thoughts and perceived luxuries I didn’t have time for amidst everything else I was trying to do.

Exempting times of illness and other legitimate struggles, a hallmark of Western society is how hard many people work. In fact, did you know that the United States is the only industrialized country in the world that doesn’t have federally-mandated paid vacation or holidays? We also tend to work more hours per year than other countries.

For years, I’ve used my employer as a scapegoat for many of the troubles in my life. I’ve worked for companies to which I’ve given heart and soul, and I’ve complained loudly and often about the situation.

The irony: I always got comfortable with my situation.

Wake up. Go to work. Work too many hours. Come home. Do it again the next day. If I wasn’t working, I was wasting my wife’s time talking to her about work or complaining to my kids about my boss.

Five weeks ago, I quit my job to start a software development business. It’s something I’ve been dreaming and scheming about for more than 15 years. Now that it’s here, the stress and anxiety of running my own business and being responsible for my own employees has been a wake-up call.

Make no mistake, there have been few events in my life that have excited me as much as this opportunity, but it’s also made me realize that I was too comfortable with my comfort in having a full-time job working for someone else.

People draw lots of analogies in life to marathons. It should be noted, however, that even the most extreme ultramarathons last fewer than 60 days. So many other things in life require deliberate, consistent effort akin to running a marathon, but the effort is required day after day for months or even years.

And when you look at the amount of effort required to accomplish certain things, like learning a new programming language, they start to look a lot like Bosun’s Hill.

I think that’s one of the predominant features of unstarted projects and goals. We look at them as though they need to be accomplished all at once. And, when what we really want isn’t in alignment with the goal, we’re not likely to make long-term progress.

Looking at Bosun’s Hill, we had a choice: give up there and walk to the nearest road where someone could pick us up or push hard enough to make it to the aid station. When we decided to forge ahead, we knew significant discomfort would be our companion. Several times, as we stopped to rest, we cursed the race organizers for putting such a difficult climb so far into the race.

We pressed on as quickly as our fatigued legs would go. Aid station eight was just beyond the crest of the hill, nestled in a beautiful valley high in the Wasatch Mountains above Provo. We made it with only minutes to spare, dropped our packs, and after helping my friend sit down, I walked to the table to get small Dixie cups filled with soda, a few handfuls of M&Ms, and these oversized, heavily salted, dumpling-like potato-and-pasta creations. After 20 miles on my feet, they were one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten.

Growth is always accompanied by a degree of discomfort, even if the discomfort is minor. Rapid growth often requires significant discomfort and considerable sacrifice. The other option, however, is complacency.

For the most part, I was really good at my job. I helped write grants and close deals for clients that totaled more than $50 million during my time with the company.

Did that mean there was no room left for me to grow? Of course not. There are opportunities to grow in everything we do, even the things we’re exceptional at. But, the work I did for the company was often not interesting to me or challenging in the way I like to be challenged. I let myself become complacent because I stopped actively engaging in the process of learning new things. Couple that with the overwhelm of having way too much responsibility for one person. It’s evident it wasn’t a recipe for long-term job satisfaction or success.

Growth is sometimes as easy as crossing an empty street and sometimes as difficult as Bosun’s Hill, and we get to do both (and everything in between) over and over again. Whatever you choose to do, it’s probably going to hurt a little as you get outside of your comfort zone. Most of us give up most of the time. However, there are those times when we have the fortitude to stick with it until we start to see results. Seeing results builds momentum until it feels a bit more like the first mile of a walk on flat ground than a slog up a mountainside.

Five weeks into running my own business with one of my best friends, I’m learning that a measure of discomfort isn’t something to be afraid of; it’s something to be viewed with a sense of gratitude because it often means you’re growing.

What’s your Bosun’s Hill? What aid station are you trying to reach? And most importantly, are you willing to take the first step, knowing it might be the hardest climb of your life?

Lace up your shoes. The aid station is waiting.

What Is Intellectual Honesty?

 

Photo by Jandira Sonnendeck on Unsplash

I could feel the sweat beading up along my hairline as I stood before Ms. Giles for my oral book report. It was my 7th grade English class. I had selected Madeleine L’Engle’s A Ring of Endless Light for that quarter’s reading, but I hadn’t read it. I just couldn’t get into it. I had, however, skimmed enough of the book that I was sure I could fake my oral report.

Unfortunately, A Ring of Endless Light just happened to be Ms. Giles’s favorite book, so my oral report was an abject failure. What’s worse, she caught me in my attempt to lie my way through the oral report.

It’s funny how something that happened more than 30 years ago is still a defining moment in my life. Thinking back on the discomfort of that moment, even now, creates a small pit in my stomach. It helped me recognize that lying was definitely not for me.

Does that mean I’m the absolute paragon of truth-telling? Well, I do my best not to lie, and have been known to correct myself when I’ve intentionally (or otherwise) misled someone.

But, like I said, not perfect.

I’ll admit, when I first heard the term “intellectual honesty” I had to stop and think about what it really means.

An academic definition — one I quite like — is that intellectual honesty is the practice of being truthful and transparent in your thinking, admitting what you don’t know, acknowledging biases, and valuing truth over personal gain, ego, or convenience.

Here’s what intellectual honesty isn’t:

• Pretending to know things you don’t (like my younger self did).
• Cherry-picking evidence to fit your narrative.
• Ignoring facts that challenge your views.
• Misrepresenting information to manipulate others or bolster your own position.
• Letting emotions override reason when forming opinions or making decisions.

Everywhere we look, there are vibrant examples of what intellectual honesty isn’t. The world is noisy and people want to be seen and heard. It’s an innate human desire to feel important and valued.

I learned to love reading in Ms. Giles’s class. During that oral book report, fear was my primary motivator, not that I really wanted to lie to her or admit that I had been lazy about my reading. I was afraid of being judged for not finishing the book, for not being prepared, and, ironically, for failing. I’m sure I didn’t think about it these terms then, but fear made it easier to rationalize my behavior: I could just pretend to know the material.

And that’s what makes intellectual honesty so hard. We don’t want to look stupid or incompetent, we want to protect (even expand) our egos, and we’re naturally drawn to confirm our own biases. Intellectual honesty requires admitting things that might make us feel vulnerable. In my case, I would have to admit to Ms. Giles that I didn’t finish the book. I had a reputation as a good student and a reader to protect!

As I stood there fumbling through the report I wasn’t prepared for, caught by one of my favorite teachers, irony won the day. My fear of being judged led to the exact outcome I was trying to avoid — because intellectual dishonesty tends to unravel under scrutiny.

Intellectual honesty requires a moral compass because it’s based in integrity. It’s not just about admitting what you don’t know. It’s also about pursuing truth from a vantage point that values respect, humility, and accountability. Without that foundation, intellectual honesty doesn’t have much of a footing and generally falls apart under the pressures of ego and convenience.

When I tried to fake my book report, the discomfort wasn’t just in getting caught. I don’t recall my twelve year old self having a clear list of personal values, but lying, I knew, violated something I valued, even if I hadn’t defined the value. Retrospectively, I can see that intellectual honesty is as much about character as it is facts, maybe more.

Grounded in integrity, intellectual honesty builds trust, facilitates growth, and keeps us aligned with what matters. It’s not easy, but it’s always worth it.

Intellectual honesty isn’t about being perfect but it is about owning up when we don’t take the high road. That’s why it’s okay to admit when you don’t know something — even though we live in a world where it appears that everyone wants to be the “foremost expert” on something.

There’s a lot of growth to be found in intellectual honesty because it encourages seeking out evidence that challenges your views. When was the last time you set out to prove yourself wrong about something?

This article itself was an exercise in intellectual honesty. Before I started, I had only heard the term “intellectual honesty” one time. Intellectual honesty is about exploring what you don’t know with the goal of learning and sharing truth.

I remember admitting to Ms. Giles that I didn’t read A Ring of Endless Light. I’m pretty sure I even cried standing there next to her desk. Ms. Giles took pity on me and gave me a chance to go back and read the book and report to her a few weeks later.

I read the book from cover to cover with wrapt attention. I knew the story well the next time I gave my oral report to her. Despite my failed first attempt, I think she even gave me a decent grade the second time around.

The Quietness of the Truly Important

The snow outside our apartment was deep enough that I was concerned our little car wouldn’t be able to get out to take my wife to the hospital. She had just passed her due date for our first child. We both put on our winter gear and headed outside to shovel as much snow as we could; to make sure we had space enough to get a running start out of the driveway.

All the effort didn’t induce her labor. She was just really sore when our son was born four days later.

My wife was due on Christmas Day 2003. Until the whole shoveling incident, we’d taken it easy that holiday season. Sure, we’d gone to some obligatory family functions, but outside of that, there was no rushing around doing last minute shopping. That Christmas season was about our little family, particularly the “plus one” that was going to show up any moment.

Some people love the hustle and bustle of holiday shopping. As for me, I’ve been over it for a long time. Christmas, to me, is a time of reflection and spending time with the people we love. Big-box stores and e-tailers alike have made the season about going into debt to buy things for people they probably don’t want, much less need.

The question for me is why do we feel the need to pack every moment with activity during a time that should be about family and grateful reflection?

The holiday season seems to crash down on us in a flurry of activity and noise earlier with each passing year. Parking lots are filled with cars driven by impatient drivers. Inside the stores, loud holiday music competes with announcements about sales and the din of countless conversations. Online isn’t any quieter — ads for last-minute deals and “doorbuster discounts” flood every feed and inbox, practically screaming for attention.

Then there are the gatherings. Holiday gatherings hold the promise of connection but often devolve into a kind of chaotic blend of overlapping conversations and too many dirty dishes. Even joyful noise can be overwhelming when there’s no space for quiet. The season’s like an orchestra of activity, but instead of harmony, it feels like discord.

With all the noise and sensory overload, it’s easy to miss the subtle melodies of the season: peace, joy, stillness, connection, and love. These fleeting moments can be overshadowed by the cacophony of must-dos and must-haves. It’s ironic, I suppose, that the more we chase the “perfect holiday,” the less room we leave for the quiet moments that make the season what it is (or could be).

Leaning into the noise makes us risk losing the ability to hear the whispers of what matters most. I wonder what I might discover if I allowed myself to step back, embrace stillness, and really listen.

On the day our first son decided to make his entrance into the world, my wife’s labor was long and intense. When our baby finally arrived, he and my wife were exhausted. They both slept well that first night.

Moments like those don’t announce themselves. When I went home the night he was born, I had terrible dreams and a panic attack as I contemplated the gravity of being a young father. In my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined the complete shift when I walked back into that hospital room and picked up my infant son for the first time.

I don’t think there can be a sweeter feeling than holding your firstborn in your arms for the first time. Time stood still and I somehow felt that all was right in the universe. It’s one of those core memories that hasn’t faded in the twenty-one years since it happened.

That morning, sitting in the quiet of the hospital room, I felt something profound. There was no noise, no rushing to be anywhere or do anything, no distractions — just me, my wife, and our newborn son, wrapped in a stillness that felt sacred. There was never a thought about parties we missed or gifts we didn’t buy. It was about life — remarkable life — love, and the beginning of something new.

Moments like those don’t usually demand attention the way the chaos of the holidays does. They whisper, politely asking us to slow down enough to notice. These are the moments that ground us, even while the world continues to buzz on around us.

Of course, I realize these moments are everywhere, not just during the holidays, but they pass unnoticed most of the time because we’re too busy chasing what we think we should be doing. The quietness of that first morning with my son taught me that the important things in life don’t clamor for our attention — they either wait patiently for us to recognize them or they pass us by.

The challenge, of course, is intentionally making space for these moments. That’s not easy in a culture that demands busyness and productivity, especially during the holidays. Choosing to step back and say no to the noise feels a bit like swimming up a waterfall. It might, however, be the most important holiday (or anytime) decision we make.

Imagine what the holidays — and life, in general — would be like if, instead of cramming our calendars with obligations and shopping carts with stuff, we filled our days with the people and moments that bring us joy and connection? It’s not about rejecting the holidays. It’s about reclaiming them for what they were meant to be.

What changes can you make to connect with what matters?

Maybe this is the season where you simplify your gift-giving efforts and settle on gifts that are non-material like a handwritten note, a favorite memory, or a simple act of service. Maybe it’s planning some small, more intentional gatherings with plenty of space for quality conversations.

For me, this will be a season of expressing more gratitude to the people in my life through service and time.

The world is full of noise and commotion. Let this holiday season be a chance to refocus on the people and the things that matter most. Remember, the holidays aren’t about the perfect gift or the perfect party or activities to fill all your time. They’re about connection, gratitude, and the joy of just being present.

The season will always have its noise and chaos, but that doesn’t mean that has to be the priority. Simplifying, slowing down, and listening creates room for the moments that don’t demand our time but deserve it most.

When you look back, it won’t be a perfectly wrapped gift or packed schedule that stands out. It’ll be the quite, sacred moments that become the core memories you carry for decades.

The quietness of what’s important is always there, waiting for you to notice. Will you hear it this season?

Now Is All You Have. What Will You Do With It?

 

Photo by Ales Krivec on Unsplash

I sat across the room from my grandfather, my mom’s dad. Mom had only been gone a few years, and now that I had my own car I could visit her parents whenever I wanted.

Grandpa Joe served in the Navy aboard the USS Caravan minesweeper. Grandpa picked up smoking and drinking in the Navy, and there were times when he did swear like a sailor. I already knew which words were off-limits and never would have tried any of those words my grandpa said out on my friends.

Even after Grandpa Joe stopped smoking (inside anyway), the smell always lingered, but the smell never bothered me. After he passed, I could still detect the smell in the old furniture, but it was, to me, a beautiful reminder of the relationship I had with him.

After his service in the Navy, Grandpa Joe worked tirelessly for his family. When I was young and my mom was sick, it was Grandpa Joe’s hard work that often provided a little extra for our family. As a kid I never knew that, and my grandparents on both sides were never looking for credit or praise for what they did.

They were really the best kind of grandparents a kid could ask for. They’re all gone now, and today I miss them more than usual.

Back to Grandpa Joe’s living room. He’d just pulled out a book of neatly scribed logarithm tables that he’d created with nothing more than his keen mind and a slide rule.

His job at EIMCO Steel was to make sure the computer was doing its calculations correctly so he’d painstakingly created that book of logarithms to help him do just that.

Today, most of us don’t question a computer’s output, but his job was to ensure the room-sized mainframe computer was calculating things correctly.

I was studying Mechanical Engineering at the time, and he told me frequently that I always needed to know what the computer was doing to make sure it was accurate. He was an unwitting pioneer of the idea “garbage in, garbage out.”

People who lived their lives before technology was ubiquitous were better at being present. It was certainly a character trait all my grandparents had. When I talked to any of them, what I had to say was all that mattered in the moment, regardless of the subject matter.

That’s a gift every loving grandparent has: the ability to be absorbed by the lives of their grandchildren.

Looking back with perhaps a bit more mileage in my own life, it’s easier for me to see that the lessons weren’t about computers or calculations. They were about paying attention to details, to people, and to that moment. Grandpa Joe’s life, like my other grandparents, was and is an example of being present. When I was with them, they listened. I remember my dad’s dad, Grandpa Tom, asking me lots of questions about school even though I know the later years of my education were way over his head. That didn’t stop him from taking a keen interest in what was interesting to me.

That kind of personal focus seems rare now. Our days are pulled in so many different directions — notifications, obligations, scrolling, distractions — that we forget to stop and ask ourselves: what really deserves our attention? It’s not easy to pause long enough to answer that question let alone refocus our efforts on what matters most. So often, we’re caught in a tide that requires tremendous determination to escape.

As I’ve gotten older, those moments from years long ago have become increasingly important to me. I’ve started looking back and seeing the lessons they were teaching perhaps without even trying. Unintentional lessons often come from people who are just doing their best to help others navigate the frenzied pace of life today.

If now’s all we really have, what will we do with it? Do we continue to rush through life, always looking forward to the next thing, or will we slow down, pay attention, and make it count?