If so I didn’t know the terms and conditions

If I would have known the outcome,

I don’t know if h would have signed willingly

You promised joy beyond understanding

Words of comfort for my weary soul

And I did have those days

I still have those —

Though they are more so glimpses now,

Like a rear view mirror reminding me

Of what was before.

Since you were taken from me

The splinters of my my heart

Have begun to stab me instead

Reminding me the pain that comes

From remembering the dead

So be gentle with me

I am a fragile one now

So be gentle with me.

My heart still remembers

What my hands can no longer hold

And though the wounds have scarred,

They have never truly closed.

I am fragile now, that much is true,

But I am still here—

Carrying your memory

With every breath I take,

Loving you in the only way

I have left to love you:

By remembering.

After walking out those doors

Though we all entered together,

We could not bring you home

Pushed away in a casket,

Your mother in a wheelchair

Nothing could prepare us

For the separation we felt there.

Your heartbeat was captured

And put into a bear

So when I need a moment with you

I know you will always be there.

You depend on me for everything,
For me to lead the way—
The first man you will learn to trust,
Who also ties your shoes each day.

It’s truly a gift to be your dad,
A dream I’ve always wanted.
And somehow, in the smallest moments,
You’ve made my life feel haunted—
Not by sorrow, but by wonder, joy unbound
By a love too deep to name,
A love that makes me wish
I could hold back time itself from ever changing.

But one day this heart that is so full
Will slow beneath my chest.
My hair will gray, my eyes will dim,
And time will do the rest.

Your tears will fall, your hand will tighten,
Whispering, “I don’t want you to go.”
And I will wish for just one moment
That I could make the ending slow.

For death will come, as it always does,
A thief who always knocks unseen.
The hour is known to no one,
And none of us can ever intervene.

Yet even when I pass from this life,
I pray you’ll always know:
A father’s love does not end
Simply because his footsteps fade and go.

I’ll carry your smile within me
Until my eyes close for good,
And hear your laughter in the silence
The way a father always should.

And when you’re grown and standing,
Where I once stood beside you,
I hope you’ll hear my voice within you
In every loving thing you do.

So if the years should steal my face,
Or time should blur my name,
Know this, my precious daughter:
My love will still remain.

I know our time is but a vapor,
A breath beneath the sun—
But if I’m blessed with only one lifetime,
I’m grateful you are in this one.
You taught my heart what this love could be,
And made my world brand new.

And when my time on earth is over,
The greatest part of me, that intangible piece,
Will still be living on —
In the woman you become,
And in the love you carry always.
Because I first loved you,

My darling, daughter.

I would rather not weather this storm alone,
in a boat much too small
for these cascading waves.
A life raft of tattered dreams,
stitched together from the fragments
of who I used to be,
each seam threatening to unravel
beneath the weight of what I've lost.

So I bob here,
somewhere in this endless ocean of grief,
alone with the thoughts
I cannot silence.

There is no lighthouse on the horizon,
no steady hand to guide me home.
Only a veiled moon looking down,
pale and distant,
like the masked faces around me—
people who want to help
but do not know how to approach,
afraid that getting too close
might pull them beneath the waves with me.

And so I smile.
I laugh.
I sing along.

I become fluent in pretending
the waters are calm.

But beneath the surface,
my heart is still calling out—
longing for the comfort of a friend,
someone willing to climb into this little boat
and weather the storm beside me.

I don't need you to calm the waves.
I don't need you to chart a course.
I don't need words that promise
the storm will someday end.

Leave the advice at the door.
Leave your answers on the shore.

Just come sit with me.

Sit beside me in the silence.
Let the boat rock.
Let the waves come.

You don't have to save me
from this ocean.

You only have to remind me
that I am not alone
in it.

It’s what we signed up for
when we allowed others into our hearts—
inviting them to take residence,
to settle into some quiet corner of us
despite the cold.

That’s the deal.

The transaction spoken into existence
with a termination date
neither of us is given to know,
only the certainty
that one day
the debt will come due
and be paid in full.

That’s the deal.

You signed the contract with a smile—
with your hug,
your kiss,
your willingness to go the extra mile.

They didn’t have to coax you,
bribe you,
or steal their way inside.

You opened the door
because the love was real.

That was the deal.

So don’t tell me
how unfair it is.

Don’t tell me
your joy was stolen
and no one cared.

I know.

You cling to the memories
of what has been lost,
as though your tears
might water the ground
and coax your dreams
back into bloom.

As though one morning
you might wake
and discover
it was all in your head.

Because the ones
who took residence in your heart
cannot simply be evicted.

They are not gone.

Not entirely.

Their rooms remain.
Their fingerprints linger.
Their laughter still echoes
through the halls
you once thought were empty.

And the sign they left behind
still hangs upon the door:

NO VACANCY.

Try as you might,
they will never truly leave.

Six feet down,
beneath the earth,
you can bury a body—

but not a love.

And people will tell you
to let it go.
To move on.
To be at peace.

As if grief were a trespasser
you could simply ask to leave.

As if no one wants
to hear about it anymore.

I do.

Tell me about them.

Tell me their names.
Tell me the stories
you’re afraid I’ve heard too many times.

Tell me what they looked like.
What made them laugh.
What you miss most.

Tell me everything.

How could I not?

Yes, it’s too much.

Some days
it will wear you down.
Annoy you.
Push you away.

Some days
you will wonder
if there is room in your heart
to let anyone else in.

But listen—

there is.

There has to be.

Because that was the deal.

The one you signed
when you chose to love.

And listen now—

I’m here, too.

You and I,
we are going to make it through.

Your joy may be different now,
its edges softened by sorrow,
its colors changed
by all you have endured.

But do not mistake grief
for the absence of joy.

Your pain is what remains
when the joy had nowhere else to go.

It is love
with no arms left to hold.

Love
with nowhere to land.

Love
that still remembers
the shape of who it was given to.

That was the deal—

when you chose to be real.

That was the deal—

when you opened the door.

That was the deal—

when you let someone
take residence in your heart.

You knew, someday,
the price would be losing them.

You just never knew
how much it would cost.

And still—

you signed.

You would sign again.

Because for all the pain,

for all the empty rooms,

for every memory
that aches to be remembered—

they were worth the deal.

Memories grow foggy,
stories blur and clash,
but I remember—
I had so much joy once.

Now it is a yoke I carry alone,
a weight with no shoulder beside mine,
a prison built from memories
only I can still touch.

I trace the lines of your toes,
remembering the way your heart beat
beneath thin linen clothes,
a rhythm I knew
before I ever knew your face.

The pain I carry each day
could never replace
the memory you left behind.

Because somewhere within my grief,
amid the splinters of my shattered heart,
I find the truth I cannot escape:

this is where my joy began.

And perhaps that is why
the pain refuses to leave—
because so does the love

Where the Earth I once knew

Will be a forgotten place.

When I no longer take in the vastness of the sky

Or sing anymore sweet lullabies.

The quiet of eternity calls me near,

A life made whole, untouched by fear.

I long to see that paradise,

Where all the pieces of my broken heart reside.

Each one was gathered over time,

Like tender branches from a grieving vine.

Necessary were these passings through,

To anchor my soul to what I know is true.

Yet sorrow lingers, deep and sharp,

As years go on and you never got your start.

I long to hear my name be said

Not in echoes inside my head,

But from your lips, alive and clear—

Those two voices I’ve carried, year by year.

I long to see your faces bright,

No longer hidden from my sight,

To hold you close, to finally know

The sons I’ve loved but couldn’t grow.

And on that day, when time is done,

When my race is finished, my victory won,

I’ll step beyond this broken space

And meet you there, face to face.

Until that moment, I remain—

A father shaped by love and pain,

Holding hope with trembling hands,

Longing for you in better lands.

_{Photo credit: benstrauss via Reddit}

With effort, I pushed back the covers and reached for my old gray sweater—the one my nan had knitted before the war. Its sleeves had stretched, its fibers pilled and thinned, and yet it remained my shield against the world. Everyone in the compound called it The Grey Rag. They meant it as a joke. To me, it was home.

In the dining room, Dane sat at the long oak table with a steaming cup of tea and the morning paper unfolded before him. His glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, the faint glow from the oil lamp catching the edge of the lens. I didn’t speak. With Dane, silence was often safer.

“He left early this morning,” he said without looking up.

“I know,” I replied, setting a kettle on the stove. “He told me last night.”

“I advised him to take another route,” Dane muttered. “The Germans are in a frenzy—searching for their missing convoy. Already made the papers.”
He turned the page toward me.

ATTAQUE LES ALLEMANDS! LA LUTTE POUR LA LIBERTÉ SE DÉCHAÎNE!
Attack on the Germans! The fight for freedom rages on!

A thrill of dread twisted in my stomach. We’d made the news, yes—but exposure meant danger. “How long do we have?” I asked.

“Not long enough,” Dane said grimly. “But with their failures in Stalingrad, we might have a window. They’re bleeding in the east.”

“And you think that buys us time?”

He lowered the paper. “No. It only buys us arrogance. Ours or theirs, I’m not sure which.”
He folded the pages carefully. “Someone’s leaking information, Heidi. Someone in this compound. They knew about that shipment before it left the warehouse.”

“I thought you said the convoy was just unlucky.”

“I lied,” he said flatly. “Luck doesn’t explain precision. Someone spoke—and the Germans listened. You know how vital those shipments are. Without the wine routes, the resistance dries up. Our network starves.”

I swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find them,” Dane said. “The traitor. Bring me proof and a confession. Do that, and you’ll have my trust.”

“I thought I already had that,” I teased weakly.

He gave the smallest smile, then it was gone. “You do. But trust is a leaky vessel. It needs constant patching.”

The kettle shrieked, breaking the tension. I poured my tea and slipped away, leaving him to his paper and his thoughts.

Outside, the cold was a bit hard. I climbed the narrow staircase that led to the back cellar exit—an old hatch built into the hillside beneath an ancient maple. Pulling on my wool coat, I checked the road behind me before unlatching the hidden door. The forest was quiet but watchful, branches heavy with frost.

I closed the door and hurried down the path, cradling my tea between gloved hands. After ten minutes, I reached the secondary road where a sleek black car waited, its engine purring faintly under the still morning air.

The rear door opened without a sound.

Inside sat a man—older, with sharp green eyes and the kind of smile that never reached them. He gestured for the cup, and I handed it over.

“I’m sorry it’s gone cold,” I said softly.

“Das ist ganz in Ordnung, Liebling,” he murmured, taking a sip.

I hated when he called me that—darling.

“You got my last message?” I asked.

He nodded. “In perfect time. The false convoy you so kindly exposed was neutralized. The supply house seized. The rebels scattered. All because of you.”
He smiled thinly. “You’ve done well, Heidi. Sjena will be pleased.”

The name landed like a stone in my chest—Sjena.
The same unseen hand Dane whispered about. The same word that haunted the intercepted letters I’d helped translate weeks before. A shadow war beneath the war itself.

“I want out,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

The man froze, then set his cup down carefully on its saucer. “Excuse me?”

“I said I want out. I’m done being your dog.”

His lips curved—not a smile, but something colder. “You think you have that choice?”

I forced myself to meet his eyes. “It’s my life. I can choose what to do with it.”

He rose from the car, buttoning his coat with meticulous calm. “You forget what you signed, mein Mädchen. You leave when I say you leave. Or when you stop being useful.”

I followed him out, the cold slashing through the trees. Snow clung to the branches like ash.

“Look at it,” he said, sweeping his arm across the white expanse. “What do you see?”

“Snow. Trees. Nothing else.”

He laughed softly. “You see emptiness. I see potential. Renewal. But you—” he turned, eyes narrowing—“you’ve lost the vision. You were once devoted to Sjena’s purpose. To the new order we build beneath the ashes. Yet here you stand, wishing for escape.”

He paused. “Tell me—what would your sister say?”

The question struck harder than the wind. My throat tightened. He knew what mentioning her would do.

“I asked for her first, you know,” he continued. “Your sister—so devoted, so brilliant. When they reassigned her to London, I was devastated. A pity she’s dead. She understood the vision. She believed.”

His smile slithered back. “She also knew how to please her superiors. I would have given her everything. You, on the other hand—”
He let his gaze drift over me in disgust. “You were never worth that kind of attention.”

I wanted to strike him. Instead, I said evenly, “She was more of a flirt than I ever was.”

He chuckled. “And yet you studied twice as hard, and still came up short. How poetic.”

“Why tell me this?”

“Because I want you to understand the difference between the two of you. She died serving Sjena. You still pretend to.”

I clenched my fists. “I am loyal.”

He leaned close, his breath hot with the sting of chamomile. “Then prove it. Because whispers reach even us, Heidi. Whispers that you’ve gone soft. That you care for them. The rebels. The boy.”

I froze. Leo’s face flickered across my mind—his hands, his quiet laughter. And for the first time, I realized I couldn’t deny it.

“I’m loyal to my country,” I said, forcing the words out. “To Sjena’s cause.”

“Good,” he said, straightening. “Then remember that loyalty when the time comes to choose.”
He handed me back the empty cup, then grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron. “Defy me again,” he whispered, “and I’ll end you myself.”

“I understand,” I said through clenched teeth.

He smiled and released me. “Then we understand each other.”

He turned to the soldier standing by the car. “Let’s go.”

The guard opened the door, and before stepping inside, the man looked back at me one last time. “Your next report had better be useful. The others think you’ve gone weak. Don’t prove them right.”

The door slammed. The car rolled away, the black metal vanishing into the white horizon like a shadow consumed by snow.

I stood there until the sound of the engine faded. My wrist still throbbed where he’d held it.

As I started back toward the compound, my thoughts churned.

For country or for love?
For Sjena, or for Leo?
Loyalty or truth?

Each step sank deeper into the snow, and for the first time, I wasn’t sure which side of the line I stood on anymore.

My body functions best on eight-plus hours of sleep—though these days, that feels more like a dream than a routine. Back when I was a single teacher, though, weekends and summers were sacred. Sleeping in wasn’t laziness; it was restoration. There was something deeply satisfying about rolling out of bed feeling refreshed, ready to take on whatever project or plan the day held.

That love for sleep, however, didn’t always respect the boundaries of a weekday.

I was fortunate—my first period was a prep period. In theory, that meant a calm, productive start to the day. In reality, it sometimes became a buffer for a quick power nap, just enough to shake off the fog and fully show up for my students. I usually arrived around 7:45 a.m., with classes beginning at 8:15. It gave me time to settle in, grab breakfast, sip my coffee, and prepare—assuming I hadn’t already convinced myself I needed ten more minutes of rest.

Every Tuesday, though, routine gave way to responsibility.

At 7:40 a.m. sharp, the entire staff gathered for our weekly meeting—announcements, updates, the usual rhythm of school life. It was a meeting our principal took seriously. Attendance wasn’t optional. You can probably see where this is headed.

One particular Tuesday morning, after staying up later than I should have playing video games with college friends, I was deep in a well-earned sleep when my phone began buzzing on the nightstand. I groggily reached for it, squinting at the screen, only to realize I had missed five calls from my principal. One voicemail later, and the situation became clear: I wasn’t just late—I had missed nearly the entire meeting.

The culprit? An alarm set for 6:40 p.m. instead of 6:40 a.m.

A rookie mistake with veteran-level consequences.

Panic took over. I grabbed my phone, skipped my glasses, and hastily opened my email. I found the day’s agenda and quickly drafted what I believed to be a sincere, well-worded apology to my principal. Without a second thought, I hit send, rushed to get ready, and was out the door within minutes.

On the drive to school, my phone exploded with notifications—texts, emails, reactions. It didn’t make sense. I knew I was late, but this felt…excessive.

At a red light, I glanced at one of the messages:

“I can’t believe you did that LOL. You must be so embarrassed. They’re already calling you Sleeping Beauty.”

Before I could fully process it, a horn blared behind me, snapping me back to the road—and into the realization that something had gone very, very wrong.

In my rush, I hadn’t just emailed my principal.

I had emailed everyone.

Not just the teaching staff, but the entire district—elementary teachers, bus drivers, administrative staff, the superintendent, custodians. Everyone. And what made it worse? That particular Tuesday wasn’t just any meeting. It was the quarterly, district-wide gathering—the one where every employee was present.

Including the superintendent.

When I pulled into the parking lot, I was met with a sight I will never forget. Lining both sides of the entrance stood teachers, staff, and colleagues—applauding. Smiling. Laughing. Waiting for my grand arrival.

I walked through that hallway of claps and chuckles, equal parts mortified and humbled, wishing more than anything I had taken just one extra second that morning.

One extra second to double-check.

One extra second to notice the small detail that didn’t seem all that important in the moment.

Because that’s the thing about small details—they rarely announce their importance ahead of time. They sit quietly, waiting to either support you or unravel you, depending on whether you notice them.

That morning didn’t cost me my job. It didn’t define my career. But it did leave a lasting impression—one that has stuck with me far longer than the embarrassment ever did.

We often move quickly through life, especially in moments of stress, assuming the big things are what matter most. But more often than not, it’s the overlooked details—the unchecked box, the unread line, the unintended recipient—that shape the outcome.

Slowing down doesn’t mean falling behind. Sometimes, it means protecting yourself from avoidable mistakes.

And sometimes, it means saving yourself from becoming “Sleeping Beauty” in front of your entire district.

One of the most iconic moments in movie history for aspiring first year English teachers to look to as the prime example of what it means to be revered by your students.

It’s rather interesting to me why English teachers are usually the ones portrayed in various media platforms (either as inspirations or scandals).I believe it has to do with the fact that writing and literature is one of the most approachable forms of art. Even if you don’t think you are good at it, you can still write or learn how to read.

For many, both avenues of the English curriculum are gateways not just to far fetched imaginary ideas, but also serve as a vessel for more personal development and reflection. A balance of creativity and realism embodied in a sole person who wears tweed every Tuesday to be seen as a distinguished scholar, ready to pass on his knowledge to eager minds.

At least, that’s what my college textbook told me to expect.

I remember vividly walking into my classroom during my first year, thinking I was going to be different. That I was going to be the teacher who everyone wanted. That my classes would be full and I’d have to turn eager students away at the door, regret in my heart believing they might be the next great author of our time.

Tragedy.

Reality, however, served me with a whole dish of humble pie.

I taught in a rural farming town in central Iowa. The town itself was about 1500 people in total, over double the size of my home town growing up. So when I walked in my first day and met my various groups of students, I quickly realized that my visions of grandeur and selfishness of being the next great English teacher who’s story was made into a movie was not going to be a reality after all.

My students did not really care about English class like I did.

I tried to convince them despite their groaning. After all, I had gone to a liberal arts college, gotten a degree, I was sophisticated. I knew what I was talking about.

I was pompous, arrogant, and selfish. Full stop.

The summer after my first year, I did a lot of reflecting on the first year of school, and I came to realize that I was trying to be someone I was not.

I went to college, got the degree, knew the right answers, thought I was a good writer, and didn’t need to grow any more. What I quickly realized was that despite all of the accolades I had accomplished getting to that first job, these kids were more than names on a seating chart.

They were my students. They were my responsibility when they were in my classroom. They had good days and bad days, just like me. And I had never slowed down enough to hear their voices amidst the demanding curriculum I had prepared over the course of the school year.

I was the one at the front demanding respect, but I had never taken the time to even acknowledge them as people in the first place.

Over the next two years, I started to move away from the mandated curriculum I was instructed to teach, and instead started to ask my students questions.

With proper boundaries in place, we went on a journey of learning together. We talked about civics, history, our country, my travel experiences, and a list of other topics.

Over time, then curriculum phased into the classroom alongside the openness we had generated. It was a learning environment that welcomed all contributors - as long as they were disciplined enough to not derail discussions or projects. My students even began policing themselves to keep one another accountable.

It was honestly, harmonious.

As time went on, Many of my students began to open up to me about their lives outside of the classroom. Being in coordination with the school counselor and administrators, I quickly learned that many of my “troublesome students” were acting out in school because their home lives were miserable.

Alcohol, abuse, addiction, parents never home for whatever reason, fill in the blank.

It was in all honesty, the most heartbreaking thing about my job. And I carried that with me, despite my best efforts to leave it behind when I left for the day.

The heaviness of what some of my students were walking through was truly overwhelming at times. Their stories of brokenness and the desire to just be seen made me so angry and upset, that I often wanted to just intercede on their behalf.

That heaviness is part of the reason I left the profession. It became to much.

Years later, one of my “troublesome students” emailed me. He was in a difficult home situation, and was often one that would disrupt class every day. Many of the other teachers loathed having him, but I took a chance to hear his story, and over time, the disruptions in my classroom ceased entirely.

This student wrote in his email that I was his hero back when he was in high school. At the time I thought he saw me as an annoying pompious teacher that just wanted to talk about literature all day, but apparently to him, I was the first teacher to sit down and hear his story.

He told me that my class refined him into someone he wanted to be proud of. That when he looked into the mirror, he saw someone who was not defined by his home life or learning limitations, and that one day he would pursue his own passions.

He told me after high school, he began to read more. Eventually went to college to pursue a degree in biology, and had plans to become a teacher one day as well.

He said to me,

“You were the first person to believe in me back in school. Everyone else thought I would be a dud, a burnout. That I would never amount to anything. Thank you for believing in me when no one else, including me, wouldn’t. You were my hero Mr. L.”

I miss the classroom a lot.

Not for the moments like that student emailing me that heartfelt message, but the smaller moments where I could just enjoy my students and their questions. To watch their inquisitive minds solve problems in real time, or to hear their laughter when I read Shakespeare to them in funny voices.

I think of my students often, even now.

They shaped me into the man I am today.

And maybe, after all these years…

They were the teacher, and I was the student, learning how to be a better version of myself by learning to listen when they were speaking.

And if it does, I want you to know this—I’m open to a conversation. These thoughts are my own, shaped by my experiences, but I am willing to listen. Truly listen. All I ask is that it’s done with respect, a willingness to hear something different, and the humility to consider perspectives beyond your own.

When I was a kid, the Fourth of July was my favorite holiday.

I would wake up early, barely able to contain my excitement, because I knew what the day held: small-town parades, time on the water, grilled Midwestern beef and pork, sweet corn dripping with butter, fireflies flickering at dusk, and fireworks lighting up the night sky.

It was simple.

I didn’t think about politics. I didn’t understand party lines, global conflicts, or the weight of responsibility that comes with adulthood.

It was just joy.

It was just America.

But as I’ve gotten older, that simplicity has faded.

The curtain has been pulled back, revealing the complexities of our nation—its systems, its leaders, and its people. And if I’m being honest, what I’ve seen is heavier than I ever expected.

I remember the pride I once felt reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, hearing the national anthem, and seeing the flag wave high. That pride was real.

But now, when I look at our nation, that pride is mixed with grief.

On September 11th, 2001, I was in the fourth grade.

I didn’t fully understand what I was witnessing as I watched the second plane hit the tower on a classroom television. I only knew it was bad. We were sent home shortly after.

But I remember the days that followed.

There was a unity I had never experienced before. A shared sense of purpose. A collective grief that somehow brought people closer together.

Patriotism.

For the first time, I could name what I felt—a deep pride in my country and the people in it.

I was too young to serve, but I have no doubt that if I had been older, I would have joined the many brave men and women who stepped forward in the days that followed. Their sacrifice is something I will never fully be able to repay, but I carry a deep gratitude for it—especially knowing how many veterans have struggled upon returning home.

And yet, as the years passed, something shifted in me.

What was once my favorite holiday became complicated. Heavy. Even painful at times.

Because while I’ve been fortunate enough to travel, to visit different states and national parks, and to meet incredible people from all walks of life, one truth has become undeniably clear:

The greatest part of this country isn’t its systems or its politics.

It’s its people.

All people.

Not just some. Not just those who look like me, think like me, or believe what I believe—but everyone. Every background, every culture, every story.

That is what makes this nation beautiful.

And yet, I can’t fully celebrate a holiday centered on freedom when I know that not everyone experiences that freedom equally.

As I’ve wrestled with this, one realization came to me with undeniable clarity:

I am a white Christian male living in America.

And for a long time, I didn’t fully grasp what that meant.

It meant I grew up feeling safe. It meant I didn’t question whether my voice mattered. It meant I never had to worry that my opportunities would be limited because of my identity.

I’ve never had to look over my shoulder because of the color of my skin.

Never had to explain where I “really” come from.

Never had to fight for basic rights tied to my identity, my body, or who I love.

And when I sit with that truth, I understand something deeper:

It makes sense why this holiday once felt so easy for me to celebrate.

Because for me, freedom has rarely felt conditional.

But for many others, it does.

And that’s where the tension lives for me.

Because I don’t want to celebrate a version of America where freedom comes with an asterisk—where it depends on who you are, where you’re from, or what you believe.

That’s not the country I want to believe in.

And it’s not the country we should settle for.

If we truly want to make this nation great—not in word, but in truth—it starts with us.

It starts by standing next to our neighbors, not in spite of our differences, but because of them.

Hatred is learned. Division is taught. But so is empathy. So is understanding. So is love.

The strength of this country has never been found in uniformity—it has always been found in its diversity. In the millions of different stories that somehow share the same soil.

We don’t have to agree on everything.

But we do have to remember that we belong to each other.

That the person across from you—no matter their background, their beliefs, or their story—is just as much a part of this nation as you are.

And maybe that’s where we begin again.

Not with blind celebration.

But with honest reflection.

With listening more than we speak.

With choosing connection over division.

Because the truth is, this country will never be defined by its politics alone.

It will be defined by its people—and by whether those people choose to stand together.

Not as enemies.

Not as strangers.

But as neighbors.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the kind of freedom worth celebrating.

A familiar horn blew nearby. The camp had seen it too. Alfria had been away from the camp for three days now, scouting and tracking nearby grazing flocks of shenko deer to hunt and collect before the coming winter months. They were at the base of the cliffside, about a fifty foot drop in a wide open field of knee high grass. From this position, she could have easily killed three, even four with her bow, but the sudden arrival of the flaming object falling from the sky had drawn her attention away from the food source.

It would have taken members of the campsite a few hours before even being ready to go investigate the crash site. By then, whatever had fallen may have already moved on, or have been scavenged by a neighboring rival tribe. She didn’t want to risk that chance.

Gathering her sparse supplies scattered around her fire pit, she quickly pulled down her tent and tossed it into her knapsack. She grabbed a few leftover melons and charred fish, and set off down the trail toward the crash site.

As she hurried through the trees, another horn blew from the direction of the camp.

That was faster than anticipated. She thought as she picked up her pace.

T’Lon and his hunters would be mobilizing momentarily, and unfortunately for her, they would be mounted on vassiks - large reptilian beasts with slender bodies and hooked claws that made it easy for them to traverse even the most difficult terrain.

If she wanted to have anything to bring home for the campsite, she’d need to get there first. Compensation would only be awarded to the first fruits, nothing after — the way of their people. She would need to be first, or not come back at all until she had something worth the effort.

Cresting a hill, Alfria came across the smoldering wreckage that had fallen from the sky. It was badly damaged, but from what she could see, it was largely still intact. It was made of a polished metal, though she had never seen something of such size before, nor ever falling from the sky.

She approached cautiously, pulling a vassik talon knife from her hip in preparation of any hostile animals that may have become curious as well.

Making a large perimeter around the metal object, she assessed that there was no present danger, though T’Lon would be arriving shortly based on the distance from the camp and the quickness of the vassik mounts. Her time was short, and she needed to find a trophy worth bringing back to the elders.

Scraps of metal and other foreign objects were strewn around the crash site. As she inspected some of the stray parts, she noticed that there was a breach in the metal — large enough for a human to fit through with ease.

Cautiously, she scanned the area once more, and then proceeded to crawl forward, her knife at the ready. At the opening she peered inside and saw the most extrodinary sight.

Three humanoid creatures, strapped to chairs, dressed in black suits and matching heads. Though upon further inspection, she realized that their heads were larger than anyone she had ever seen. What she only assumed were their eyes, bulged like an insect. Grotesque, but worthy of an honorable trophy from the elders. She only needed one head, but she had access to three.

Readying her knife, she began to pull herself upward into the metallic object, but just as he was about to enter, a massive black arrow sank into the plating next to her head.

She dropped from the hole just as a second sunk into the metal where her torso had just been. Alfria hit the ground hard, rolling as a third arrow struck sparks from the hull above her.

“Trophy hunting alone now?” T’Lon’s voice carried from the tall grass, smooth and mocking. “You’ve grown bold.”

She rose into a crouch, knife still in hand, eyes scanning. The grass shifted—too controlled to be wind. His hunters were already fanned out.

“You’re late,” Alfria called back, masking the tightness in her chest. “I thought the great T’Lon would have arrived sooner.”

A low chuckle answered her. Then he stepped into view.

Mounted on his vassik, T’Lon sat tall, his dark braids bound with bone rings that marked his victories. Behind him, three hunters emerged, their mounts hissing softly, claws digging into the soil.

“You know the law,” he said. “First claim belongs to the tribe. Not to a lone scout chasing glory.”

Alfria straightened. “I saw it first. That makes it mine.”

T’Lon’s eyes flicked to the breach in the wreckage, then back to her. “You think the elders will side with you?” He tilted his head. “Or will they see this as another act of defiance?”

The tension between them tightened like a drawn bowstring. This wasn’t just about the wreckage. It never had been. The seething hatred dripped from their words as they spoke - years of unspoken hostility between them, finally boiling over without any oversight from the elders to try and stop them from lashing out.

“You’ve been waiting for a reason,” Alfria said quietly. “Just say it.”

T’Lon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve always been a problem, Alfria. Too independent. Too unwilling to follow.” He leaned forward slightly. “The tribe doesn’t need that.”

“The tribe needs strength,” she shot back. “Not someone who hoards power.”

One of the hunters shifted, gripping his spear tighter. T’Lon raised a hand, silencing him without looking.

“And yet,” T’Lon said, “here you are. Outnumbered.”

Alfria’s grip tightened on her knife. She glanced once toward the opening in the wreckage. Three strange beings. Three potential offerings. A way to change everything.

Or a way to die.

“Walk away,” T’Lon continued, his voice softening into something more dangerous. “Leave this to me, and I might let you return to camp.”

Alfria almost laughed. “You’d never allow that.”

“No,” he admitted. “Probably not.”

The first vassik lunged.

Alfria moved fast, diving to the side as claws tore through the grass where she had stood. She came up beneath its flank, slashing upward. The beast shrieked, rearing back, throwing its rider.

Chaos erupted.

Another hunter charged. Alfria grabbed a shard of metal from the wreckage and hurled it, striking the rider across the face. He fell hard, disappearing into the grass.

But they kept coming.

T’Lon dismounted now, drawing a curved blade from his side. He moved with purpose, cutting through the distance between them.

“You should have stayed in your place,” he said.

Their blades met with a sharp crack.

Alfria staggered back under the force. T’Lon pressed forward, relentless, each strike heavier than the last. She parried, dodged, countered—but he was stronger.

“You can’t win this,” he said, forcing her toward the wreckage.

“Maybe not,” she said through clenched teeth, “but neither will you.”

A deafening sound split the air.

Both froze.

A low hum began to rise from the wreckage behind them. The metal glowed faintly along its seams, pulsing with an unnatural light.

T’Lon turned, confusion breaking across his face. “What is that?”

The breach Alfria had found flickered with a cold blue glow.

Inside, something moved.

A sudden burst of light erupted outward, throwing both of them back. The air crackled, sharp and electric. One of the hunters screamed as his vassik bolted, throwing him aside.

From within the wreckage, the three figures stirred.

Their “heads” split open along unseen seams, revealing not flesh, but glass—transparent domes beneath which human faces slowly came into view.

A hiss of pressure released as the suits unlocked.

One of them—taller than the others—rose unsteadily to their feet.

One of the being’s voices crackled, distorted, foreign. A language that T’Lon nor Alfria understood. Clearly these beings were not from this land.

T’Lon scrambled up, staring in disbelief. “What are they?”

Alfria didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

The second figure stood, then the third. Their movements were slow but deliberate. One raised an arm—and something along the suit ignited with a sharp glow.

A beam of searing light cut across the clearing.

One of T’Lon’s hunters dropped instantly, the ground smoking where he had stood.

Panic shattered the moment.

“Kill them!” T’Lon roared, charging forward.

It was a mistake.

Another flash—another beam—and T’Lon’s vassik collapsed in a heap, a smoking wound carved through its chest. The remaining hunters fled, vanishing into the tall grass.

T’Lon stood alone now, breathing hard, blade trembling in his hand.

The lead figure stepped forward.

“I don’t think they’re friendly,” another voice said behind him, this time in T’Lon and Alfria’s native tongue.

How do they know our language so fluently if they are not from here? Are they…

T’Lon let out a defiant cry and rushed them.

The light came again—blinding, final.

And then there was silence.

Smoke drifted lazily through the clearing.

Alfria remained frozen where she stood, her heart pounding in her chest. The three beings turned toward her slowly, their glowing suits humming softly in the quiet.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then, trembling, Alfria dropped her knife.

She fell to her knees.

The stories of her people flooded her mind—of skyfire, of beings descending from above, of power beyond understanding.

“Gods…” she whispered, bowing her head to the ground.

Behind her, the wind stirred the grass, carrying the scent of ash and something new—something unknown.

The figures exchanged glances.

“…Did she just bow?” one of them asked.

“Yeah,” another replied. “I think she did.”

The leader looked down at Alfria, then out at the alien landscape surrounding them.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s figure out where the hell we are.”

Alfria remained bowed, unmoving, her forehead pressed into the dirt.

In the presence of three gods, there was only one choice.

Submission—or death.

“I thought I’d grant you the small victory,” D replied, easing onto the bench beside him. “You know I’m rarely late. It would be rude to miss an appointment like this.”

Julien smiled faintly. “Rude, or inevitable?”

D’s lips curved—something close to a smile, though softer, older. “The two are not so different.”

They sat shoulder to shoulder, both in suits that spoke of finality. Julien’s charcoal gray was pressed and precise. D’s black coat, fastened with three silver buttons, seemed to absorb the fading light around them.

The pond before them lay still, reflecting a sky slipping into dusk.

“You know what today is,” D said quietly.

“I do.” Julien’s voice held no tremor. “I’ve been waiting.”

“And you’re certain?” D asked. “No hesitation this time?”

Julien took another drink, slower now. He set the cup down between them.

“No,” he said. “No hesitation.”

D studied him. “That’s not what you said the last time we spoke.”

Julien exhaled, watching his breath fade into the cooling air. “The last time… I was afraid of losing everything.”

“And now?”

“Now I understand I already did.”

Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable—familiar.

“You once believed immortality would save you,” D said. “From struggle. From loss.”

“I believed it would give me time,” Julien corrected. “Time to build something that mattered. Time to become someone worth remembering.”

“And did you?”

Julien let out a quiet laugh, hollow at the edges. “I became someone they admired. Not someone they knew.”

D said nothing.

“I thought if I worked hard enough—if I provided enough—that it would be enough.” Julien’s gaze fixed on the water, though he wasn’t seeing it. “But time doesn’t wait for presence. It doesn’t reward intention.”

His voice softened.

“I missed birthdays. Small moments. Ordinary days that would have meant everything now.” He swallowed. “And while I was chasing forever… theirs ended.”

The sun dipped lower, its last light brushing the surface of the pond.

“I buried my wife,” Julien continued. “Then my children. One by one, like chapters I hadn’t finished reading.”

D’s expression did not change, but something in his stillness deepened.

“And when they were gone,” Julien said, “forever stopped meaning anything.”

The first star appeared overhead.

“I’ve walked through centuries,” Julien went on. “Watched cities rise and collapse. Heard my name spoken by strangers who never knew me. My likeness carved into stone and heralded as a champion among many nations.” He shook his head. “And none of it… none of it filled the silence they left behind.”

D folded his hands in his lap. “You asked me for eternity.”

“I asked you for more time,” Julien said. “I didn’t understand they were the same thing—and not at all.”

Another pause.

Then, softer—almost a whisper:

“I just want to see them again.”

The words lingered in the air, fragile but certain.

“I want to hold them in my arms, to hear their voices, to feel their warmth. I have been so cold all these years. I am the man who has it all, and yet, has nothing all the same.”

D turned toward him fully now. “You understand what that means.”

Julien nodded. “It means letting go.”

“It means an end.”

Julien shook his head gently. “No,” he said. “It means going home.”

For the first time, D’s expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Not surprise. Not pity.

Recognition. An understanding that transcends time and human conditions.

“You’ve come further than most,” D said.

Julien let out a breath that felt like release. “I think I’ve finally stopped running.”

The sun slipped beneath the horizon, and the world dimmed into twilight.

D stood, smoothing his coat. “Then it’s time.”

Julien rose beside him, leaving the empty cup on the bench.

“Tell me something,” Julien said. “All these years… why did you keep coming back? Why not just take me when I asked?”

D looked out over the darkening water.

“Because you didn’t want me,” he said. “You wanted escape. There’s a difference.”

Julien considered that, then nodded.

“And now?” he asked.

D met his eyes.

“Now,” he said, “you’re ready to be found.”

The weight Julien had carried for lifetimes seemed to loosen all at once. Not gone—but no longer his to bear. The yoke was beginning to shift, and the burden was not as heavy.

He offered a small, genuine smile.

“Well,” he said, “you did say you never miss an appointment.”

D extended a hand.

“Not when someone is ready.”

Julien took it.

It was not cold. It was not foreign.

For the first time in centuries, Julien felt comforted — knowing that the end was near, and that the thing he desired most was at his fingertips. Shedding the burden of immortality, and all of the tangible possessions that came with it, knowing that peace would rest upon his mind with those he desired to be with the most.

It was finally time to welcome death. He was going home.

Together, they stepped away from the bench, the pond, the fading world behind them.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember—

Julien felt no fear.

Only the quiet comfort of walking beside an old friend.

It was just another day to me. Sure, I would reach out to my own dad and wish him well, but it just felt like a throwaway holiday that needed to be added to the calendar because there was a Mother’s Day the month prior — a sympathy holiday, if you will.

Even in our current landscape on social media, movies, television, and everything in between, the concept of Father’s Day is usually surrounded by the same themes: Dad is going golfing all day — without the wife or kids to bother him. Let him work on the house projects he has been wanting to get to. He doesn’t actually want to be celebrated because, after all, it’s just Dad.

For anyone reading this, and that is your desired Father’s Day, that’s great for you, but to me, it’s honestly one of my favorite holidays. Not because I am the focal point of the entire day, but because of the reason for the day in the first place.

Because now, I understand what it costs to be called “Dad.”

I learned that lesson in the quietest and heaviest of ways.

Father’s Day changed for me the moment I first held my son Davian. It changed in that silent hospital room filled with both overwhelming love for this little boy, and the utter heartbreak that followed shortly after his heart stopped beating. It changed in an instant — expectant father, loss dad.

After Jadon was born, I was again reminded of the heaviness of being a father that desired to hold their child in their arms, but leaving the hospital with nothing but his heartbeat in a stuffed teddy bear.

There are two names that forever define this day for me that will sadly never get to celebrate it with me this side of heaven. I will never get to hear them say “Daddy, I love you”, even though I dream of it often. Hearing them each perfectly in my mind.

Two boys who made me a father.

Two lives that reshaped my understanding of love, responsibility, and what it truly means to carry the title of “Dad.”

And for a long time, Father’s Day didn’t feel like something to celebrate. It felt like something to grieve over. To remind myself that I was a dad, with love that had nowhere to go and arms that stayed empty.

It was a reminder of what was missing. A quiet ache that followed me through the day. A question I didn’t know how to answer: How do you celebrate something that feels incomplete?

But somewhere along the way, that perspective began to shift.

Not because the grief went away — it hasn’t, and it never will — but because I began to realize that Father’s Day was never about perfection or completeness. It was about presence. It was about love. It was about the weight and the privilege of being entrusted with the life of a child — no matter how long or short that time may be.

My sons taught me that.

They taught me that being a dad isn’t measured in years, milestones, or memories made over decades. Sometimes, it’s measured in moments. In the few minutes we are blessed with while they are still on this Earth. In the depth of love felt in a single, life-altering moment—one that leaves you forever changed—only to be followed by loss, and memories of a life gone too soon.

And now, I get to hold that truth alongside something else.

I get to celebrate Father’s Day with my daughter.

I get to wake up and hear her cry out “Dada” from the other room. I get to hold her, feed her, comfort her, and watch her grow in ways I once only dreamed about. I get to live in the middle of moments that used to feel so far out of reach.

And I don’t take a single one of them for granted.

Because I know what it feels like to long for just one more second, before saying goodbye this side of heaven.

This version of Father’s Day — it’s not about getting away. It’s not about having a day to myself or escaping responsibility.

It’s the exact opposite.

The greatest gift I could ever receive is the chance to be fully present with my family.

To sit in the ordinary moments that once felt impossible.
To laugh together.
To be tired together.
To exist in the kind of fullness that only comes from loving deeply and knowing what it costs.

If anything, Father’s Day has become a quiet reminder of everything I hold in my hands.

It reminds me of the sons who made me a father.
It reminds me of the daughter who lets me live that role out each and every day.
It reminds me of my wife, who has walked through every high and every heartbreak by my side.

And it reminds me that this role — this title — is not something I earned on my own.

It is a gift.

One that I carry with both joy and reverence.

So no, I don’t need a day away.

I don’t need a round of golf or a break from the noise.

What I need — what I cherish — is right in front of me.

The gift of remembering our boys.
The sound of my daughter’s voice.
The presence of my family.
The quiet, overwhelming realization that I get to be their dad.

And that is more than enough.

Overall, the questions have been insightful and entertaining - sometimes even spicy - and to be honest, it has genuinely inspired more conversation between us that we would have otherwise never considered.

A few days ago, the book prompted us to ask the following question:

“What do you doubt most about yourself that most people think you’re confident about?”

When I first read it, I didn’t really have a good answer. So I defaulted to my cooking skills. I tend to be the main chef in our household, as I do enjoy it, but sometimes in my ‘winging it’ style of cooking, I do tend to doubt my abilities even though I followed a recipe verbatim.

However, after a few days of sitting with that answer, the question was still lingering on my mind. Cooking is definitely a skill I would categorize as ‘fake it, till you make it’, but something else has been even more persistent in stealing that spotlight — something that if I’m truly being honest, has always been a source of ‘never good enough’ in my own mind.

Writing.

It’s ironic really, I am writing an article about how I feel inadequate with my writing abilities. Perhaps it’s my inner critic taking center stage and demanding the microphone to point out all of the inconsistencies, unfinished story ideas, and my loathing for editing first draft projects.

I think about my writing journey, and I think that the major shift in my confidence actually came in college. It was an introduction to writing class, and where I thought I was a top tier writer - after all, my high school creative writing teacher told me I was really good, so why wouldn’t I be confident?

My professor however, had other thoughts on my early writing style.

• Too wordy

• All over the place

• Boring

• Inconsistent narrative

• Poor punctuation

• Less fat, more meat (her favorite phrase)

She was a great professor, a bit too honest for my fragile ego at the time, but it really did strike a blow into the foundation of my confidence around writing both fiction and non-fiction.

After that class, I became meticulous with my writing.

It was never good enough.

It was too wordy.

It was terrible.

I should just stop all together because no one wants to read what I have to say.

I have published two books since then — one through a publishing company (what an adventure that was to get published), and my most recent through KDP on Amazon.

Both have had been huge learning opportunities for me, and a lot of growth has sprouted from being able to publish two books, but a common denominator still lingers just below the surface, unseen by the untrained eye - I’m still my biggest critic.

When I write on Substack, I still pour over my articles. I question if when I hit that publication button if anyone is going to see my grammatical or sentence inadequacies that I spot like an active lighthouse on a coastline in the dead of night.

The question that started this whole process really made me stop and reflect on where my views really came into focus when reviewing my writing. What I have come to find out in this reflection is that I am not the best writer…

And that is okay.

I may never be an author on the New York Times Best Seller list… and that is okay too.

I have goals for myself as an author: dreams of being a full time writer, to travel the world with nothing but my family and my laptop, to pump out fictional novels on the level of Brandon Sanderson - lofty goals, but they are my goals.

Yet when I take a step back and evaluate the here and now, I remind myself that even taking the time to sit down and write is a huge feat accomplished. I should not feel burdened by my passion. Instead I should learn to be kind to myself and enjoy what I love doing. At the end of the day, I should ask myself, who is my writing actually for?

Did I write to meet a quota or deadline, or did I write because I love doing it?

Both are important, but the latter is the one that will keep you coming back, even when you don’t want to.

Now I ask you, the audience:

What do you doubt most about yourself that most people think you’re confident about?

Take some time to reflect before you respond in the comments. The answer you discover, may even surprise you.

That is what set it apart from the previous two trips to the labor and delivery room.

There was a moment of weighted breath—time itself seeming to pause—then the confirmation came through her wailing of confusion and new life.

A baby’s cry.

There is nothing like it. You can see it on television, in movies, across social media—but until you stand in that room and hear it for yourself, it doesn’t fully land. The gravity of those first cries carries something deeper than sound. It is the unmistakable signal that life has changed forever. That you have stepped into a new season—one uncharted, filled with responsibility you didn’t know you could carry, and yet somehow already are.

And alongside that weight, something else rushes in—something unexpected.

Hope. Excitement. Wonder.

That’s how I felt when I heard her cry for the first time.

Our daughter came into this world a few weeks early, at 34 weeks and 5 days. Given our history, that timing carried its own weight. There was already a quiet tension in the room before she even arrived. Add to that the unpreparedness of becoming first-time earthside parents, and it felt like standing in the middle of a storm you couldn’t control—hoping, praying, bracing for something to go wrong.

She spent 25 days in the NICU.

Twenty-five days of wires, machines, quiet beeps, learning how to love your child through limited skin to skin contact, and having to say goodnight as she watched us leave the hospital room so we could go home and get a few hours of sleep at home, wondering when we would be back. Twenty-five days of holding onto faith in ways I never had before.

And yet, looking at her now, you would never know.

Now, after a year—after a full cycle of firsts, sleepless nights, laughter, growth, and healing—I can say it out loud:

We have a one-year-old.

Part of me is still in awe of that truth. The other part is overwhelmed with a kind of gratitude I didn’t know was possible. A love that feels both new and ancient at the same time—like it was always meant to be here, just waiting for her.

To say this has been the most challenging year of my life would be an understatement.

But it has also been the most refining.

Becoming an earthside father is something I have longed for since I was young. And now that I am here, I can say with certainty—I was made for this. Not because it is easy, but because it is meaningful in ways I cannot fully put into words.

There are moments I find myself watching her sleep on the monitor, fighting the urge to go wake her up—not because she needs me, but because I just want to be near her. I want to hear her laugh again. I want to see what she’ll discover next. I want to play with her stacking cups or dance around the kitchen with her listening and singing along to her favorite songs.

She has brought wonder back into places of my life that had grown quiet.

Things that once felt mundane—flipping a light switch on and off, the excitement of seeing our dog enter the room, the adventure of trying new foods—are now filled with magic through her eyes. She reminds me daily that the world is still full of newness, if we’re willing to see it. These things that are so second nature to me, are all firsts for her — and that is where the wonder lies. I am getting to see the world through her eyes for the first time, and in turn, I am discovering and who my daughter is. We are learning who each of us are through this experience, and it is beautiful.

And maybe that’s part of the gift of being her father.

She hasn’t just grown this past year—I have too.

She has softened parts of me that grief once hardened. She has brought light into spaces that once felt permanently dim. She has not erased the pain of losing our boys—nothing ever will—but she has shown me that joy and sorrow can coexist, as I have touched on before. That love does not divide itself; it multiplies, expands, stretches to hold it all. And each day that I get to spend alongside her, my heart is molded to love deeper and hold more gratitude for these fleeting moments that will one day pass on as she gets older.

I hold onto the small moments with her: tight hugs when I pick her up, giggles when I gobble up her toes, and the continual desire to sit in my lap when reading her favorite books. One day she won’t want these things from me, she’ll grow up, become more independent, but for now, I’m going to cherish it all.

Becoming her dad has humbled me in ways I didn’t expect.

It has shown me how little control I truly have, and how much trust this role requires. It has taught me patience, presence, and the sacredness of small moments. It has made me more aware of the kind of man I want to be—not just for her, but because of her.

And through it all, I find myself deeply, overwhelmingly grateful.

Grateful for every cry that once meant she was fighting to grow stronger.

Grateful for every sleepless night that now feels like a privilege instead of a burden.

Grateful for the laughter that fills our home.

Grateful to hear her voice calling out, “Mama! Dada!” - Something I never thought I’d ever hear this side of heaven.

Grateful that I get to be her dad.

She will never replace her brothers. She was never meant to. Their lives matter. Their absence is still felt. They are forever part of our story.

But she—she is her own miracle.

Her own light.

Her own chapter of grace that we didn’t earn, but were given anyway.

And I love her in a way that continues to grow deeper every single day.

Not because she fills a void, but because she is uniquely, beautifully herself.

Because she is ours.

Because I get to watch her become who she was created to be.

And because, after everything, I still get to hold her, hear her laugh, and be called Dad.

And that… is something I will never take for granted.

Growing up in Iowa, specifically where I grew up, May also came with one of my favorite past times that we did as a family.

Ditch asparagus picking.

Now I know what you might be thinking. Ditch asparagus? That’s not a thing. Asparagus is bought in the grocery store, like a normal person would do. However, in the area I grew up in, there were wild asparagus patches that grew in the ditches surrounding our house.

The vegetable is one of my all time favorites, but the uniqueness of the harvesting seasons is that it is only viable in the month of May. Anytime after May, the plant becomes too woody, too many seeds, and grows into a bush to eventually pollenate and repopulate for next year.

There are a few things of note about ditch asparagus — first, it’s delicious and tremendously better tasting than anything you will find in a grocery store. Second, it grows at a rapid rate — almost like a weed. And third, if you aren’t quick enough, someone else may come and steal your harvest unless it’s on your private property obviously.

For the majority of our patches though, they grow up in the county ditches around our house. To the passerby on the highway, these patches look nothing more than unkempt grassy patches, but to us, these are literal vegetable gold mines for our family each year.

Some of my fondest memories during the month of May growing up were hopping on our 4-wheeler or side-by-side, and driving out to our small asparagus patches as a family. We’d have knives, scissors, and empty grocery bags just anticipating to be filled up with the green stalks that would later be served alongside our steak and potatoes for dinner.

We would go harvest in the ditches almost every night, for the entire month of May. It was a family tradition for the four of us to enjoy. And each night, believe it or not, we’d come home with multiple grocery bags full of fresh asparagus. It still to this day baffles my brain at how much we would gather each evening despite finding the same amount the previous night.

And as I reflect on those core memories, I can only think of the fondness I have for those times we had as a family.

But maybe that’s the thing about it—it was never just about the asparagus.

Looking back now, I realize those evenings in the ditches weren’t really about how much we could gather or how good it would taste on the dinner table. It was about the rhythm of it all. The predictability. The quiet understanding that, for that one month, we had something that was ours. Something simple, yet deeply meaningful.

There was something grounding about knowing that no matter how the day had gone, we would end it together—driving familiar paths, scanning the ditches with trained eyes, talking about nothing and everything all at once. Time seemed to slow down out there. The world felt smaller, quieter, and more manageable.

And the asparagus itself—here one day, overgrown the next—served as a quiet reminder of how fleeting things can be. You had to be present. You had to go when the time was right. Wait too long, and you’d miss it entirely.

Life, in many ways, feels like that now.

There are seasons that come and go, some we recognize while we’re in them, and others we only understand once they’ve already passed. There are moments that feel ordinary at the time but later reveal themselves as the very things we long to return to. And like those ditches along the highway, what looks insignificant to the outside world can hold immeasurable value to the people who know where to look.

May still comes around every year. The weather warms, the air thickens, and somewhere out there, wild asparagus is growing again—quickly, quietly, without asking for attention. And while life looks different now, busier and more complicated in ways I couldn’t have imagined back then, I find myself thinking about those evenings more often.

Because those moments taught me something I didn’t fully understand at the time: that the most meaningful parts of life are rarely the loud or extraordinary ones. They’re found in the repetition, in the shared experiences, in the simple act of showing up—again and again—for the people you love.

And maybe that’s the lesson May continues to offer me.

To slow down when I can.
To pay attention while it’s here.
And to recognize that even the most ordinary seasons of life are, in their own quiet way, something worth holding onto.

Recently my wife and I were on the phone. She was on her way back from the grocery store after a long day of work. I was getting dinner prepared for our daughter and us. The conversation was natural. How was your day, how was the baby, did you get everything from the store, etc.

Before long, my wife gasped.

“There was a massive crash on the road just ahead of me!”

She was not harmed. The damage had already been done by the time she had approached the grizzly scene. Police, firefighters, ambulance, and all other first responders were already on the scene.

The car was in a massive heap. The side of the car concaved, and the other vehicle’s front end was smashed inward indicating a T-Bone accident.

As my wife drove by, she narrated what she was seeing.

“I hope they are okay. It looks really bad…”

We talked about the tragedy as she drove past, down the road a little further, but by the time the scene was out of her rearview mirror, the conversation shifted back to our lives, our dinner plans that evening, and what we would be doing over Memorial Day weekend.

It wasn’t out of malice that we shifted the conversation, but instead that our lives continued onward once the accident was no longer the focal point of our attention.

Looking back on that short conversation made me realize that is exactly how we as humans approach loss and the inevitable grief that follows in its wake.

Living through the loss of our sons, which I have written about extensively on here, and traversing the depths of grief that followed afterwards felt a lot like seeing a horrible accident on the side of the road.

Passersby would see our situation, offer their condolences, time, and efforts the best that they could, but then when all that they could do was met, they continued to live their lives.

And that is the part that is hardest to reconcile when you are the one left standing in the wreckage.

Because for you, the accident doesn’t move out of view. It doesn’t shrink in the rearview mirror until it becomes just another story you once passed by. It stays. It settles into your bones, into your routines, into the quiet spaces of your day where absence feels louder than anything that remains.

You notice how the world keeps going. Conversations shift. Laughter returns. Holidays come and go. People mean well—they always do—but they cannot remain at the scene forever. Life pulls them forward, just as it always has.

And if you’re not careful, you can begin to feel left behind… as if your grief is somehow out of step with the rhythm of the world.

But the truth is, both things can exist at the same time.

The world continues moving—not because your loss is small, but because movement is what the living do.

And you remain changed—not because you are broken beyond repair, but because love has left its mark in a way that cannot be undone.

There is a quiet lesson in that roadside moment my wife described. We are all, at different times, both the passerby and the one in the wreckage. We will be the ones who can only offer a glance, a prayer, a few words… and we will be the ones who carry the weight long after others have gone.

So there is grace needed on both sides.

Grace for the world that keeps turning, even when it feels like it shouldn’t.

And grace for yourself, when you cannot keep pace with it.

Being present, I’ve learned, does not mean forcing yourself to “move on” just because others have. It means allowing yourself to fully inhabit the moment you are in—whether that moment holds joy, or sorrow, or the strange mixture of both that grief often brings. It means sitting at the table, making dinner, holding your child, while also acknowledging the empty seat that will always be there in your heart.

Presence is not pretending the accident never happened.

It is choosing to live, even while carrying it.

And some days, living will look like laughter and plans for the weekend.

Other days, it will look like silence, like memory, like simply making it through.

Both are valid. Both are necessary.

Because life does continue moving.

But so does love.

And love—the kind that reshapes you, the kind that leaves an imprint that time cannot erase—does not ask you to forget in order to move forward. It simply asks you to carry it differently as you go.

Mother’s Day in our household has never been simple.

My wife and I, as many of you already know, have endured two second-trimester losses during our marriage. This summer will mark six years together, and in that time, my wife has experienced Mother’s Day five times as a parent.

But until now, never as an earthside one.

After we lost Davian, the following May felt almost unbearable. Grief was still raw, unprocessed, and all-consuming. Sitting in spaces filled with celebration—flowers, laughter, cards, and gratitude—we couldn’t shake the quiet, gnawing feeling of being imposters. We were parents. We knew that. But our arms were empty, and the absence was louder than any affirmation spoken around us.

It’s a strange dissonance—being something so deeply and yet having no visible proof of it for the world to see.

With Jadon, the ache returned, familiar and sharp. We had lived in the hope of holding our child by the time spring came again, only for that hope to unravel before Christmas of 2023. Once more, Mother’s Day approached not as a celebration, but as a reminder.

A reminder of what should have been.

And perhaps what made it even harder were the everyday interactions—the well-meaning questions from strangers, the casual assumptions:

“Do you have kids?”
“Are you planning to?”
“You’d better not wait too long.”

Brutal.

Not because people intended harm, but because they had no way of seeing the story we were already carrying.

And then… this year.

This year was different.

This year was beautiful.

And still—bittersweet.

Because for the first time, I got to watch my wife step fully into something she has long been: a mother with a child in her arms, not just in her heart. I saw her hold, nurture, comfort, and celebrate in a way she has dreamed about for years. There was a quiet joy in it, a sacred kind of fulfillment that doesn’t need to be loud to be overwhelming.

It was everything we had hoped for.

And yet, it did not erase where we have been.

Joy and grief are not opposites. They coexist. They make space for one another. Even on a day filled with laughter and celebration, there were still echoes—names we carry, faces we imagine, lives that changed us forever. Davian and Jadon were not absent from this Mother’s Day. If anything, they were present in a different, deeper way. They are part of the reason this day means what it does now.

And that’s what I keep coming back to.

Because while this year, we were given the gift of experiencing Mother’s Day in a way we had long prayed for, I am deeply aware that not everyone will receive that same answer.

There are mothers who will wake up to silence.

There are women who ache with the desire to be mothers, wondering if that day will ever come.

There are families navigating loss so fresh it still takes their breath away.

And just because their arms are empty… does not mean they are unseen.

They are mothers.

They are becoming.

They are grieving.

They are hoping.

And they matter.

So as much as this Mother’s Day held beauty for us—and it truly did—it also carried a weight of remembrance and a call to gentleness. To see beyond what is visible. To speak with care. To honor stories we may never fully understand.

Because this day is not one-size-fits-all.

It never has been.

And maybe the most meaningful way to hold it is this:

To celebrate loudly where there is joy.
To sit quietly where there is sorrow.
And to recognize that both belong here.

This year, I got to watch my wife be an earthside mother.

And it was beautiful.

But I will never forget the years when she was a mother in ways the world could not see.

And for every woman still walking that road—

You are not forgotten.

That rythme in the distance,

The sound that echos across

Plains

Mountains

Cultures

Countries

Time itself

The drums quicken

Always thumping in rhythm

Never ceasing, only dampened until

Crescendo

The drums are beating in tune once more

Constantly knocking at your doors —

The noise is strong, the call is proud

The drums are pulsing in time

With your heartbeat now

The tyrants seat on a pile of bones

We the people, know no throne

The winds are changing

The emotion has shifted

The people’s voice will once again be

Lifted.

Take up your own

And join the beat

For a people’s freedom through revolution

Will never know defeat.