Thanks to the 313 of you reading across 42 states and 22 countries. I’m grateful you’re here.

Here’s what’s been on my mind this week...

“Don’t be such a hardhead.”

If I were to count the number of times my father told me that, I’d need more than my hands and feet.

I’m confident it’s something his father said to him often as well.

It turns out us Trice men have a streak of stubbornness that has survived multiple generations.

It’s why you might get to the bottom of this week’s post and think, I could swear he’s written about this before.

I have.

And I probably will again.

Some lessons I apparently need to learn over and over.

Lately, it’s been the value of time.

These last few weeks, I’ve felt it slipping away.

I still get the same 24 hours you do, but I’m now three weeks into being a middle school dad. That means a new 30-minute commute every morning and afternoon, followed by a couple hours of homework most evenings.

At the same time, work is picking back up, resulting in an Outlook calendar that looks like a failed game of Tetris. Or Block Blast, for you Millennials.

At first, it all felt a little overwhelming.

But then something shifted.

The less free time I had, the more intentional I became about the time I did have.

I guess that’s where the hard head comes into play.

I needed time to be taken away before I finally began to understand what a gift it is.

That 30-minute commute?

It has become one of my favorite parts of the day.

Lila and I talk. We sing. Occasionally we dance. We listen to Percy Jackson on Audible. Sometimes we simply sit quietly together before the day begins or before the onslaught of homework and chores waiting for us at home.

I’ve realized it’s okay to skip my typical morning routine and sit on the couch with a cup of coffee and visit with Lacey, so we don’t become two ships passing in the night.

I’ve realized the gift of waking early and enjoying a moonlit walk to a soundtrack of crickets singing just for me.

As Mr. Cushman reminds us in the poem above:

“I will catch whispers, Lord, from thee.”

Maybe that’s what I’ve been learning.

To catch the whispers.

There is something beautifully upside down about the way God works. Life started speeding up, and somehow it taught me to slow down.

Scarcity made me pay attention.

And maybe that lesson goes beyond how I spend my mornings or my commute.

I think that’s part of why I keep coming back to Matthew 25.

Jesus tells us that when we care for the hungry, the sick, the stranger, the person in need, we are caring for him.

How many times have I been moving too quickly to notice?

How many times have I looked past the face of Jesus because I was already thinking about the next place I needed to be?

Again, my fingers and toes won’t suffice.

Maybe slowing down isn’t really about having more time.

Maybe it’s about being fully present in the time we’ve been given.

Catching whispers.

Noticing the beauty surrounding us.

Looking another person in the eyes long enough to really see them.

Listening long enough to really hear them.

Being present long enough to remind them that they matter.

Turns out this hardhead is still learning.

Wishing you a wonderful weekend filled with whispers from thee.

Until next time,

Stay grateful,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)

P.S. If you’d like to support my writing, you can always buy this Grati-Dude a cup of coffee. ☕️ Either way, thanks for coming along for the ride.

Thanks for reading. I’m especially grateful to share this one with you.

Here’s what’s been on my mind this week.

When I was a child, I spent hours in my backyard with a plastic bat and a tennis ball, tossing the ball into the air and hitting it over and over again.

In my head, I played out hundreds of scenarios, most of which ended with the Houston Astros winning Game 7 of the World Series in dramatic fashion. The voice of legendary broadcaster Milo Hamilton served as narrator.

I guess you could say baseball was my first love.

It’s a love I return to often.

There is something calming about having a baseball game on in the background. Simply hearing the sounds through the TV allows me to travel to the ballpark in my mind. The pop of the mitt, the cleats digging into the dirt, the organ playing.

Baseball has given me so much.

I spent most nights in the front yard playing catch with my Dad and hundreds of hours in the car traveling to games with my Mom. Most of our vacations were centered around baseball. Checking out the Major League ballpark in the city we happened to be traveling to, going to spring training to watch the Astros, seeing the old Yankee Stadium before it was torn down.

These memories are great, but they don’t compare to the greatest gift baseball gave me.

This weekend I am traveling back to Houston to spend time with my friends.

Friends I met in Little League. Friends for over 40 years.

Our friendships were forged in the dirt between first and third base, in the dugout, and on bus rides to out-of-town tournaments. We thought we were playing a game, but the game gave us something far greater than a season of memories.

These friends eventually all ended up at the same college. Pitcher, catcher, shortstop, third base, outfield … we were halfway to fielding our own team. But despite childhood dreams of playing in the Major Leagues one day, reality sunk in. There were no more games to play.

Thirty years after our last game together, I still call these guys my teammates. And this weekend, I get to be with them again.

We’ll share old war stories over some Tex-Mex and talk about the way things used to be. We’ll talk about our kids, about how fast it goes, and compare odd injuries and ailments.

And I can’t wait.

These guys have been there for more than the good stuff.

When my Dad passed, they showed up.

Words didn’t need to be said. Like a baseball game playing quietly in the background, their presence calmed me. The same way they backed me up on the field all those years ago, they showed up when I needed them most.

As I sit in the airport on my layover, I type this with a full heart. One that is overflowing with gratitude for the gift that baseball gave me.

Having one true friend in this life is a gift.

I got a whole team.

A team that has always shown up for me.

As my Dad would say, “I’m a lucky duck.”

Until next time,

Stay grateful,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)

P.S. I picked my pencil back up this week and started with these 5 prompts.

There is something magical about the pencil hitting the paper. Drawing forces me to slow down, to be present, and to reflect on the incredible goodness in my life.

These little reflections are now being read in 40 states, which is absolutely wild to me.

Thank you for reading, sharing, and helping this small community of grateful people continue to grow.

Here’s what’s been on my mind this week.

After a long week of tackling a never-ending to-do list, navigating Lila’s first full week of middle school, and dealing with the usual life chaos, our family was ready for the weekend.

I made dinner, which meant a trip to Publix for frozen pizza and Ben & Jerry’s.

Gordon Ramsay I am not.

We’re usually a Screamin’ Sicilian or DiGiorno family, but another brand caught my eye. It reminded me of when Lila was little.

When she was three or four, we used to buy her small, personal Home Run Inn pizzas. She loved them. I loved them too, mostly because she never finished the crust and would hand it to me.

So when I saw a full-sized version, I grabbed it.

It made for a simple Friday night dinner as we finished watching the new Little House on the Prairie on Netflix.

Halfway through the meal, Lila looked up and said, “This is so good. It tastes like Texas.”

Lacey and I looked at each other and smiled.

Texas was a big chapter in our lives, but Lila was only in first grade when we moved to North Carolina. Sometimes I wonder what she remembers, and what she only knows through our stories.

But in that moment, it was clear she still carries something from that place.

We all do.

I carry pieces of Arkansas, Texas, and now North Carolina with me in memories, habits, friendships, and the things I miss without always knowing why.

North Carolina is home now, and we’re building a life and memories here that matter deeply. But it doesn’t replace what came before. It adds to it.

We don’t just move on from places. We collect them.

Next weekend, I get to return to one of mine.

I’m heading to Texas to spend time with friends I met playing Little League nearly 40 years ago. There’s something about being with people who have known you that long that makes a place feel like home again.

Maybe that’s why Lila’s comment stayed with me. Before I even packed a bag, a slice of pizza had already taken me there.

The places we’ve lived don’t stay behind us.

They come with us.

And I’m grateful for every place that has shaped me.

What about you?

What places have shaped you, and how do they still show up in your life today?

Leave a comment

Until next time,

Stay grateful,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)

Welcome back! I took a short break in July, and it was good for my soul. It gave me a chance to slow down, pay attention, and do a little thinking.

While I was away, another fun thing happened.

The Grati-Dude Diaries quietly crossed 300 subscribers.

Thank you for reading, sharing these reflections, and encouraging me along the way. I’m grateful you’re here.

So…here’s what’s been on my mind lately.

Gratitude as Stewardship

I’m grateful for little epiphanies.

Over the last couple of years, as I’ve tried to pay closer attention to gratitude, there have been moments when a lesson just refuses to let go. Recently, I had one of those moments.

Someone I love made an offhand comment that hit me the wrong way.

Normally, I would replay it over and over, letting it steal far more of my attention than it deserved.

But this time something was different.

I caught myself and asked, How long do I want to stay in this place?

The comment wasn’t meant to hurt me. The person had no idea how it landed, and the truth is it wouldn’t matter in five years, five days, or even five minutes.

So why was it taking up space in my brain?

That’s when it hit me.

My gratitude journey has taught me that every minute is a gift. Time is our most valuable resource, and every minute I spend dwelling on something that doesn’t matter is a minute I can’t spend enjoying the gift I’ve been given.

Deep, genuine gratitude reminds us to steward our time well.

It doesn’t waste minutes on things that don’t matter.

Time is a gift.

Steward it well.

Thanks for spending a few minutes with me today.

If this reflection sparked a thought, I’d love to hear it. Just hit reply. I read every message.

Until next time,

Stay grateful,

Jason

P.S. Lila and I ordered new art sets, so I’m hoping to start drawing again. Stay tuned. 😀

Last year, Lila and I started an annual tradition of performing a father-daughter choreographed dance together. If you’d like, you can compare this year’s performance to last year’s and let me know if my dance skills have improved.

I love these little moments and feel so grateful that God has given me the gift of being Lila’s dad.

I’m also grateful for each of you who reads The Grati-Dude Diaries and has encouraged me on this writing and gratitude journey. I love this little corner of the internet we’re creating together.

In an effort to unplug, I’m taking the month of July off from Substack. I’ll still be writing and practicing daily gratitude—I just won’t be sharing it here for a few weeks.

I’ve got some writing for work that I need to focus on, and I’m attending my first middle school mission trip in more than ten years. We also have a beach trip planned at the end of the month. With all of that, it feels like the right time to step away for a bit.

I hope you all have a wonderful summer. I’ll see you again in August.

With gratitude,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)

P.S. I had fun rereading this post from almost a year ago. It was written shortly before I started my new job, and it's been a gift to look back and see all the ways God has moved in my life over the last year.

Before we jump into this week’s reflection, I wanted to take a moment to say thank you. What started as a simple writing experiment has now grown to nearly 290 subscribers across 36 states and 22 countries.

That still blows my mind.

Whether you’ve been here since Day 1 or just recently joined the journey, thank you for reading, reflecting, and sharing these thoughts with others. I’m grateful for each of you.

Now, on to this week’s random thoughts...

Random Thoughts Edition

I have a lot of random thoughts bouncing around in my head this week, so instead of trying to force them into a single theme, I thought I would simply share them.

Father’s Day

This is my first Father’s Day without my dad.

I still feel a little numb when I type that sentence.

I know everyone processes grief differently, and I’m not sure I’ve taken the time or the steps needed to fully process my feelings about my dad’s passing. Some days I feel close to him. Other days he feels far away.

This week was one where he felt really close.

The Gift of Being a Dad

One of the reasons I felt so close to my dad this week was because of an experience I shared with Lila.

Our family went to the Forrest Frank concert on Tuesday, and to say it was special would be an understatement. I surprised Lacey and Lila with tickets at Christmas, and we’ve been counting down the days ever since.

The opportunity to worship together as a family in that environment is something I’ll never forget. Throughout the night, I kept peeking over at Lila, and it was one of those moments that made me so grateful to be her dad. She was beaming from ear to ear.

The only other time I remember seeing that kind of joy was when we took her to Disney when she was five years old.

As a dad, there is no better feeling than creating moments of awe for your child.

My parents did the same for me, and I consider it one of the greatest gifts of fatherhood to now share those kinds of moments with her.

Saying Yes

During our Outreach Team meeting this week, we spent some time sharing stories about a friend who passed away a few weeks ago.

As people reflected on his life, I was struck by how many stories came from people who hadn’t known him all that long.

They talked about his kindness, his generosity, and the way he made people feel seen and valued.

At one point, someone mentioned that the only reason she had gotten to know him at all was because she had said yes when she was invited to join the Outreach Team.

It was a simple reminder of what happens when we say yes.

We rarely know where those decisions will lead or whose lives will become intertwined with ours because of them. A committee meeting. A volunteer opportunity. A new class. A conversation with a stranger.

Most of the meaningful relationships in my life didn’t come from some grand plan. They came from small moments when I simply said yes to something I wasn’t expecting.

You never know whose path you’ll cross because of a simple yes.

The Big Rock

I went to the Big Rock fishing tournament in Morehead City, North Carolina, last week.

We stood on the dock as boat after boat came to shore carrying giant fish that were weighed in front of the crowd. The energy on that dock was something special. We had so much fun watching the boats come and go throughout the day.

It struck me how many incredible traditions and events happen all over the country that most of us never even know exist.

If I had stayed in Texas, chances are I would have never heard of the Big Rock tournament. But here in North Carolina, it’s a way of life.

The winner this year reeled in a 919-pound marlin.

That’s not a typo.

The catch earned the team a little over $6.5 million.

Also not a typo.

Catch and Release

After the Big Rock tournament, we decided to do some fishing of our own.

Lila caught one on her very first cast.

Another proud dad moment.

It wasn’t exactly a 919-pound marlin, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Watching all those fish come onto the dock earlier in the week got me thinking.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately reflecting on the power of surrender and open hands. Like the rich fool we looked at last week, the things that pull us away from Jesus aren’t always obvious. Sometimes they slowly creep into our lives and take up residence before we ever stop long enough to notice.

The fishermen at Big Rock were trying to fill their boats.

But what if my spiritual life requires the opposite?

What if the goal is to notice what I’ve hooked and release it before it fills the boat?

I know the metaphor has its flaws. I happen to enjoy eating fish, so throwing them back feels wrong.

But the image stayed with me.

Maybe that’s why daily prayer and scripture matter so much. They help us notice what we’ve been carrying before it takes over. They give us the chance to release it and return to Jesus with open hands.

Because the truth is, drift happens.

The world is constantly offering us things to chase, collect, store, compare, and worry about.

The question isn’t whether we’ll hook those things from time to time.

The question is whether we’ll hold on to them.

Or release them.

Maybe the spiritual life is one long practice of catch and release.

Not because the fish aren’t real.

But because Jesus is better.

Grateful for you,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)

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I think that’s part of what’s happening to me as I revisit the parables I wrote about a year ago.

I’m in week two of revisiting these reflections, and what’s fascinating to me is how much the lens I bring into a story changes what I see.

That’s the power of a good parable.

Ten people in ten different places in life can wrestle with the same story in ten different ways.

Or one person in different seasons can do the same.

A year ago, I read these parables through one set of eyes. Today, I’m reading them through another.

Same story.

Different lens.

(If you missed last week’s reflection on the Pharisee and the Tax Collector, you can find it here.)

This week, I’m sitting with the parable of the rich fool — the man who wanted bigger barns.

(If you’re curious what caught my attention a year ago, you can read my original reflection here.)

The obvious takeaway is about greed. Protect against wanting more. Understand that enough will never be enough. Realize that all we truly need is Jesus.

And while all of that’s true, it’s not what caught my eye this week.

For me, this story feels less like a lesson and more like a mirror.

I’m not exactly in the market for bigger barns right now, but I’m surrounded by metaphorical ones.

Like the farmer, I suspect the problem isn’t just what’s in the barn, but what’s driving the need for a bigger one.

I’ll spare my loyal readers the list of what is currently filling up my metaphorical barns, but let’s just say there is plenty.

Enough to keep my hands full and my mind racing.

The question for me is no longer:

What do I need bigger barns for?

The question is:

How do I stop the cycle?

Because what strikes me about this parable is not just what the man does.

It’s what he never even considers.

The land produces abundantly and his immediate instinct is not generosity, gratitude, or curiosity.

He doesn’t stop to wonder:

Who might need this?

Who could I bless?

What is all of this for?

Giving doesn’t even occur to him.

His instinct is storage.

Protection.

Preservation.

Build bigger barns.

And if I’m honest, that feels painfully familiar.

I firmly believe everyone is being discipled by something or someone.

And maybe my need for bigger barns reveals that the world has a bigger hold on me than I’d like to admit.

Because the world has been preaching the same message for a very long time:

Hold tightly.

Protect yourself.

Move faster.

Secure more.

Don’t let go.

It will never be enough.

And after a while, we stop noticing the story we’re living inside.

We call it wisdom.

Responsibility.

Planning.

Maturity.

But maybe we’ve simply been discipled into hurry and scarcity.

The more I sat with this parable, the more I wondered if my metaphorical barns weren’t just filled with things, but with pace.

I was talking with a colleague recently about a book we both enjoyed about slowing down and living a less hurried life.

A life built around the rhythms Jesus embraced: sabbath, prayer, community, intentionality.

She said she introduced it to a Sunday school class and the people laughed.

The idea of slowing down felt unrealistic.

Naive.

Impossible.

And I get it.

It sounds unrealistic to me too.

But what if that reaction says more about the world we’ve adapted to than the way we were meant to live?

What if the pace we’ve normalized is backwards?

What if exhaustion isn’t faithfulness?

What if hurry isn’t wisdom?

What if bigger barns are simply what we build when we’re scared there won’t be enough?

That we won’t have enough.

That we won’t be enough.

Maybe that’s why this image keeps coming back to me.

It’s me approaching God with clenched fists, asking for the life I desperately want and wondering why I’m unable to receive it.

If I step back, I can almost laugh at how ridiculous I look.

My hands are overflowing with things I’ve convinced myself I need, while asking God for things I no longer have the capacity to hold.

Peace.

Rest.

Joy.

Trust.

An unhurried life.

And that’s the real problem.

Not that God isn’t giving.

But that I’m unable to receive.

I wish I could end this reflection by telling you I finally figured it out.

That I’ve stopped drawing up blueprints for bigger barns.

That I’m no longer clenching my fists desperately holding on to idols.

That slowing down no longer feels risky.

But I’m still wrestling.

I know what I’m supposed to do and somehow struggle to do it.

I feel the pull of a world telling me to hurry, accumulate, secure, and hold tightly.

And that’s why this parable feels less like a story and more like a mirror.

The question I’m left with is no longer, “What are my bigger barns?”

The question now is:

How do I stop the cycle?

How do I come to Jesus with unclenched fists?

Ready to receive a life I keep asking for, but somehow struggle to make room for.

I don’t know the answer.

But waking up each morning and asking the question feels like a good start.

Grateful for you,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)

I was on a call with my writing friends this morning when someone shared that quote.

As soon as I heard it, I thought about the journey I’ve been on these last several weeks, slowly walking through the prayer of Saint Francis.

I laughed as I told them how excited I was to finally finish the prayer that I had intentionally vowed to take slowly. The irony has not been lost on me that I was growing restless with the very pace I had chosen. Somehow, I had become bored by going slow.

I was ready to move on. Ready for something new.

In fact, I already had a June idea I was excited about and was eager to jump into.

Then came the gentle interruption.

Somehow, I ended up rereading a reflection I had written a year ago on one of Jesus’ parables. As I read my own words from 365 days earlier, something surprising happened: the story landed differently this time.

(If you want to see where my head was a year ago, here’s the reflection I wrote back then.)

And that’s when the river quote came back to me.

You really can’t step in the same river twice.

Whether we revisit Scripture a day later or a year later, we are no longer the same person. Life has a way of reshaping us through grief and joy, victories and disappointments, loss and growth. To say a lot has happened in the last year would be an understatement. In many ways, it has been one of the most important years of my life.

But something else struck me too: the power of story.

When we read a parable, it can be tempting to look for the one lesson, the neat takeaway we are supposed to underline and move on from. But His stories are deeper than that.

Yes, they spoke to the people listening two thousand years ago.

But they still speak to us now.

And depending on the season we are in, the wounds we carry, or the questions we are asking, the same story can reveal something entirely different.

So instead of speeding ahead to the next shiny idea, I sensed a still, small voice gently nudging me to keep my foot on the brakes.

Maybe there is more here.

Maybe it’s time to revisit the parables.

The parable I revisited this week was the Pharisee and the tax collector. For a story that takes about 15 seconds to read, it packs quite a punch.

I read it every morning this week and spent some extra time diving into commentaries and reflections.

A year ago, I was focused on the honesty of the tax collector and the pride of the Pharisee.

This time, I found myself wrestling with a couple of different angles.

First, gratitude rooted in comparison.

I have always struggled with the version of gratitude that begins with, “It could be worse.”

I understand that perspective is powerful and can sometimes stir gratitude. But pointing a finger at someone else’s misfortune feels like a dangerous place to begin.

But there was another thread that just kept pulling at me.

After years of reading this parable, I have discovered I am more like the Pharisee than I care to admit. And not for the reasons you might think.

I certainly struggle with pride, but this week, as I was reading the parable, I found myself praying a Pharisee-like prayer.

Only instead of saying, “Thank God I’m not a sinner like the tax collector,” I found myself thinking, “Thank God I’m not prideful like the Pharisee.”

And then it hit me.

Somehow, I had flipped the whole thing around and found myself taking pride in the fact that I am not full of pride.

I feel like I am really feeling Paul right now in Romans 7 when he says, “I want to do what is right, but I can’t.”

What I am realizing is there is a whole lot of Pharisee in me.

But there is also a whole lot of tax collector.

We humans are complicated.

As the week moved on, and I continued sitting with this parable, the same image that kept surfacing while I was reflecting on the prayer of Saint Francis returned:

Open hands.

For me, this parable reminds me that there is only one way to approach God in prayer.

Not with comparison.

Not with performance.

Not with polished words.

But with surrender.

Open hands.

Like the tax collector, I want to be honest with God.

But honesty begins with acknowledging there is still more Pharisee in me than I would like to admit.

With open hands,

Jason
(The Grati-Dude)

Most high, glorious God,
enlighten the darkness of my heart,
and give me, Lord, correct faith,
firm hope,
perfect charity,
wisdom and perception,
that I may do what is truly your most holy will.

The older I get, the more I notice that people nearing the end of life tend to say similar things.

You don’t have to search very hard to find studies on people’s dying wishes.

Again and again, those facing the end of life say things like:

I wish I had spent more time with the people I love.

I wish I had invested more in relationships.

I wish I had worried less about work and stress and spent more time actually living.

Despite hearing this over and over, we still struggle to let go of distractions.

Somehow, even with years of evidence telling us what matters most, we continue to fill our lives with things that, when reality hits, suddenly feel a lot less important.

This week, as we close Francis’s prayer about following God’s will, we come to the line about wisdom and perception.

Worldly wisdom helps us value things that, in the end, do not mean much.

Years of evidence remind us that money, status, and success do not last. Yet we still find ourselves living in a world that puts those things first.

Using the “Kingdom goggles” metaphor from last week, we begin to understand that God takes the world’s wisdom and flips it upside down.

We see this in the Beatitudes.

We see it in the people Jesus befriended.

And most importantly, we see it in the way He lived His life, coming to earth not to be served, but to serve.

A brief look at Francis’s life tells us he lived in an upside-down way. After experiencing a life of wealth and status, he stripped away much of what the world told him was valuable and pursued a relationship with Christ.

Perhaps it was this prayer that helped keep him pointed in the right direction.

The prayer closes with:

“That I may do what is truly your most holy will.”

I’ve spent six weeks in this prayer and much longer wrestling with God and His will.

If I’m honest, the path to a life with God has been laid out before me time and time again.

It’s in Scripture.

It’s in each line of this prayer.

And it’s modeled in the life of Jesus.

Yet I still struggle.

I’m guessing you probably do too.

For me, acknowledging how susceptible I am to the ways of this world feels like a good place to start.

I used to have a baseball coach who said, “When you’re down by eight, remember, you can’t hit a nine-run home run.”

A comeback starts with one person getting on base.

Maybe following Jesus works the same way.

Maybe it starts by praying this prayer each morning.

Maybe, like Francis, I need to climb a little higher and begin prioritizing solitude and prayer, acknowledging that my inability to spend even five quiet minutes in His presence says something about the weight this world carries.

But maybe recognizing that is also the beginning of being healed from it.

My goal is simple: take small, faithful steps toward Jesus.

Less overthinking.

More trust.

Love God, and love others.

As we wrap up this prayer, I wanted to share the full journey of drawings from the past six weeks.

My guess is this won't end up in an art gallery anytime soon, but the process of drawing and thinking through this prayer was extremely helpful.

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

What does wisdom and perception mean to you?

Have a great week!

With gratitude,
Jason (The Grati-Dude)

If this is your first week with us, we’ve been going through a prayer from St. Francis line by line.

Most high, glorious God,
enlighten the darkness of my heart,
and give me, Lord, correct faith,
firm hope,
perfect charity,
wisdom and perception,
that I may do what is truly your most holy will.

I spent this week thinking about perfect charity.

Each week the line I’m focused on feels like the most important. This week was no different. I guess that’s the sign of a good prayer.

When I first read the word charity, I realized Francis means something deeper than generosity.

To clarify what Francis means, I’ve included a quote from Conversations with St. Francis.

“But charity derives from a Greek word meaning love, grace, free mercy.”

— James C. Howell

We make life a lot harder than it needs to be.

Don’t get me wrong. It definitely gets hard sometimes, but a lot of the hardness is self-inflicted.

We act like God’s will is a magic formula or secret code that only a select few are able to crack.

Up, down, up, down, left, right, left…

If you know, you know.

But I think one of the things Francis is trying to say is that it doesn’t have to be that difficult.

Let me rephrase that.

Francis isn’t saying it’s easy. He’s saying the path has already been modeled for us.

Years ago, when I was in student ministry, we had a camp where we talked about “Kingdom goggles.”

The idea was to think about the lens we use to view the world. Kingdom goggles use a lens that says, “Love God, and love others.”

With that lens, God’s will feels less like a puzzle.

It may not be easy to do, but it does make it easier to figure out if I’m doing His “most holy will.”

But what about the perfect part? How can I love perfectly?

Thankfully, I don’t have to do it on my own. That’s where the Holy Spirit comes in.

My job is to recognize that every person put in my path is an opportunity to show love. An opportunity to see the face of Jesus in others, especially those who are hurting, and to offer the same love that was graciously offered to me.

That feels like a good place to start.

Here is my drawing for the week.

“Love is the key”

I’d love to hear your thoughts. What does perfect charity mean to you?

Leave a comment

Have a great week!

With gratitude,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)

Thanks for reading The Grati-Dude Diaries.

I write about faith, family, and life through a lens of gratitude.

Most of these are notes to myself, written to remember and to remind.

Glad you’re here.

If you missed the last post, you can catch up here.

I’m slowly working my way through this prayer from Saint Francis of Assisi, sitting with each line and letting it speak in its own time.

Most high, glorious God,
enlighten the darkness of my heart,
and give me, Lord,
correct faith,
firm hope,
perfect charity,
wisdom and perception,
that I may do what is truly your most holy will.

We’re now on week four of this prayer, and I continue to be surprised by how much these lines seem to meet me exactly where I am.

One of the things I’m learning in this season is the power of going slow.

To process.

To focus.

To sit with something long enough for it to actually shape me.

That feels increasingly difficult in a world constantly pulling us in a thousand directions. There are always more things to read, more opportunities to chase, more noise demanding our attention. Even good things can become distractions.

Interestingly, this same theme keeps showing up in my life.

At work, we’ve been talking a lot about focus. About what it means to do fewer things, but go deeper. To stop trying to hold onto everything at once and instead discern what matters most.

And I’ve noticed the same struggle in my spiritual life.

There are a thousand good things I could pick up. A thousand ideas I want to pursue. But somewhere along the way, I’ve realized that constantly reaching for more leaves me unable to receive what is already in front of me.

That is part of why this prayer has felt so refreshing.

By slowing down and taking one line at a time, I’ve found myself paying attention again.

And if you are reading this feeling overwhelmed, distracted, or stretched thin, I want to gently encourage you to try this prayer for yourself. Start at the beginning. Sit with one line for a week.

Don’t rush.

I think you’ll be surprised by what begins to surface.

This week I felt myself drawn back to week one and the first line of the prayer.

“Most high, glorious God…”

I was struck by Saint Francis’ habit of climbing higher into the mountains when he sought solitude, almost as if he felt closer to God there.

Last week, my family and I spent time in the mountains, and once again, God had a funny way of reinforcing what I’ve been learning.

Something shifted in me.

Maybe it was the stillness.

Maybe it was the beauty.

Or maybe it was simply the reminder that creation slows us down enough to notice.

Standing there, surrounded by mountains, I found myself struck by how rarely we pause long enough to truly see.

To see beauty.

To see goodness.

To see Jesus in the faces of those around us.

We move so quickly that we become blind to wonder.

The timing of that realization did not feel accidental.

So before diving into this week’s line, here’s a quick recap of where we’ve been so far:

Most high, glorious God
Prayer starts by acknowledging that God is God and we are not.

Enlighten the darkness of my heart
God’s light shows us where to go one faithful step at a time.

Give me correct faith
We begin to receive the things God wants to give us once we release the things we were never meant to hold.

Give Me Firm Hope

Last week, I drew a pair of open hands to symbolize releasing the things I place my faith in that were never meant to carry the weight of my identity.

The open hands became a picture of surrender.

But as I sat with this week’s line, I realized I’m still holding onto that image.

Because maybe hope begins there too.

When our hope is in Jesus, we begin to trust the gifts God places in our hands instead of constantly chasing the ones the world tells us we need.

To build on the image of the open hands, I drew an anchor. Maybe hope is what keeps us steady enough to keep our hands open, trusting God even when we cannot yet see where the road leads.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about what it means to have hope in a world that often feels hopeless.

And the thing that keeps standing out to me is this:

Hope gives me courage.

Hope gives me confidence to try the things I’ve been too afraid to attempt.

When I connect this back to understanding God’s will for my life, it begins to feel less like solving a puzzle and more like faithfully responding to God’s love.

I don’t have to know the outcome.

I don’t have to guarantee success.

I don’t have to prove myself.

I simply have to trust and respond.

Because firm hope reminds me that my security was never supposed to come from results.

In a world obsessed with outcomes, Jesus has already secured the outcome that matters most.

And somehow, that gives me freedom.

Freedom to risk.

Freedom to fail.

Freedom to try.

Freedom to become who God created me to be.

I’ll see you next week!

With gratitude,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)

Thanks for reading The Grati-Dude Diaries.

I write about faith, family, and life through a lens of gratitude.

Most of these are notes to myself, written to remember and to remind.

Glad you’re here.

If you missed the last post, you can catch up here.

I’m slowly working my way through this prayer from Saint Francis of Assisi, sitting with each line and letting it speak in its own time.

Give Me Correct Faith

I have been sitting with this line from St. Francis for the past few days:

“Give me, Lord, correct faith.”

Francis begins with open hands.

“Give me.”

Before he asks for correct faith, he acknowledges that faith itself is a gift from God.

That feels important.

Because if faith is something given, then it is also something that must be received with open hands.

And maybe that is part of the struggle.

Maybe the problem is not that I lack faith.

Maybe it’s that I often place my faith in the wrong things and I hold on to them with clenched fists.

My job.
My pride.
My salary.
My status.
What people think of me.

The list goes on forever.

At this point in my life, I feel like I should be past all of that.

But maybe that says something about the gravitational pull these things have on us.

False idols rarely announce themselves as idols.

Most of the time they disguise themselves as security, success, comfort, or significance.

And slowly, without realizing it, we begin trusting them instead of relying on God.

So when my faith in God feels weak, maybe it is not because I am low on faith altogether.

Maybe it is because I have redirected it somewhere else.

Francis reminds us that open hands aren’t passive.

They require us to release the things we were never meant to cling to in the first place.

Pride.

Control.

Image.

Security.

All the things we quietly trust more than God.

But open hands do more than release.

They also make it possible to receive.

Once my hands are no longer gripping pride, fear, image, or control, they become open to receive God’s gift of faith.

When I take this line back to the larger prayer of St. Francis, I notice something beautiful.

Francis is not simply asking for faith so he can feel spiritually secure. He is asking for correct faith so he can do God’s will.

That changes everything.

Correct faith is not merely believing the right things about God. It is trusting Him enough to loosen our grip on everything else.

Maybe faith begins there.

Not with certainty.
Not with perfection.
But with open hands.

I’ll see you next week!

With gratitude,
Jason (The Grati-Dude)

Thanks for reading The Grati-Dude Diaries.

I write about faith, family, and life through a lens of gratitude.

Most of these are notes to myself, written to remember and to remind.

Glad you’re here.

Enlighten the darkness of my heart…

If you missed the last post, you can catch up here.

I’m slowly working my way through this prayer from Saint Francis of Assisi, sitting with each line and letting it speak in its own time.

I’ve been sitting with the second line of this prayer for two weeks now.

In Francis’ prayer, he is seeking the will of God.
And this line brings up one of my biggest struggles with prayer.

I’m impatient.
I don’t like uncertainty.

I want to see the whole picture at once.
Show me where I’m going so I can make a plan and find the most efficient way to get there.

But God’s will is a lot of things.
Efficient is not one of them.

The prayer begins by acknowledging who God is.
“Most high and glorious God…”

Then we invite Him into our hearts.
Our dark hearts.

Now we acknowledge who we are.
Our sin, our limitations, our need for light.

But instead of flipping a light switch, God uses something more like a dimmer.

We want full brightness.
He gives us something slower.

Not because He is holding back,
but because He is forming something.

We think we want it all at once.
But our Father has a better plan.

One that unfolds slowly,
requires faith,
and works not because we can see the whole picture,
but because we cannot.

When I read this prayer, I picture a candle.

A small flame illuminating the dark places of my heart.

Sometimes the candle sits on a table.
Sometimes I carry it.

There’s no calendar.
No sense of hurry.

Just me and God
wrestling,
laughing,
crying.

We want God’s will to be obvious.
We want a loud, booming voice.

But I’m not sure we would recognize it.
And even if we did, we might dismiss it as too good to be true.

So instead of focusing on where the light is shining,
our eyes drift to the edges
just beyond it
where we cannot see.

This prayer pulls me back.

Back to the light.

Because this place,
the place that was once dark,
is where God is already at work.

It’s where growth happens.

Not when I can see everything,
but when I stop trying to.

And learn to trust Him
one faithful step at a time.

Verses to Consider

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”
— Psalm 119:105

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9

“Give us this day our daily bread.”
— Matthew 6:11

One question I’m asking

What would it look like to trust the light you’ve been given today?

Before you go

Thank you to everyone who has supported Lila and me in raising money for Refugee Hope Partners. It truly means so much to us.

Race day is tomorrow! If you’ve been thinking about contributing, this is your last chance to be part of it.

If you’ve been encouraged by The Grati-Dude Diaries, I’m currently raising support for Refugee Hope Partners here in Raleigh by running their 5K in May. It’s a great organization doing incredible work with refugee families in our community. If you feel led to contribute, I’d be grateful.

That’s all for this week. Thanks for reading and know that I am grateful for you.

With gratitude,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)

Thanks for reading The Grati-Dude Diaries.

I write about faith, family, and life through a lens of gratitude.

Most of these are notes to myself, written to remember and to remind.

Glad you’re here.

A Slower Start

I’ve heard St. Francis of Assisi referenced for years, but I’ve never taken the time to really look into his life.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend recommended a book, and now I’m officially down a St. Francis rabbit hole.

I’ve decided this isn’t something I want to rush through.

So I’m taking it slow.

I’m not great at taking things slow… so we’ll see how this goes.

The Prayer

To start, I want to spend some time with one of his prayers that I referenced last week:

Most high, glorious God,
enlighten the darkness of my heart,
and give me, Lord,
correct faith,
firm hope,
perfect charity,
wisdom and perception,
that I may do what is truly your most holy will.

In the spirit of going slow, I’m going to take one line each week.

That means we’re starting with just four words:

“Most high, glorious God.”

Starting in the Right Place

My first thought is that Francis is reminding us that prayer begins with God.

Seems obvious.

But I often forget.

If I’m honest, I tend to walk into prayer the same way I might walk into someone’s office at work… launching straight into what I need without really acknowledging who I’m talking to.

It’s not intentional.

But it does reveal something about my posture.

Me, myself, and I.

Often, I bring my agenda to God without ever slowing down enough to remember who He is.

Why Did Francis Climb?

In Conversations with St. Francis by James C. Howell, the author notes that Francis would often climb to higher places before he prayed.

He slept under the stars.

He was captivated by the sky.

In a world that seems to only speed up, Francis reminds us to slow down.

Now, I don’t think climbing a mountain gets you physically closer to God.

But I do wonder what it did to Francis’ perspective.

Living near mountains, I’ve felt that shift.

You get higher, you look out, and something changes.

The noise quiets.

Things feel smaller.

God feels… bigger.

Coming Back Down the Mountain

But here’s the part I don’t want to miss.

The same God we notice on the mountain is the same God who meets us when we come back down.

His glory surrounds us.

But most of us are too distracted to notice.

Earbuds in.
Podcast on.
Traffic backed up.
To-do list running nonstop.

And slowly, we lose sight of our most high, glorious God.

If We Don’t Have a Mountain

So what do we do if we don’t have a mountain nearby?

I think Psalm 8 gives us a good place to start.

Howell suggests Francis likely knew it by heart and may have recited it under the stars.

What I love about Psalm 8 is this:

It reminds us that we don’t just see God’s glory in the heavens…

We see it in people too.

We are created and loved by God.

His glory surrounds us.

Whether we’re standing on a mountaintop or sitting next to another distracted human being, reminders of His goodness are everywhere.

This Week’s Invitation

So for me, this first line of the prayer is simple:

Slow down.
Look around.
Acknowledge who God is.

Before the requests.
Before the distractions.
Before the next thing.

Just begin with:

“Most high, glorious God.”

The Drawing

I’m picking up my sketch pad again and drawing my way through this prayer.

Here’s this week’s Grati-Square:

I’m excited to see how this unfolds over the next several weeks.

If you want to join me, feel free to pray this prayer slowly, one line at a time.

Thanks for stopping by.
See you next week.

Grateful,
Jason
(The Grati-Dude)

P.S. If you’ve been encouraged by The Grati-Dude Diaries, I’m currently raising support for Refugee Hope Partners here in Raleigh by running their 5K in May. It’s a great organization doing incredible work with refugee families in our community. If you feel led to contribute, I’d be grateful.

P.P.S. 4 of you made pledges last week and we are now up to $310. Woohoo! From the bottom of my heart, thank you!

Thanks for reading The Grati-Dude Diaries.

I write about faith, family, and life through a lens of gratitude.

Most of these are notes to myself, written to remember and to remind.

Glad you’re here.

Yesterday morning I dropped the car off at the repair shop and walked to Main Street. (I love saying that.)

I stopped at a local breakfast spot for a country ham biscuit and grits.

This is a rare treat. I don’t always eat breakfast, and this place only takes cash.

But I happened to have a $10 bill in my pocket and a craving for a biscuit, so it felt like the universe was guiding my steps as I opened the door to the cafe.

I was already in a good mood.

Then I took a bite of the biscuit.

Fluffy. Salty. Perfect.

Something in me shifted.

Next up: the grits.

The butter was slowly disappearing as it melted in. A few dashes of Texas Pete’s. A quick stir.

I took a bite.

I’ve become something of a grits connoisseur since moving to North Carolina, and I can confidently say…

These were some good grits.

But that’s not really the point.

After my last bite, I got up to throw away my trash and head home.

And then something stopped me.

I felt this nudge to tell the cook how good the food was.

So I walked over to the counter and waited for him to look up.

When he did, the whole room felt quiet.

“I just wanted to let you know… that’s the best thing I’ve eaten all week.”
(“Don’t tell my wife.”)

And then I saw it.

His face lit up.
A full ear-to-ear grin.

He made a fist and went straight for a fist bump.

Other people nearby began to smile and watch our interaction.

He told me to have a great day, and I walked out of the restaurant with a smile I couldn’t shake.

It was such a small thing.

A split-second decision to offer a simple compliment.

And it shifted something.

In me.
In him.
Maybe even in the room.

And it left me wondering…

Why?

Why was it even a decision?

Why do I so often hold back encouragement?

Why isn’t my default to build people up?

Why don’t I try to leave every place, every person, just a little better than I found them?

Maybe that’s the invitation.

To stop overthinking it.
To stop holding it in.

To give the encouragement.
To say the thing.
To notice and respond.

Because maybe those small moments
are bigger than we think.

Grateful,
Jason (The Grati-Dude)

P.S. If you’ve been encouraged by The Grati-Dude Diaries, I’m currently raising support for Refugee Hope Partners here in Raleigh by running their 5K in May. It’s a great organization doing incredible work with refugee families in our community. If you feel led to contribute, I’d be grateful.

P.P.S. My goal this week is to get 10 $10 pledges.

P.P.P.S. Bad news: my training has stalled.
Good news: I picked up a new training partner this week. Lila will be joining me for the race. I’ll share her fundraising page soon… but I want to build a comfortable lead first 🙂

P.P.P.P.S. If you’re still reading, I’m impressed.
I’ve been reading Conversations with St. Francis by James C. Howell, and it has my attention. I think it may shape the next few weeks of what I’m writing about here.
Next week, I want to share a prayer… and maybe pick up my colored pencils again and draw my way through it. Stay tuned.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Tell someone they’re awesome today.

Thanks for reading The Grati-Dude Diaries.

Lately, I’ve been writing letters to my dad. I didn’t plan to, it just kind of started happening.

It’s become a way of remembering, processing, and staying connected.

Here is the latest one.

Hey Dad,

Yesterday was Easter.

I took Ollie for a walk at 5:00 in the morning. It was pitch dark, the only light coming from a full moon breaking through a cloudy sky.

Ollie and I were the only signs of life in the neighborhood. It’s the first time in a while I’ve woken up before the birds.

I found myself wondering what the disciples must have been thinking when they woke up that Sunday morning, before discovering the empty tomb.

When I got back home, I sat down with Ollie on the swing under the carport. A light wind began to blow, stirring the wind chimes a friend gave me to remember you.

It felt like you were saying good morning. Maybe more.

I don’t know why it felt so strong, but it felt more significant than other times.

Dad, I’ve felt you so close to me over the last month. It’s like every conversation, every interaction, every moment we shared has gone from distant memory to instant recall.

I’ve been talking to you constantly, and it feels like I’ve gained something I can’t fully explain. I was telling Lacey and Lila the other day, the way we talk reminds me of the relationship I’ve always wanted to have with Jesus.

One where we talk throughout the entire day. No filter. No shame.

It’s made me wonder.

Maybe I am talking to Jesus.

Or maybe it’s you teaching me how to pray.

Either way, I’m learning to be okay with not fully understanding it.

I think I just came here to say thank you.

I love you.

I miss you, but at the same time, I’ve never felt closer.

Talk soon,

Love,
Jason

P.S. If you’ve been encouraged by The Grati-Dude Diaries, I’m currently raising support for Refugee Hope Partners here in Raleigh by running their 5K in May. It’s a great organization doing incredible work with refugee families in our community. If you feel led to contribute, I’d be grateful.

Dear Dad,

Gratitude is the theme of the week.

I sat in church last night and felt overwhelmed.

This week always overwhelms me.

We had a beautiful Maundy Thursday service. I sat in the pew, staring at the stained glass, and just thought… who am I?
Who am I that Jesus would lay down his life for me?

As the service ended, I watched members of the congregation slowly walk out of the sanctuary in awe and silence. One of them patted me on the back as he passed, and it snapped me out of my daze.

I know what Jesus saved me from.
But in that moment, I began to feel grateful for what he saved me for.

I started thinking back over the last year. The road that led me to the back pew of a 90-year-old Methodist church.

For the past few years, I’ve ducked, dodged, and run from a call to ministry. With each successful evasion, the call came back stronger.

And while I still don’t have the hindsight to understand why I ended up where I did, I sat there beaming with gratitude.

I’m grateful that He never gives up on me.

Like the persistent widow, He keeps knocking.

Taking this job felt a million miles outside my comfort zone. There have been moments where I’ve wondered if He picked the wrong guy.

But a couple of days ago, I got a message from an old student.

He was there during my first year of ministry, back when I felt, once again, out of my depth and completely unqualified, but said yes anyway. He told me he gave his life to Jesus three and a half years ago and thanked me for the role I played.

And as I read his message, I couldn’t help but think… he helped me just as much. Back then, God used him to grow my confidence when I needed it most. And now, years later, He used him again to encourage me right when I needed it.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, I began to thank Jesus.

I thanked Him for taking an unqualified, uncomfortable, awkward introvert and using him anyway.
I thanked Him for bringing me back to ministry, even though I fought it every step of the way.

This is where He’s called me.

And if I’m willing, this is where He’s going to use me.

If I trust Him… and get out of the way.

Dad, I can’t believe it.

How do I not wake up every morning and pinch myself?
How do I miss the beauty of this life and the gift of each day?

I digress. That’s for another day.

Because today, I’m not taking it for granted.

Today, I’m trusting Him.

I have no reason not to.

Happy Easter, Dad.

Talk soon,
Jason

P.S. If you’ve been encouraged by The Grati-Dude Diaries, I’m currently raising support for Refugee Hope Partners here in Raleigh by running their 5K in May. It’s a great organization doing incredible work with refugee families in our community. If you feel led to contribute, I’d be grateful.

Today marks one month since you passed.

I’ve had a hard time writing, which is usually how I process what I’m feeling. But for some reason, talking to you feels easier. So I’ve decided to keep the letters coming for now.

People keep telling me that grief will come and go. And they’re right. There are definitely days when losing you feels heavier than others.

One of the patterns in my life is that good things feel strong in the moment.
Memories, accomplishments, celebrations.

But as time passes, they begin to fade.

That’s why I want to spend some time reflecting on your service last week.

I know you will always be with me, but I don’t want the gratitude I felt that day to fade. I want to remember every single day how fortunate I was to have you as my dad.

There were friends from every part of your life who showed up. College roommates, best friends, JCPenney coworkers, Ponca City friends, and so many from Houston and Georgetown.

It meant so much to see how many lives you touched.

Brian and I were surrounded by so many of our own friends too, which is a testament to the way you and Mom raised us.

I got to spend time with some of my buddies I hadn’t seen in a while, and it filled my soul. I felt so loved.

And then there’s our family.

They showed up in a big way. We told stories and laughed so much. You always said you wanted a celebration, and it truly was one.

This may sound a little strange, but sometimes I have fictional conversations with C.S. Lewis. I’d explain how it works, but that’s not really the point.

The point is, he has a way of putting things into words that I can’t.

When I told him how I’ve been grieving you, he said something that perfectly captures how I feel:

“The goodness you saw in him was not something that death can erase.
It was a glimpse… a reflection… of something eternal.

And so today, as you remember him, you are not simply looking backward.
You are, in a quiet way, looking forward.

For love does not end. It is not interrupted.
It is only, for a time, unseen.”

It reminds me that the love you shared with our family and friends still exists. It hasn’t gone anywhere.

I’ll carry it forward, and so will everyone whose life you touched.

Until we meet again.

Thanks, Dad!

I’m a lucky duck!

Love,
Jason

P.S. I’m raising money for Refugee Hope Partners in Raleigh by running a 5K this May.

If you’d like to support, I’d be really grateful.

I’ll share more as we get closer to the race. Here’s my fundraising page.

I’ve had a hard time writing since he passed. My thoughts still feel scattered.

But what I do feel clearly is this: gratitude.

Gratitude for having such a wonderful father, and for the incredible community God used to surround my family throughout this journey.

Yesterday was a reminder of both.

Since I can’t quite put all my words together yet, I want to share what I said at his service (included below).

I’m a lucky duck 🦆

And so are you.

Thank you for being here today. It means a great deal to our family, and I know it would have meant the world to my Dad.

I’ve thought a lot about what I wanted to say today. Because of my father’s battle with Alzheimer’s, the last few years of his life felt like they were stolen from us. For a long time, I wished I could have one more conversation with him.

So I decided that’s what I would do.

I wrote my Dad a letter, and if it’s okay, I’d like to read it to you.

Dear Dad,

I miss you already. I’ve only known a world with you in it, so it’s hard to imagine one without you.

I’m writing to tell you how I’ll remember you. I hope you already know most of this.

Dad, you were my hero.

As a young boy, I remember how you made everything fun. The silly songs we sang at bath time. Sitting on your knee while you read the Sunday funnies and did the voices for each character. I remember wrestling with you and trying to hold you down. I thought you were the strongest man on the planet.

I remember being so excited when you got home from work. I would follow you to your room just to tell you about my day. I’d beg you to play catch in the yard, and you’d change into shorts but somehow keep the dress socks on. It was quite the fashion statement.

Now that I’m older, I realize how tired you must have been after work. But you played anyway.

I remember going on business trips with you in the summer. We would make up games to play and eat at fun restaurants. I remember how hard you worked and how much you wanted the people who worked for you to succeed. You always tried to do the right thing, even when it was hard. Brian and I learned the golden rule mostly by watching you live it.

I remember toe tricks while you sat in your chair. The silly nicknames you gave our “Italian” family. I am, and always will be, a proud Tricini.

I remember waiting forever for you to hit your golf ball because you were busy looking at the trees and asking me if I knew what kind they were.

I remember hundreds of hours on East Texas backroads driving to Arkansas. Singing along to Garth Brooks and Alabama cassette tapes. Listening to funny stories from Reader’s Digest.

At the time, I didn’t realize those trips were bonding us as a family. But now I see how special they were. I’m forever grateful for the time I got with my grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles because of you.

I remember how much you loved Lacey and Lila, and how happy you were that I found them.

I remember how much you loved dessert, and how you would close your eyes and twist your spoon after a good bite.

I remember how highly you spoke of Mom. You definitely put your foot in your mouth sometimes. But when it was just the two of us, you always told me how wonderful and beautiful you thought she was.

You were right.

And like you always said, you were a lucky duck.

I remember how much you loved and respected your dad, and how important family was to you. One of the things that impresses me most is how fiercely you loved your whole family.

As you got older, I remember you asking more questions about God. I could tell you were wrestling with a lot of things.

If they have an orientation session in heaven, I hope you get all your questions answered.

But all joking aside, your questions taught me something important. They gave me the confidence to ask God honest questions too. They showed me that faith and vulnerability go together, and that’s where real growth happens.

A couple of years ago, before you got really sick, you told me something that surprised me. You said you hoped your father would be proud of the life you lived.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve heard from many friends and family members about the kind of man you were. I always knew you were a great man, but it’s been meaningful to hear others say it too.

Do you know what people mention the most?

Your laugh.

Your smile.

Your integrity.

How hard you worked.

And how you made people feel.

And you know what?

That sounds a lot like Papa.

The man you admired so much, you eventually became.

So I want you to know something.

Not only did you make Papa proud, but you raised two sons who could not be more proud to call you their father.

You left us with big shoes to fill. There will never be another Eduardo Dukee Tricinni. But rest assured, you left your mark on this world.

It’s hard to explain, but since you passed I’ve felt a closeness to you. I know there will be times I feel it more than others. But it gives me peace knowing a part of you will always be with me.

I’ll close with this.

Every year when we asked what you wanted for Christmas, you always said the same thing: peace and contentment.

At the time, I thought it might just be your polite way of saying you didn’t want another tie or book.

But now I realize you were teaching me something.

You understood what it meant to have enough.

You didn’t want more stuff. You wanted more time with the people you loved.

You lived your life with gratitude, and you could see it written all over your face whenever our family was together.

On March 4th you celebrated your first birthday in heaven.

And because of your faith in Jesus, you have finally received the gift you always asked for.

A peace and contentment that passes all understanding.

Knowing that brings me peace too.

I love you Dad.

Well done, good and faithful servant.

Love,

Jason

Since then I have been living in a strange place.

Somewhere between grief and relief.

Relief that his long decline is over.

Grief that the man who raised me is gone.

But as memories keep flooding my mind, another feeling has been rising to the surface.

Gratitude.

Gratitude for the simple fact that I had such a wonderful man as my father.

Yesterday I took a trip to my favorite used bookstore. I needed a couple of hours to escape and a break from wrestling with my emotions. Wandering through dusty shelves has always been one of the places where my mind slows down.

That is where I discovered a book I had never heard of before.

The topic immediately caught my attention so I picked it up. As I read the first chapter I quickly understood why I ended up in that bookstore yesterday.

The author was describing her experience watching her mother decline in a way that felt very familiar to me. Then I came across this passage:

The day I had dreaded all my life became the doorway to real renewal. It was as if I tiptoed up to the dark gate, afraid of what I’d find, and it burst open with untrammeled freedom and joy…

The doorway of death unleashed an absolute flood of gratitude that has rushed like a river over my life, reconfiguring my landscapes, overflowing my shallow places, nourishing a great thirst within me, and carrying me to new destinations far downstream where the vistas go on forever. Never have I felt so free, or eager: death makes it clear that each day of life is an opulent gift. - Ellen Vaughn

My Dad had a phrase he loved to say.

“I’m a lucky duck.”

The older he got, the more often he said it.

Even as his memory faded, that posture toward life seemed to remain. Toward the end he could no longer communicate much with words, but I would sometimes catch him slowly looking around the room when our family was together.

He would just sit there quietly taking it all in.

You could see it on his face.

Gratitude.

A simple awareness that he had been given a good life and another day to remember it.

It is the same gratitude I find myself writing with today.

And the same gratitude that has flooded my mind this past week as I remember the man he was.

Like my Dad used to say,

I’m a lucky duck.

With gratitude,

Jason