It’s been a few years, but you might remember Laurel and Yanny.

Didn’t expect me to start there, did you?

If you don’t recall this maddening sound bite, just know that some people heard Laurel and others heard Yanny when the audio clip was played. For me, I heard Yanny consistently for two weeks, and now I can only hear Laurel. For some reason, my brain won’t let me hear Yanny anymore.

Sorry, Yanny.

Anyway, here it is, listen to it with your friends, and let the arguments begin.

But the way we perceive the same stimulus differently doesn’t just happen with audio memes.

Have you seen the picture of the gray and teal (or is it pink and white) sneaker? This meme continues to divide people. Half swear the shoe is gray and teal, while the other half are convinced it is pink and white. Or, along the same lines, the dress that divided the world—half saw a gold and white dress, while the other half saw a black and blue dress.

Perception—what it is and what shapes it—is fascinating. Two people can listen to the exact same sound clip or see the exact same image and interpret it in entirely different ways. These differences may be influenced by our upbringing, culture, life experiences, or biology.

All of these factors together shape how we see the world, but they can also keep us from seeing or hearing it from a different perspective.

None of this makes us bad people. It simply means we interpret the world through the lens of our own unique inputs, which shape who we are and how we see everything around us.

And maybe that’s where it stops being about sound clips, sneakers, and dresses.

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If how we individually and collectively perceive reality can differ that easily for things that don’t matter, what does that mean for the things that do?

If perception can shift over time—like how I now only hear Laurel—then maybe it isn’t fixed. Maybe it can be influenced and shaped by any number of factors, including how our brains are wired to process the same information differently.

And if how we perceive people, situations, or even reality itself can be influenced or manipulated (and it can), does that mean we are always at the mercy of those perceptions?

When ancients spoke of “seeing the light” or a “veil being lifted,” they often used the image of scales falling from their eyes. It described a physical condition—a scaly encrustation over the pupil that caused cloudiness and prevented clear sight. In much the same way, our hardened perceptions can cloud our vision. Our mind’s eye becomes occluded, unable to see people or situations with clarity.

This is why the posture of love—and the outflow of grace—matters so deeply. Because the only thing capable of breaking through faulty perception, of dissolving illusion and restoring clarity, is something strong enough to reach beyond what we think we already see. That is what love and grace can do. Love can see one’s worth despite how differently they perceive the world, while grace can walk alongside them even when we don’t see things the same way.

Question

What if what you’ve always been certain about is the very thing keeping you from seeing clearly?

Peace,

Brandon

The restaurant shall remain unnamed to protect the innocent.

But I have to tell you—when I placed the order on the app, I knew what kind of ordeal I was getting into. Ordering from this restaurant is always a chaotic experience. Still, having sent in my order thirty minutes prior, I (naively) expected I would walk right in and right out.

However, the Burrito Gods had other plans on this day.

I walked into the restaurant with not a single person sitting at a table. Instead, fourteen people (I had time to count) stood waiting for their app-ordered food. Leaning against the wall in resignation, I joined the other modern-day hunter-gatherers. Save for the hustle and bustle of the kitchen crew, the dining area was dead silent.

Having left my phone in the car, I studied each person in between quick glances for a brown bag with my name on it. What I noticed made me profoundly sad—fourteen people with their heads bowed in unison, silently scrolling their devices. I don’t make this observation in a judgy way. Had I known I would be waiting for thirty minutes, I would have taken my phone into the restaurant as well. What I witnessed convicted me. I have truly never seen anything like it.

But this reflection isn’t about condemning our insatiable addiction to these little rectangular things.

I promise.

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People have asked me over the years why there are weeks or months when I don’t write. My simple answer is that I have to live life in order to have experiences and stories. If all I do is go to work, come home, watch television, and scroll social media, there isn’t much to write about. If I am preoccupied or distracted, I miss moments. I miss the beauty around me. I miss conversations. I miss the uniqueness of people.

For example.

On that day, had I been on my phone and lost in the feed, I would have missed two young couples who came into the restaurant together. They had not placed an order through the app. However, because of the backup in orders, they had to wait in line. As they stood together, they talked and told stories and laughed. For the fifteen minutes that I watched them, not one of them pulled out their phone. It was a wild contrast—two couples alive in conversation, surrounded by everyone else with heads bowed in quiet absorption.

I may look back at this post in five years and realize that making this point was futile. That facing an ever-growing tsunami was a laughable endeavor. Maybe this inertia is inevitable. Who knows. But for today, I believe it is a battle worth waging—of not completely losing ourselves, losing our humanity for the convenience of always being somewhere else.

Question

What stories, people, or beauty have I scrolled past in real life?

Peace,

Brandon

After waking up at 3 AM and arriving at the surgery center at 5:45 AM for Will’s chest surgery, we were told that it had been canceled.

Anger—molten, volcanic—pulsed from my center and radiated throughout my body. We had been waiting four months for this day. Days and weeks of meticulous preparation, only to be turned away. Sensing a dormant Vesuvius unexpectedly awakening, my wife stepped in front of me and took over the conversation.

Background.

In the middle of November 2025, we scheduled chest wall surgery for Will’s pectus excavatum. Fast-forward. Four months later. Last week—the week leading up to the surgery—was wrought with unexpected challenges. If it were possible to embody the entertainer who balances bowls on her head, feet, and hands while riding an eight-foot unicycle—Jenny and I did it.

Take this medicine.

Shower, but apply this and rinse.

Put this in each nostril twice a day.

We’ve been parenting a while. We’ve got this. This isn’t our first balancing act.

But then the unexpected.

Since Will had been sick three weeks prior in the middle of March, we were told that he needed an X-ray of his lungs.

You know, just to make sure.

So we scrambled, picking Will up from school multiple times to make it happen. Evidently, electronic signatures don’t travel well through the World Wide Web. I know we’re all worried about AI taking over the world, but it turns out that electronic signatures still elude us.

Another story for another day.

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But by last Friday, we were in the clear. Or maybe I should say that Will’s lungs were in the clear. The X-ray—and its technicians—said they were clear. Crystal clear. In fact, they said there had never been lungs so crystal clear and beautiful.

So we had a normal, busy weekend.

And then everything stopped at 5:45 AM on Monday morning.

I don’t want to prolong the story, but somewhere between our crystal-clear, beautiful X-rays and our family standing haplessly in front of a hapless registration clerk, an anesthesiologist decided the surgery should not move forward. And somewhere between that anesthesiologist’s decision and our family standing helpless in front of a helpless registration clerk, no one was able to get ahold of us… save for a lone, unchecked MyChart message conveying the unexpected decision. Because while AI is taking over the world, landlines still struggle to call cell phones.

Another story for another day.

If you’re thinking about our Spring Break that didn’t happen, so were we. A family huddled together in a waiting area after being told our thing was canceled, heads spinning, trying to make sense of what just didn’t happen. It was a rerun of the same show one month apart—with a slightly varied script, the same actors.

The irony?

Will got sick during Spring Break, likely because of the trip that didn’t happen. And Will getting sick was the reason he could not have the surgery.

Bada boom.

Bada bing.

I know you’re thinking how these things come in threes. Don’t worry. The person who returned my wallet to the store didn’t take my driver’s license or credit cards—just the cash that was inside it.

Jenny asked me last night what we needed to learn from all of it. I told her I wasn’t in the mood to learn anything from any of it in that moment.

Then she said what a kind wife might say to an aging husband, “While we handle times of stress differently, you handled this much better than you have handled similar situations in the past.”

A day removed from the debacle, I’m honored by her words. Maybe the interruptions don’t change. Maybe we can.

Question

If the interruptions keep coming, what is changing in me?

Peace,

Brandon

I grew up in the charming town of Madison, Indiana, along the Ohio River. While my hometown boasted hydroplanes and historic architecture, it was not known for its diversity in the 1980s—especially religious diversity. And when I say religious diversity, I don’t mean different Christian denominations. I mean anything outside of Christianity.

In Madison, like much of middle America, you were either Christian or not. Until high school, the only Muslims I knew of were Muhammad Ali and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. I didn’t know a single Muslim personally. My understanding of Islam wasn’t shaped by relationships—it was shaped by distance.

Years of news cycles—especially surrounding war, terrorism, and fear—quietly constructed a framework in my mind. It wasn’t something I consciously chose, but it was something I absorbed. And without any real relationships to challenge it, that framework hardened over time.

Even as my thinking matured, one thing remained true: I had never sat across the table from a Muslim and listened to their story.

That changed in the summer of 2018.

A friend invited me to join a three-month dialogue between a group of local Muslims and a multi-denominational gathering of Christian leaders. I didn’t hesitate. I knew instinctively that this was something I needed—not just intellectually, but humanly. I wanted to move beyond secondhand narratives and into real understanding.

When I walked into the conference room that first evening, most participants were already there. What I saw immediately struck me.

The Christians were seated on one side of the table.

The Muslims were seated on the other.

Without thinking, I took my place with the Christians.

I turned to my left and greeted the Baptists, Presbyterians, Catholics, and others. Then I turned to my right and greeted the Muslim group across from us.

It was subtle, almost unspoken—but unmistakable.

Two sides.

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In many ways, the seating arrangement felt like a microcosm of the broader world. Two groups, facing each other from opposite ends. But it also revealed something closer to home. Even within our side of the table, we carried our own quiet divisions—denominations, labels, distinctions that separated us even as we claimed unity.

As the evening began, I wondered what each of us had carried into that room. What assumptions. What misconceptions. What quiet prejudices shaped by years of distance and secondhand information.

But something began to shift almost immediately.

As we introduced ourselves and shared our stories, it became clear that no one was there to debate. No one was there to win. We were there to understand.

And there is something powerful—almost disarming—about sitting in the presence of another human being and simply listening.

Stereotypes don’t survive proximity.

Caricatures dissolve in conversation.

The word Muslim—a label I had heard thousands of times—began to change. Because now it wasn’t a category. It was a person. A face. A voice. A story.

Within the first hour, something unexpected happened.

The distance closed.

We shared our backgrounds, our families, our experiences. Under sterile lights, gathered around a table with cheese, crackers, hummus, and fruit, we began to cut through years—decades—of assumption.

And what I realized in that moment was simple, but profound.

The change we hope to see in the world doesn’t begin at a distance.

It begins across a table.

For most of my life, I had formed opinions about people I had never known. I had inherited perspectives without ever testing them in the presence of real human lives. But here, in this room, those inherited ideas began to unravel—not through argument, but through relationship.

And the more I listened, the more I began to see something beyond this particular conversation.

This wasn’t just about Christians and Muslims.

It was about all of us.

We create categories for people we’ve never met. We inherit narratives we’ve never examined. We allow distance to do what distance always does—it simplifies, it hardens, it distorts.

From a distance, it is easy to reduce a person to a headline, a label, a single story. From a distance, “they” become easier to define—and easier to dismiss.

But proximity changes things.

When you sit across the table from someone, the categories begin to crack. The assumptions begin to loosen. And the person in front of you refuses to stay inside the story you had already written about them.

For a man who had never known a single Muslim by name, what happened next was deeply unsettling in the best possible way.

One by one, people across the table began to share their experiences.

They spoke of fear.

They spoke of being misunderstood.

They spoke of carrying the weight of actions they did not commit, yet were constantly associated with.

And as they spoke, I saw something I hadn’t expected.

Not anger. Not defensiveness.

Pain.

Real, human pain.

It was in that moment that something shifted in me—not just intellectually, but emotionally. The narratives I had absorbed over decades could not hold up under the weight of lived experience sitting just a few feet away.

Because it is one thing to hear about people.

It is another thing entirely to hear from them.

That night didn’t erase every difference. But it did something far more important.

It changed the posture of my heart.

It reminded me that understanding doesn’t begin with certainty—it begins with proximity. With humility. With the willingness to sit across from someone you do not fully understand and choose to listen anyway.

Sometimes, subverting the narrative doesn’t require a platform.

Sometimes, it just requires a table.

Question

Where in my life has distance shaped what I believe about others? Who ought to be on the other side of my table?

Peace,

Brandon

A little over a decade ago I interviewed to take my boss’ job when he left our company. He had mentored me for over two years, and I was incredibly fortunate and grateful that he endorsed me and advocated on my behalf.

Throughout the hiring process, I had eight hour-long interviews and hit grand slams with each of them. I had even asked each interviewer to make me their top candidate, to which all but one person agreed. I felt incredibly confident the position was mine to lose.

But when the decision was ultimately made, I didn’t get it.

And I was completely devastated. I mean it thoroughly wounded me.

Not getting the position wrecked me.

I’m not trying to be melodramatic. This is what I really felt on the inside. And it was hard not to feel it moment by moment. Even worse, it was hard not to live out of the wound and the pain I was experiencing.

I’m not sure if you have ever lived out of a wound, but let me tell you—it is a place of death.

It is angry.

It is bitter.

It is hateful.

It is prideful.

It is toxic.

And it makes you into someone you were never created to be.

The easiest thing in the world is to ignore the wound and let it fester. And I promise you, it will become the source from which you begin to live. The infection spreads and shows up in how you see people and situations, how you relate to others, and in the words you use and actions you take.

A neglected wound is toxic and leads to death.

And I am ashamed to say, that was me.

Not too long after not getting the position I was talking to a friend. While I came into the new year resolved to mentally move forward, there was still hostility in my words that came from a deep wound. My head was saying it was time to heal, but my wound disagreed—and it was winning the battle of my heart.

That’s when my friend said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“Outside of work you have so much peace, but at work, you have a lot of anger.”

I knew he was right. But it was so hard to hear—so hard to admit.

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While I had been trying to move forward, I had actually buried my wound and was living out of it. And while it was toxic, I had never taken the time to face it, to introspect, to pray over it, and open myself up to the healing I desperately needed. I had tried to ignore it and move on, but it was there the whole time—quietly infecting everything.

It’s easy to live with selective introspection. But we all have blind spots. And if I hadn’t been pushed by my friend, I might never have looked inward, asked where this death was coming from, or come face to face with my wound.

The truth was that I had been living out of a painful wound for over a year. And it didn’t begin to heal until I humbly faced it and asked God to meet me in that place of pain.

Here’s the truth: Living in the pain of our suffering can either become an end destination or a passageway.

As an end destination, pain becomes the place where we remain—stuck in bitterness, anger, resentment, and unforgiveness.

As a passageway, pain becomes the path to transformation—to new ways of seeing and experiencing the world.

Suffering breaks us down into insufferable pieces where we can either self-destruct or cry out to God. Our sense of control fades. Our identity feels shaken. And it is there, in that place of pain, that we are faced with a choice: Will this be where I stay? Or will this become the way through?

Question

Where am I still living out of an unhealed wound—and am I willing to bring it into the light so it can become a passageway, not my destination?

Peace,

Brandon

I took four pictures on our Spring Break vacation last week.

One of them was a screenshot from the airline, apologizing for delaying our flight.

As soon as I heard our flight from Indianapolis to Orlando had been delayed until the next morning, I knew we would miss our connecting flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico. The Orlando flight would arrive two hours after our San Juan flight had already left. Heads spinning, we made our way to baggage claim and set up our makeshift command center.

For the next six hours, Jenny and I ran every scenario and calculated every combination and permutation that would get us to Puerto Rico. We started with the obvious—any airline from Indy to Orlando, then any airline from a city within four hours of Indy. The issue was south Florida. Heavy thunderstorms and the threat of tornadoes had grounded everything. We inched up the coasts, searching for any city in Florida, to no avail. We considered driving to Orlando, but we wouldn’t make it in time. Maybe drive to Nashville, Atlanta, or Charlotte, then a late flight to Orlando. But all flights—and I mean all flights—even the late ones, were canceled.

We refreshed travel sites, checked every airline, chased every possibility. Finally, we bailed on south Florida and refocused on the goal—getting a direct flight to San Juan by the next day. This time, we went big. O’Hare. JFK. Newark. Logan. Nothing. Every search came up empty. It felt apocalyptic. Severe storms in the south. A blizzard crippling everything north and east of Indiana. Every route canceled, delayed beyond reach, or already booked by other Spring Break travelers. And that doesn’t even include the TSA debacle.

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Beleaguered, Jenny and I made one last attempt with our airline’s check-in attendants. They were overwhelmed, their hands tied, and clearly not equipped for something like this. Then we noticed two Delta attendants behind us with no line, waiting out the end of their shift. With nothing to lose, we walked over and asked if they could get us to Puerto Rico. They searched and told us the best they could do was St. Paul, Minnesota. We thanked them and went back to our baggage claim command center.

I turned off my phone, closed my eyes, and shook my head.

“I found something,” Jenny said. “There’s a direct flight on a regional airline out of Minneapolis to San Juan in the morning. We just have to get to Minneapolis tonight.”

We ran up the escalators to the Delta desk.

“Can we still get to Minneapolis tonight?” we asked in unison.

“Yes. You have thirty minutes.”

We explained the third-party site and the regional airline. I told them I needed to secure the direct flight before booking with them. While I entered our information online, Jenny gave the attendant everything she needed. Finally, I typed in my credit card and hit submit.

Processing.

Processing.

Processing.

And it kept processing.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

“We’ll need to check your bag in the next ten minutes if you’re going to make this flight.”

“Still processing,” I said. “We’ll know in five.”

Jenny and the kids watched me as I watched the wheel spin. Five minutes passed.

I stood and walked to the counter.

“I’m certain it’s going through. Let’s check the bag to Minneapolis.”

I paid, and they sent the suitcase down the conveyor. We watched it disappear beneath the plastic divider strips. I looked back at my phone.

No spinning wheel.

Payment canceled.

Flight to San Juan: FULL.

I raised my arms and told them to stop the luggage.

For the next twenty minutes, the attendants worked tirelessly—retrieving our suitcase, calling the gate multiple times, entering information to reverse the charge. As they worked, I checked the time and realized how far past their shift they were. They didn’t have to do any of this. Our original flight wasn’t even with them. But they saw our desperation and chose to help. They stayed as long as they could, trying to get our family to Puerto Rico—even though, in the end, it didn’t work.

The second of four photos was of Stacey and Luann behind the counter after we thanked them for working so hard for us.

In the age of automated everything, AI voices on the other line, and the growing sense that no one wants to go the extra mile, there are still people who remind you that humanity hasn’t been automated yet—and who refuse to let you become just another transaction. This is the humanity I hope we can preserve.

Question

In a world that no longer requires me to care, where is life quietly asking me to be present anyway?

Peace,

Brandon

Walking the most difficult terrain in the United States was nearly impossible with a purple ankle the same size as my knee.

It was only day two, and it didn’t help that I still had 30 miles to go, including a difficult trek across ice and snow at a 40-degree angle. The additional 35 pounds in my backpack increased my misery factor exponentially. You never feel like a conqueror in that kind of wilderness, even on the best of days. On the worst days, you feel conquered. It doesn’t take long to realize how infinitesimally small you are and how easily changing conditions and circumstances can turn against you.

Rain for days.

Overnight heavy snow.

Curious bears in your camp.

Hostile caribou.

Moose blocking your trail.

Boots falling apart.

Altitude sickness.

Blisters upon blisters.

I could keep going. All of those have happened to us, and so much more. I have stories for days.

But this busted ankle, man.

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If the heavy sobbing had not fully humbled me, what happened next obliterated whatever little ego remained.

My pace had dropped significantly, and I was falling behind, forcing the other three guys to wait for me. The snow we were crossing was frozen solid. Even following in the tracks laid down for me was precarious with no ankle support. I willed each step, knowing there was no one coming to rescue me or carry me out. But in a profound moment of compassion, one of the guys decided to leave his backpack behind and carry mine ahead. He would then backtrack to retrieve his own pack. Essentially, he was doing twice the mileage over brutal terrain.

At first, I vehemently resisted the offer. My pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps mentality wouldn’t hear of it. I got myself into this mess, and I will get myself out of it, I thought. But he persisted. He knew how much I was hurting. I knew how much I was hurting the group. Fully emasculated, ego obliterated, I consented. And I was deeply grateful that he had done something for me that I could not do for myself.

We have a hard time letting other people help us. We do not like to feel insufficient or incapable. But an ego posture keeps others from the honor of being able to serve us. Simply because we do not want to show that we could actually use another person’s help, we push back and resist. Yet the most humble and honoring thing we can do is welcome someone’s kindness. That’s what I learned that day.

Ultimately, Josh Brown let me have my pack back once we hit level ground.

For a couple of treacherous miles, he carried my pack — and I learned that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let yourself be carried.

Questions

What am I carrying right now that I don’t have to carry alone? How is my pride keeping me from receiving the help I actually need?

Peace,

Brandon

If ever there were a TMI (too much information) post, it’s this one.

But we’ve established a baseline in these weekly posts in which I pretty much tell you everything about myself—what I’m working on, how I fail people, and what I’m learning. Self-preservation and embarrassment died a long time ago.

In August 2019, we decided to backpack the Wind River Range in Wyoming. Ninety-five percent of this 40-mile route was off-trail, meaning we would spend a week navigating some of the most brutal terrain in the United States without a trail. You can think of this area as broken and beautiful. Every step among the boulders is an uneven balancing act. But when you aren’t fighting to keep yourself upright, you are mesmerized by its magnificence.

We got up early the second morning to blue skies and crisp air at ten thousand feet. We had a couple of miles on trail before we would begin relying on maps, navigation, and route finding. Our spirits and collective optimism were high. We were chatting away when a mosquito landed on my forearm. I was quick to smack it but took my eyes off my path to wipe it off my arm. Within seconds, my feet were over my head (literally), and I hit the ground harder than I have ever hit it. I stepped on a softball-sized rock, causing my ankle to turn a complete 90 degrees.

I knew I was hurt badly. But we had planned this trip for six months. I couldn’t be the reason we had to pull out. I tightened my laces and assured everyone I would be fine for the next 38 miles.

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The truth is that I should not have been walking on it, let alone navigating the most difficult land I had ever walked. I slowed us down. I am certain I tried the patience of the other guys. During a break to pump water and eat a snack, I sobbed. It was a top-five cry of my life. I was really hurt. I was letting everyone down. It was impossibly difficult. It was the worst.

We were a hundred feet below a snow-covered pass at 11,000 feet. I was nauseous. I had to poop. I felt like I could vomit. I told the guys I needed a few minutes. I hobbled down behind a boulder and fished out my trowel to start digging a hole. How was I going to squat with a damaged ankle? I sat beside the hole and stared at the horizon, trying not to throw up. I’m not sure I have seen anything more beautiful than what was in front of me. Despite my situation, I didn’t miss the profound irony—immense pain and palpable delight, a hole meant for human excrement and the sheer radiance and allure of the horizon, tears of both suffering and joy.

The reality of my misfortune could not erase the brilliance around me. No amount of ankle pain and swelling could cancel the majesty of the moment. No hole full of muck could obscure the transcendence. To disregard one to the neglect of the other would be dishonest. A binary mind attempts to crown one over the other. The unwise can only see a veiled reality marred by catastrophe, shaming others for honest attempts at seeing both realities. However, an honest and wise perspective sees reality for what it truly is and can hold them perfectly in tension, grieving with one part and singing in praise with the other.

Question

Where in my life am I tempted to see only the hardship or only the good, instead of holding both together?

Peace,

Brandon

I started a new job at the end of last year, which included spending two weeks in Southern California for training. With as cold as it has been in Indiana, two weeks in SoCal seems sublime. But I was there at the beginning of November, meaning I missed two weeks of Indiana fall. That’s not what this post is about. I just wanted you to know how great autumn is in Indiana and how sad I was to miss two weeks of it.

This story begins the morning I left for that training.

It’s about a bus driver at the Indianapolis airport.

You know how chaotic early morning flights can be. It seems everyone is on the first flights of the day. People frantically look for open parking spaces. They walk briskly with checked luggage, carry-on luggage, and their one personal attaché. Then they hobble onto the shuttle in a mad attempt to secure all of their belongings while counting the minutes and seconds between stops before the terminal.

That was me—flying to California for two weeks of training.

I usually pack everything in a carry-on because I don’t like the hassle of checking luggage. Yes, I packed two weeks of clothes in a carry-on! But I am always thinking about the TSA checkpoint and how long it could take to get through. It’s this part of traveling that I really don’t like. Everything has to go right, and I don’t like anything unexpected happening in the process.

But there was this one bus driver.

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At each numbered pickup station, he would put the bus in park, stand, walk down the aisle, and welcome each person as they boarded.

The first couple of times he did it, my mental monster went into a murmuring rampage.

What is going on?

What is he doing?

We are in a hurry!

But at each stop, I kept watching him. His smile seemed to grow brighter every time the next person boarded.

The mental monster quickly quieted.

What a delightful man.

He greets each passenger as if he drove there specifically for them.

And how much extra time is this really taking?

I continued to watch him over the next half-dozen stops and told myself that the extra thirty seconds were worth the lessons.

Find joy in the work that you do, no matter your occupation.

Don’t just do your job well—honor those around you while doing it.

Stand out above other workers by taking what you do to the next level.

But also.

Calm down and see the goodness in others.

Don’t get so lost in your fast-paced routine that you lose the joy in life.

Let others inspire you to be better yourself.

Question

What does my mental monster sound like– and how often do I let it lead?

Peace,

Brandon

I’m still here.

I’m alive and kicking.

Thanks to all of you who checked on me during my hiatus.

This is the longest writing break I’ve taken in the last twenty years. It wasn’t planned. I just went into hibernation mode around Christmastime. I went from putting together my annual 1,000-piece puzzle to watching movies. Hamnet, anyone? Wow. More on that in a future post. I read The Ferryman and His Wife. I rewatched Breaking Bad and Game of Thrones and got through Season 1 of The Pitt. I bought a treadmill and started running every morning. I burrowed deep into the 15 inches of Indiana snow amid 23 consecutive days of single-digit weather and hibernated. And I did my very best to mentally check out for the last three months.

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I did a StrengthsFinder assessment several years ago that identifies a person’s top strengths from thirty-four different categories. The four central themes are Executing, Influencing, Relationship Building, and Strategic Thinking. While most people’s strengths cross multiple themes, I was the only person on my team whose strengths landed in singularly in one theme—Strategic Thinking. This means that my overall strength scores are skewed heavily toward thinking. And it’s spot on. All I do is think. Nonstop. About everything. All the time. And if you’ve followed my writing for a while (or seen my staring blankly into nothingness), you know this. It is a great blessing. But if I don’t take a break, it can exhaust and overwhelm me.

Which makes me think of the Greek aphorism: Know thyself.

The beginning of wisdom is the ability to look inward. To self-assess. To self-reflect. To self-examine. To know ourselves- the good, the bad, and the ugly. And to understand what we need to do for our individual well-being. The truth is, we can’t be our best for others if we don’t take the time to make sure we are whole, healed, and properly aligned. We can’t effectively look outside ourselves if we don’t first look within.

To that end, I’m back—and fully rested.

Question

Do I truly know myself well enough to recognize when it’s time to step back? What do I need right now to be whole and well?

Peace,

Brandon

I am counting down the Top 10 Most Read Posts this year. Before we jump to the excitement, make sure you pick up mybook Deep Calls to Deep: Meditations for Your Spiritual Journey, Vol. 1, which is available now (Amazon | Viewpoint | Barnes and Noble) and the ideal Christmas gift for your friends and family. And now, here are the Top 5!

#5- The Weight We Don’t Carry

#9- Wildflower

#3- When Time Stood Still

#2- The Most Brutally Honest Post I’ve Ever Written

#1- It’s All Right Here

That’s a wrap on 2025! Thank you for journeying with me this year. I am looking forward to where we will go next year.

Question

Which post resonated with you the most this year and why? Leave your comments below.

Peace,

Brandon

I am counting down the Top 10 Most Read Posts this year. Before we jump to the excitement, make sure you pick up mybook Deep Calls to Deep: Meditations for Your Spiritual Journey, Vol. 1, which is available now (Amazon | Viewpoint | Barnes and Noble) and the ideal Christmas gift for your friends and family. And now, here are posts 6 through 10.

#10 - The Boulder That Moved Me

#9 - The Little Girl’s Question

#8- Go West, Young Man!

#7- When Branches Grow Wild

#6- The Hidden Infection

I was making guacamole the other night.

Quick side note: I make really good guac.

But as I mashed the avocados with my stone pestle, I felt a tightness rise in my chest. It’s a familiar pressure—one I’ve carried for as long as I can remember—but I’ve been trying to meet it head-on whenever it shows up.

So on Taco Tuesday, I decided to name it.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I’m here because you’re angry,” it answered.

I grabbed the half lime, squeezing it harder than I needed to while replaying the last hour, trying to pinpoint exactly what was irritating me. My wife saw the shift in my face.

“What’s going on?”

“Just give me a minute,” I said. “I’m trying to work through it.”

I know it can sound strange talking to myself—like I’m having a psychotic break or something. But this is what the early stages of awareness look like for me in real time. As an Enneagram 1, I feel a constant simmer when things don’t go the way they’re “supposed” to, or when anything slips out of place. And instead of turning that energy toward something good, I repress it until it comes out sideways.

If there’s ever going to be a break in that cycle, I have to pay attention to what my body is telling me in the moment.

“I know why you’re here,” I finally said. “The plans I had for tonight changed.”

“Yes,” the feeling said. “All day you planned to go to the game. But everyone else wants to watch Stranger Things.”

True story.

That was the hinge moment—the little click of clarity.

I took a long breath and told the feeling it could leave. The river of the evening was already flowing in a different direction, and I could either fight it or let it carry me. There will be other games. But there won’t always be nights like this with the people I love.

I didn’t want to miss the moment by holding on to resentment over something that didn’t happen.

Breaking this pattern is hard. Moving from unhealth to health is slow, uneven work. This was one small victory in a long history of losses. But it was a victory. And I’m hoping they start coming more often.

Thankfully, I’m surrounded by people who offer grace and patience while I learn how to loosen my grip, breathe deeper, and let myself flow with the river instead of resisting it.

Question

What long-held pattern is asking for your attention, and are you ready to meet it with honesty instead of avoidance?

Peace,

Brandon

Will and I were watching television last night. It was late and just a few minutes before we were planning to go to bed. But the dog started circling in the family room and giving us hard stares. She couldn’t wait until our show was over and demanded that one of us let her out.

Since he was closer to the door, Will got up, followed the dog outside, and then immediately returned, asking if I could pause the show.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I am going out to look at the stars.”

Proud dad moment.

I turned off the show, followed him outside, and we spent the rest of our time gazing at the sky.

I saw a TikTok video from a middle school girl “raw dogging boredom.” If you’re not familiar with the term “raw dog,” it’s used as a verb and has expanded beyond its original meaning to any activity done without preparation. In the video, the girl set the rules as: no television, no music, no food, no phone—for fifteen minutes on day one, increasing the time each day.

While there are many cynical commentators mocking the trend and questioning the thinking skills of the next generation, saying we have reached peak stupidity, I think the trend is worthy of reflection and not something we should so easily dismiss.

In fact, seeing Will step into silence on his own made that video feel less like a trend and more like a sign of something deeper happening.

I talk obsessively about pendulums. The idea is that when we, as humans, are so far to one side of a behavior or belief, we tend to swing hard in the opposite direction when we make a change. I see it all the time: people swinging hard the other direction with politics, ideologies, and religious beliefs. Usually, it means a person is trying to find freedom outside the norms and assumptions they’ve lived within. There is a deep yearning to break free and find more peace and balance in their beliefs and practices.

In an incessantly stimulated world, the pull toward balance and peace—for a generation that has rarely experienced either—may be a real thing. With so few guides teaching and living integrated and contemplative lifestyles, we may be witnessing a generation beginning to break free on their own, searching for respite from the technological quagmire.

For GenY and older generations, I wonder how we might let their experiments in presence become an invitation for us to step outside, pause, and look up again too. What might their desire for peace and freedom teach us about the natural yearning of the soul to break free from the only thing they have known? How might we learn from them and walk alongside them toward more liberated, more integrated lives?

So many questions worth considering.

Question

How would our lives change if we regularly turned off technology, stepped outside, paused, and looked up?

Peace,

Brandon

In the 1950s, social psychologist Muzafer Sherif conducted an experiment at a summer camp in Robbers Cave State Park—an experiment that revealed just how easily division can take root among us.

Two groups of boys, unaware of each other at first, spent their days bonding over games and campfires, building their own small worlds of belonging.

But once they were introduced—once competition entered the picture—everything changed.

Tug-of-war. Baseball. Capture the flag.

Taunts turned to hostility. Cabins were vandalized. Meals were eaten separately.

And no amount of forced friendliness could bridge the growing divide.

Until the day the water line broke—an event staged by the researchers.

Faced with a problem too big for either group to solve alone, the boys had no choice but to work together.

And in that shared struggle, something deeper began to happen.

Suspicion gave way to cooperation.

Rivalry gave way to friendship.

Division gave way to unity.

All because they learned what can only be learned when we stop fighting for our side—and start working for the good of all.

This classic experiment beautifully illustrates what’s possible for us today.

We are so much more—together.

I opened an email this morning from my son’s middle school. It described a food drive to help combat food insecurity in our community. While this issue is always present in every community, there’s no question that more people have been affected recently with food benefits being cut.

This is our broken water line.

And it just might be an opportunity for us to come together and work for the common good.

The campers could have waited indefinitely for the caretakers to fix the problem and continued their fighting. But sometimes the urgency of a situation demands that we set aside our differences and work together.

We can wait for the government to feed the most vulnerable—or, while we wait for politics to resolve, we can come together to care for one another, to make sure no one goes to bed hungry.

Question

What can I do today to make sure my neighbors have food on their tables, and that the shelves of my local pantries are full?

Peace,

Brandon

I had a conversation with a friend the other day about the need for disruptors in our lives. My contention was that we are so hypnotized by superfluous things—whether routines, to-do’s, or screens—that we become numb to anything deeper than surface-level considerations.

Life has become a cycle of sleepwalking, a pursuit of moving from point to point yet going nowhere each day, lost in utter meaninglessness.

Émile Durkheim, a French sociologist in the early 1900s, wrote about the idea of the sacred and the profane—the sacred being those things in life that are holy, set apart, or of spiritual significance; the profane being the mundane parts of everyday life. The implication was that some things are holy while the rest of life is profane.

I have never liked that distinction. In my mind, everything is sacred and holy. Everything has spiritual significance. And if there is anything truly profane, it is that we have lost recognition of the sacredness of all things. We have distilled life down to unremarkable matter—easily ignored or quickly discarded.

That is why disruptors are so essential. Disruptors wake people up and jolt consciousness. They break us out of the collective trance we’ve been under, removing the veil of the common and unexceptional so that we might see life as wholly sacred. Without disruptors, we are left to our own futile devices, driven by the overwhelming power of cultural inertia.

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There’s this beautiful scene in the film Columbus by Kogonada, in which the main character, Casey, stands in front of a bank designed by world-renowned architect Eero Saarinen. A visitor to the town, Jin, asks Casey what she knows about the bank. As an architectural tour guide, she begins reciting all the facts and details she knows about the building. Notably, the shot shows only her reflection in the window—not her real self. In this hypnotic state, she is merely a shadow of who she truly is.

Noticing her robotic recitation, Jin waves his hand at her, trying to wake her from this zombie-like state. Acting as a disruptor, he finally breaks in: “What are you doing? Who are you? You said this is one of your favorite buildings—why? Do you like it intellectually, because of all the facts?”

“No,” Casey replies. “I’m also moved by it.”

“Yes, tell me about that,” Jin says. “Tell me about that.”

The camera’s vantage point shifts to inside the bank, showing Casey through the window—no reflection. It’s as if the entire window, the veil, has disappeared. No more sacred and profane. Just sacred. We can’t hear Casey’s words; we can only see her face and how the architecture moves her. It is a profound and deeply moving scene.

Had Jin not disrupted Casey, she would have continued her same recitation—the one she had likely given a thousand times before. I wonder where the disruptors are in our lives, in this culture. What will shake us from our slumber? What will pull us from this immense inertia? What will jolt us from this futile, artificially fabricated reality?

Question

Have I been living, or merely sleepwalking through the motions of a life?

Peace,

Brandon

And then sometimes you get caught off guard.

Which I was this past week.

We received a package, and I opened it. Inside was a wire-bound display book entitled 52 Modern Manners for Today’s Teens.

My immediate thought was—What a perfect idea for helping us shape our 14-year-old son into a well-mannered young man.

Opening it to the first insight, I set it up in the most visually obtrusive spot in our house—the countertop in the middle of our kitchen and dining room—so he’d see it every time he walked past.

But then, a few hours later, we sat down for dinner and Jenny told me to bring it to the table.

“Read it,” she said, hoping we could go through it together and discuss it while we ate.

I cleared my throat.

I’m not sure I actually cleared my throat, but it feels like the right way to begin describing how this went.

“Introduce yourself,” I read. “If you find yourself with people you don’t know, introduce yourself.”1

It continued with several additional sentences and some perspective on the next page.

I finished reading all of it—and realized it wasn’t only for Will.

It was for me, too.

Ugh.

I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m introverted. If you perceive me as anything other than that, it’s only because I have to try really hard to be otherwise. Admittedly, I don’t enjoy being in social settings unless it’s a small group of people I already know. I loathe small talk and will purposefully avoid people. All that to say—introducing myself to a stranger isn’t exactly in my social arsenal.

But this first prompt really hit me.

Despite having lived into the self-fulfilling prophecies of Myers-Briggs (INFJ) my whole life, I wondered what’s really keeping me from growing and evolving. What’s keeping me from introducing myself to strangers other than me? It’s true that the older we get, the less likely we are to change—old dogs, new tricks—but why does that have to be the case? Why should these prompts be only for teens? Why can’t I push beyond my discomfort and continue to grow into someone more dynamic?

The truth is, the only thing that keeps us from transforming from who we believe we are into the person we aspire to be is our belief that we can’t change. And that is perpetually true for each of us. We are the ones who ultimately decide when we are done challenging ourselves and growing as a human being. Unfortunately, many stay stagnant and unchanged for years, even decades.

I wonder—what is life if it isn’t a life-long pursuit of becoming? Of daily taking off the old and putting on the new? Of avoiding the gravitational pull of a static life to pursue the quiet and sacred work of transformation, even if it costs us some discomfort.

Reaching a certain age (no matter how young or old) isn’t a period at the end of the sentence. It’s an ellipsis—always opening us to infinite possibilities for what we might yet do, and who we’re still becoming. If we are willing…

Question

Who might you become if you stopped believing you’ve already arrived?

Peace,

Brandon

I apologize for a month of reposting old meditations.

I wish I could tell you that I took the time to refresh and find space to breathe. That was hardly the case. The last six weeks have been a whirlwind. I started a new job with the most insanely difficult material to learn and just spent the past week in California. In two weeks, I’ll be heading back for another two weeks of training. Scattered throughout all of that, we had a wedding reception for our oldest daughter and her husband. I went to a work meeting in Chicago for a few days. I celebrated my 51st birthday during that meeting and was fortunate to at least make it home that evening. I traveled to Colorado to celebrate my friend’s 50th birthday. And then, I had the honor of officiating a wedding of a delightful young couple.

Don’t get me wrong.

All of it has been spectacular.

I’m not complaining at all.

It’s just been a lot—all at once.

But sometimes the stars line up that way.

And maybe you’ve felt that too—the feeling of being swept from one thing to the next without a moment to breathe.

During that time, it would have been a disservice to force out weekly meditations for those of you who read these posts each week. Rohr often talks about how we should not “push the river,” meaning there is a flow of the Spirit that we should not fight against. Instead, we’re invited to become aware of where the Spirit is working and moving—and to flow with it.

So maybe this meditation is about understanding our limits, being present in our busyness, and not expecting more of ourselves than simply resting easy within it.

And maybe all these years of practicing the art of “being present” have been preparing me (us) for these crazy, busy moments, right? Or, preparing us to be peacefully present during the chaotic times in which we are living.

It’s like a two-minute drill for a football team. If you’re not a sports fan, hang with me. A football team practices the plays they’ll use in the final two minutes of a close game so they can be in position to score and win. In the same way, the work we put into being in the flow of the river during the calmer seasons actually helps keep us present and peaceful during the chaotic ones. This posture helps us stay grounded when life starts moving at a pace we can hardly keep up with, or when life seems upside-down.

Sure, peace can certainly be found in the absence of motion, busyness, and chaos. Yet the truest measure of peace isn’t known until it is embodied in the turbulence. When everything feels like too much, perhaps that’s the moment to remember that the river still flows—steady, beneath it all. And we would be wise to remember that we don’t have to control the current or fight against it. We simply have to trust the flow—to rest in it, be present in it—and let it carry us where we need to go.

Question

What practices, postures, or reminders help you stay rooted in peace when life begins to move faster than you can manage?

Peace,

Brandon

Let’s begin in what seems a haphazard place—death.

But maybe that’s exactly the right place to begin.

For me, life itself emerged from death. Not metaphorically. Literally.

That is the great paradox of my existence—I have life because someone died.

Can you imagine your life springing from death?

The questions flow like tears.

Is it possible that the same eyes that have wept in sorrow might one day weep in joy?

That the days of deep loss might somehow be redeemed across a lifetime?

That a life cut short might still bear fruit through the lives that follow?

I often think of my grandparents—of the grief they carried when their baby girl, my aunt whom I never met, died of whooping cough at just one month old.

The anticipation of pregnancy.

The joy of new life.

The wonder of each unfolding day.

Then—loss.

The unbearable stillness.

The hollow space where laughter once lived.

I wonder where the tears of such grief go.

Do they fall to the cold, hard ground and disappear, like the child who was buried?

Or do they fall upon a deeper soil—one hidden and fertile—preparing itself for something yet to come?

My grandparents visited the small cemetery beside a country church each Sunday. Though they weren’t religious, the people of that church welcomed them, comforted them, held them in their pain. Out of that quiet kindness, something began to grow. Seeds were planted—seeds of hope, of compassion, of renewal—and in time, they decided to have another child they hadn’t planned to have.

That child was my father.

From death, life.

Through that one small life lost, a lineage continued.

Through one act of compassion, a family was reshaped.

Through tears, seeds were sown that would bear fruit for generations.

I sit here breathing, thinking, remembering.

Is it possible that the same eyes which once shed tears of sorrow upon fertile ground might one day shed tears of joy for what was born from that soil?

Is it possible that loss, held with gratitude and love, becomes the very ground of new life?

Is it possible that no act of compassion, no seed of love, ever falls in vain?

We may not be spared suffering. But perhaps suffering itself is not the end of the story—only the soil in which something beautiful, unseen, and enduring is quietly taking root.

Question

How might the sorrows you carry today become the fertile soil of what is still to bloom?

Peace,

Brandon

I will be back with a new meditation next week. But in the meantime, I want to share my most popular post that was written in 2021. You can imagine the shock of family members, including our kids, as they read this without us tipping them off in advance. Here is the story:

Jenny told me on March 4th (25 days ago) that she was over a week late on her period.

Let me tell you.

When you are an almost 48-year-old man who had a vasectomy over a decade ago and who has three kids (22, 19, and 10), the last thing you want to hear are those words.

Like a gray-bearded soldier, hoping he had already fought in his last war, I marched into Fort Walgreens and stealthily purchased a box with two tests. Walking out to my car, I began laughing out loud at the hilarity of my divine comedy.

With the bathroom door secure from a potentially wandering 10-year-old, we waited for two minutes that were twenty years.

The 99.9% accurate digital test flashed.

Pregnant.

You have likely heard the phrase build your house upon the rock rather than the sand. The point is that a house built upon the rock is better able to withstand strong winds and heavy storms than one built upon a foundation that easily washes away.

I imagine this firm foundation that centers a person and gives solid grounding has to be peace and love. Despite what storms may blow our way, it is the foundation of peace and love that firmly grounds us, enabling us to stand firm. That is why the previous writings have been so insistent upon each of us cultivating a healthy and vibrant inner self. When our center is peace and love, we have the resiliency to handle the most unpredictable life situations.

I am glad I have been working on my inner self over the last few months because this was a life situation I never expected. After hugging and nervously laughing, I told Jenny that I am going to pour every ounce of love and wisdom into that kid. It is not the path I imagined us taking at this point in our lives, but I received it with a peaceful soul.

I suppose that is what we are all working toward, together.

Interestingly enough, after three subsequent pregnancy tests and a fourth from the doctor, it turns out that Jenny is not pregnant. The first test was a false positive. I could have told you that earlier, but I wanted you to have the same experience that we had over that two day period. 

Peace,

Brandon