Finding Hope

I came across an article the other day about the average American. Apparently, the average person eats 17 teaspoons of sugar a day, carries over $100,000 in debt, walks fewer than 4,000 steps, gets less than ten minutes of silence each day, and will spend the equivalent of twenty years watching television or scrolling a phone. Twenty years. Somewhere, someone binge-watched an entire decade. I wish I could tell you I read that list and thought, Well… glad that’s not me. Unfortunately… I checked off at least four of those boxes. Maybe five. Depends on how honest we’re being. That’s what bothered me. Not the statistics. The word. Average. It sounds so harmless. Comforting, even. If enough of us are doing it, it must be okay. But maybe average isn’t a description. Maybe it’s a warning. Then something happened last night. Around 10:00, Abbey wandered out into the backyard and just… stood there looking at the moon. No phone. No music. No distractions. Just a little girl asking big questions...

T he other day we pulled up to a red light. A Ram truck rolled in beside me. And before either of us had moved an inch… my brain had already introduced itself. “Oh… you’re one of those guys.” Amazing, isn’t it? The light was still red. We hadn’t exchanged a single word. He hadn’t cut us off. Hadn’t honked or done anything remotely annoying. He was simply existing. And somehow I’d already decided who he was. Apparently my imagination has a Ph.D. in jumping to conclusions. Somewhere along the way I’d created an entire profile for a complete stranger. Probably drives six inches off the bumper in front of him. Thinks every yellow light is merely a suggestion. Has opinions on absolutely everything… whether anyone asked or not. And if he happened to be wearing wraparound sunglasses? Well… The case practically prosecuted itself. Poor guy. He didn’t even know he was on trial. The embarrassing part? He hadn’t done a single thing. He was just driving. Meanwhile, I’d already written his autobiogr...

M y watch congratulated me this morning. Apparently my resting heart rate has improved. Wonderful. It never mentioned Sadie wanted me to watch her do a cartwheel. Or that Abbey has almost stopped asking me to play because, one too many times, she heard, “Give me five minutes.” We live in incredible times. Our watches know our pulse. Our rings know how we slept. Our phones know how many steps we’ve taken. Pretty sure my toaster is one software update away from judging my cholesterol. We’re obsessed with living longer. Ice baths. Cold plunges. Red light therapy. Blue light blockers. Supplements with names that sound like rejected Marvel superheroes. And I’m not against any of it. At all. Take the walk. Eat the vegetables. Lift the weights. Take care of your body. I certainly tried. There was a season when I thought becoming the best version of myself meant optimizing everything. I tracked my sleep like it was a second job. Counted every calorie. Measured every heartbeat. Fasted until it ...

W hat do you do when you see someone on the side of the road with a flat tire? It’s pouring. Or it’s 97 degrees. You’re already late. You glance over… …then keep driving. What do you do when the person ahead of you in the grocery line comes up four dollars short? They apologize. Start deciding what to put back. You notice they don’t look like you. Don’t dress like you. Don’t live where you live. What do you do? What do you do when the person asking for help is someone you can’t stand? Someone who’s hurt people. Someone whose very name spikes your blood pressure. What then? A few days ago, I walked into a convenience store. Yes, it was 7-11. I know what a surprise. A man walked in behind me. His clothes had long since lost their war with soap. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His words tripped over each other. The cashier looked straight through him. “Get out.” The man quietly asked if anyone could spare a few dollars. The room became suddenly fascinated by the candy bars, the lottery ...