Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Category: Musings

  • Day Off with my Boy

    Day Off with my Boy

    A day brought to you by Miss Lil, my sweet and beautiful mother. I remember our day-off-from-school tradition, Mom, running errands together, buying a book at our corner bookstore in Danbury right next to future Walmart. We would have lunch, talk, and simply be together. Those were our special days.

    James and I had our day and kept the tradition alive. We went to the mall, stopped at Round 1, played our video games and coin pushers, and then faced off in air hockey. I eked out a win, 7 to 6. He was annoyed, but come on, give a middle-aged dad something. 😊

    We wandered the mall afterward and grabbed coffee at Barnes & Noble. The smell of books brought me right back to those afternoons with you. I still have my laminated Waldenbooks gift card. My fantasy books back then were five dollars, and you were always happy to get me one.

    I went looking for an Ethiopian Bible, of course I did, but they didn’t have one. We kept walking. On Level One, James found a video game for the Switch. I asked if he would always remember this day. He said yes without hesitation.

    It’s hard sometimes, because as much as I want to, I’ve forgotten so much. You start to feel like you’re losing the person or that you didn’t pay enough attention. But it’s just the way of being human—to forget. I’ve come to trust that when I die, it will all return: the joyous, wonderful memories, every detail. So I don’t sweat it anymore.

    I always think of that scene at the end of A.I. when the boy finally gets to spend a perfect last day with his mother. It hits harder now than ever before. He just wanted that one sacred day where he was the beloved son, being together and basking in her light.

    We headed to Buffalo Wild Wings next. They seated us like cattle waiting at the trough. I get annoyed being treated that way and rage quietly, but I stayed put; it was fine. Our waitress was clearly fighting battles greater than my imagined societal rules, so I let it go. Fifteen quick wings before the movie—spicy garlic and our family staple, salt and vinegar dry rub. They forgot our veggies, but we got them in the end. I wasn’t about to forgo included accoutrements. I am my mother’s son.

    Then came our main event, Tron: Ares at the Southbury Movie Theater, the last great local cinema around. It’s a throwback to the golden age: quiet, clean, and no nonsense. The elderly man who takes the tickets will take them until his body fails.

    I was happy to see only a handful of people in the audience, and the seats were perfectly cozy. I said, “Aren’t these seats amazing compared to when I was a kid?” James smirked, “You mean when they were wooden seats?” “No,” I said, “I’m not that old.” He laughed and said it was something Mima once said, and I told him that made sense.

    Back then our theater seats were close and stiff, with no recline, no heat. We were practically on top of one another. You had to pick your spot carefully and pray there weren’t disruptive kids in the row behind you kicking you in the back.

    We expected a complete train wreck of a movie based on a few YouTube titles, but we didn’t watch them. As Frank Costanza would say, “I like to go in fresh!” And I did. It turned out to be a fun, surprising romp through the digital world brought to life by The Dude himself, Jeff Bridges, the spectral father of 80s neon creation.

    On the drive home, we talked about the movie. I’m always struck by how similarly we think. My son is a digital reflection of me, thankfully better in every way and still uniquely himself. People say you shouldn’t be a fan of your own children, but how could you not be? How can you not be in awe of God’s creation, our own slice of heaven on earth?

    Our task as parents is to raise them, but along the way, we are the ones transformed. In guiding them, we rediscover what it means to live fully.

    “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights.” — James 1:17

  • Remembering Pocmont

    Remembering Pocmont

    Driving to Kalahari this Sunday with my brother and son, we took an unexpected diversion and ended up going down memory lane on Route 209 South. Going to the Poconos is a special part of our family history. For my parents, it was their destination for a romantic honeymoon-style escape at places like Cove Haven and Paradise Stream. They were “Forever Lovers,” VIP members from long ago. They always spoke fondly of those resorts and their time there, saying how quickly the years had passed and how the places just weren’t what they used to be.

    Before everyone had bigger ambitions, driving two hours into the wilderness was the vacation, especially for city people. Back then you went either to the mountains or to the shore. The idea of taking a plane for a getaway was a radical departure from their modest upbringing and surroundings.

    Pocmont became another special place for us. Once my mother grew comfortable with the area and the drive, she would find a weekend, or more often several weekdays, to take advantage of better prices and bring my brother and me.

    Pocmont Lodge was one of those classic old-school Pocono resorts that had a bit of everything rolled into one. Families came in the summer for a week, parked the car, and never had to leave the property. It was a kind of limited Dirty Dancing experience, with enough activities and entertainment to fill every day.

    The food setup was classic resort dining hall style, with buffets and communal seating. The atmosphere was family-friendly but still appealing to couples on a weekend escape. I remember we had the same server for the whole trip, and we’d quickly become best friends with them. They would sneak us extra dinner rolls, bring more drinks, or even slip my mom another entrée that she would stash away in her Mary Poppins bag for her growing boys. It became an epic doggy bag for a dog who was never there.

    The campus in Bushkill was sprawling, with a lodge, conference facilities, and plenty of outdoor activities. Guests could enjoy indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, shuffleboard, and golf. In winter there was skiing nearby, and in summer there were organized games and entertainment. At night we would go to the live shows: cabaret-style performances, music, and comedy. Danny and I even played bocce ball with the Italian men and somehow won a weekly tournament one year, much to their surprise.

    Most of our days were spent playing ping pong in the arcade room. Ping pong is our family sport, if a family can have a sport. My mom was our teacher; she learned and played as a child at one of the city’s summer camps. We had a table at home eventually, but before that, Pocmont was where we practiced for hours, trying to beat one another on that resort table.

    Those weekends at Pocmont were our special trio getaways. It was all my mom. She worked hard to make those trips possible, saving her twenties, fifties, and hundreds. She put her own touch on every detail. The resort was fun, and the game room with its ping pong table was our anchor.

    I loved that time with Danny and my mom. The warmth, love, and adventure of those days still course through my spirit. I didn’t realize until today that our trip was an unspoken homage to our past. It was part of that unknown reason we have always been drawn back to this area. To revisit the ghosts of a well-lived childhood, filled with blessings and love. A love note to my mother for all that she did for us, and a way to keep her spirit alive through our commitment to each other and the next generation.

  • Epic Universe Part 1 – The Beginning

    Epic Universe Part 1 – The Beginning

    This was the main point of the trip, a 14-day pass with just one day reserved for Epic Universe. My son had been preparing for this since the moment he found out we were going, watching an endless stream of YouTube videos from creators who make it their job to share every detail of how to do the park right.

    We were told Wednesday was the best day to go. It turned out to be one of the busiest. I’m convinced it was because everyone else was watching the same recommendations. Later we learned it was also the last day of summer break for Florida kids, which explained a lot.

    We woke at 7:00 a.m., almost like a travel day. The night before, we had booked a car service for the short 2.8-mile ride to the park, which cost $25 with tip. That expense was nothing compared to the $500 I had spent on Express Passes. These allowed us to skip the line once on 8 of the 11 attractions. If we hadn’t used them, I could have asked for a refund, but I knew better. My son knew better too, teasing me that there was no chance I’d ever stand in a line that long.

    We were dressed and ready and arrived at 8:15 a.m. to join the initial line before the 9:00 opening. My son wanted us there early so we could hit the rides quickly once inside. He was right. This would be a day of lines. One kid later humorously muttered, “Epic Universe, more like Epic Lines.” By 8:20 we were already waiting in the sun, that relentless Florida sun that hunts you down. At 8:30 I was sweating and I knew this was going to be a long one. The day would stretch into 14 hours.

    The staff did a good job raising spirits with countdowns and encouragement. When the security gates opened, we were moved forward but then held again at the ticket checkpoints. Eventually we were corralled into two groups, each pointed toward one side of the park. Our target was the Harry Potter Ministry of Magic ride, the new flagship attraction. This was the crème de la crème, the Cadillac of rides for the park. From watching the app, we knew it was always going to have a long wait and that it broke down often, so it had to be first.

    My son, quick and athletic, made his way halfway up in the pack while I was the big old lumbering dad on the side, trying to keep pace with families and kids sprinting forward. By the time we reached the Ministry, I was several rows behind. Thankfully, he gave up his hard-earned position and waited for me so we could continue together. Once inside, we were funneled into yet another queue, the last one before the ride itself.

    The silver lining was that we were in a good position and the sweet AC gave us relief. By then it was 9:15 a.m. and the ride wouldn’t open until 10:00. It felt like waiting in several lines just to avoid waiting in line. Still, the atmosphere carried that first-day-of-school energy. Everyone was buzzing, and the excitement was contagious. We sat, walked, and waited with our new-found line friends eagerly anticipating and taking in all the queue aesthetics we could handle.

    At 10:05 we were finally on the ride. It was incredible, as most Universal rides are, but it wasn’t quite the earth-shattering experience the hype had led us to expect. We both felt like there should have been more—bigger thrills, something novel, an unexpected twist to earn all that buzz. Unfazed and happy to check off the big ride we joyfully continued onward, not knowing that wow moment would come later with another ride.

    After leaving the Ministry, we walked through the Parisian area. The whole park was stunning, with every section and portal pulling you into its own fantasy setting. When you look up, you see the buildings towering, layered with detail. Every corner seemed to hold hidden Easter eggs, honoring the original material while letting the designers and engineers leave their own mark.

    Our next destination was one of the most anticipated rides of the day. The Super Mario portal was something special for us. Video game collecting has been part of our bond since the beginning of our adventures together, so this was more than just another attraction. Watching my son step into that warp pipe and emerge in the Mushroom Kingdom was a moment I’ll never forget. Suddenly, we were surrounded by the best pieces of Super Mario Brothers brought to life.

    This is where Part Two of our day begins, and where things really started to warp to the next level.

  • Senior Year

    Senior Year

    It feels like just yesterday we were all standing outside, putting you on the bus for that very first day of school. So many pictures, so many memories. The hustle and bustle of getting you ready, us ready, with grandparents, aunts, and uncles all coming by to wish you well.

    And now, today, you left at 7 a.m., driving yourself to school. No crowd, no fanfare. Our group was cut last year, and that loss still runs deep. The house was quieter. Just another Monday morning—except it wasn’t. This is senior year. Our little dancer’s last year of high school.

    The speed of it all is staggering. How quickly these years have flown. Memories flash through my mind like a reel, pulsing, unstoppable. I think back to my own senior year, how I got lazy when I should have gotten busy. I don’t remember my first day as clearly as I should, but I remember enough to know it was good, though not great.

    Now I see her stepping into this season, and everything comes at once. It’s like a midlife review—seeing her life, seeing mine, both layered together. I found old clips from my father’s phone, small pieces of the good times he thought were worth recording. They make me realize how little we actually carry with us or keep. These quiet times of reflection cut deep, like a single raindrop that swells into a flood of emotions. I brace myself against its raw power, but it breaks over me and carries me away in the current.

    I’ve made peace with that. We’re not meant to remember everything in crystal detail. If we did, we’d never be able to step into a new day. Life only gives us enough to build from, enough to grow. Every moment is preserved somewhere, even if not consciously. We are part of the endless dance of life—Lila. None of it is wasted.

    That’s why nostalgia is tricky. We try to hold on to things as if they’ll slip away, but nothing is really lost. I believe when our time here ends, we’ll move differently, through time and memory, able to revisit, replay, relive whenever we want. Which means the more important task is simply this: create memories worth reliving. Push when you can, because you always can.

    Watching my kids in these formative years makes me remember how unsteady I was back then. I wish I could hand them the confidence I have now, the freedom from fear. At the time, everything felt so heavy, as if one wrong move mattered forever. But now I see it didn’t. Fear was wasted energy. I wish they could feel that already. Maybe they can’t. Maybe it’s just part of the process, like any hero making their way into the world. It’s a gift that can’t be bestowed, only earned through the walk of life.

    What I do know is this: my little girl is a senior. My baby is grown. My wife feels it deeply; I do too. But I’m steadied by the truth that every moment counts, that nothing disappears, and that all of it is worth carrying forward. This year will go quickly, but it will not be wasted. It will be lived, and it will be remembered.

    Olivia, I hope you feel the weight of this year, but not as a burden. I hope you see it as a gift. Try new things. Take chances. Don’t let fear hold you back. The truth is, it doesn’t matter if everything works out perfectly. What matters is that you live it fully. You must fail in order to succeed, and I hope you fail gloriously, then rise again with the courage I know you have to keep moving forward.

    You are ready for this moment. You are stepping into the next part of your life, and I couldn’t be prouder. Every day ahead of you is another memory in the making, another chapter worth writing. So live it in a way that makes you smile when you look back. We’ll be smiling too, every step of the way. Forever and always your biggest fans.

  • Phase 3: The Never-Ending Summer of Baseball

    Phase 3: The Never-Ending Summer of Baseball

    We’re now entering Phase 3 of our young teenage son’s baseball career. The never-ending rhythm of summer tournament play. Long weekends, hotel rooms, musty cleats that stink up the car, dugout dust, and emotional highs and lows packed into 72 hours.

    The truth is, we haven’t been all that competitive in our past two tournaments. We’ve run out of steam, lost our foam, just didn’t have enough Rizz to carry us through the lean moments. But this weekend, something shifted.

    This tournament, War at the Shore, held near the tribal lands of Mohegan Sun and Mystic, CT, felt different from the start. We opened with a strong Friday night showing, and our team rolled through with three wins before falling short in Sunday’s matchup, a rematch with our toughest opponent.

    It was a winnable game. We battled back from a 5-0 deficit, but baseball, as always, has its element of luck. A few balls dropped into the Bermuda Triangle, just out of reach beyond the infield or along the foul lines. Add in some costly errors, and we lost our edge, both in pacing and psychology.

    Still, we made it back. And though the ride home felt especially long, there was something satisfying in the silence and the over-analysis of what-ifs. Every small moment matters in baseball. And somehow, every moment mattered this weekend.

    What really stayed with me wasn’t just the score or the stats. It was the time spent with my family. It felt like we were gone for a week, not just a weekend. Watching your child play is like being pulled into a Broadway show. You lose yourself in the performance and production. Every play, every at-bat takes something out of you. The butterflies, the anxious pangs in your gut, the quiet hopes;  it’s all part of it.

    I sat slightly away from the crowd on a grassy knoll on this warm summer day, a little removed but with the best view. It gave me perspective, a moment to breathe it all in. The game below, the sky above. The majesty of it all. These are the days that move fast and live forever.

    Every kid contributed this weekend. They showed up, brought their energy, and let their favorite juiced bats bring out the best in them. They thought they could, and so they did.

    There’s a synergy now. A chosen family dynamic forming between the boys. The time spent together on and off the field. I love watching them come together, the way they cheer for one another. The way they shout to their teammate who made an error, telling him to shake it off and get the next one. No blame, just TLC for one another. We’ve played on many teams, but this is a special group of young men.

    Then there’s the parental chaos. Multiple hotels, packing and repacking supplies, forgetting essentials, trying to make a reservation for 30 people to eat together, then figuring out how to split the bill. Ending the night with fireside table chats in the bagel buffet lounge. We become friends, make it work, and enjoy our time together.

    These joyful, chaotic weekends are forging memories that will carry them through the long walk of life. Because we’re not meant to just try. Life isn’t something we have to do, it’s something we get to do. We’re meant to reach. And the bigger the challenge, the greater the memory, whether or not we come out on top.

    And maybe that’s what makes it all so special. The dirt on their cleats. The voices in the dugout. The pain of a loss, the joy of a win, and everything in between. Chasing childhood greatness with your friends, giving it everything you’ve got, leaving it all out there.

    That’s the part they’ll remember.
    That’s the part that lasts.

  • Review: Walmart Supercenter – Middletown, NY

    Review: Walmart Supercenter – Middletown, NY

    Norman Rockwell’s Nightmare

    After our nostalgic dinner at Outback Steakhouse, we needed to grab a few supplies we’d forgotten for our overnight stay at the baseball tournament. And when in doubt, you can always count on Walmart. They say the average American lives just 4.2 miles from one. The blessings of unimpeded capitalism.

    We arrived at the Walmart Supercenter in Middletown, NY, around 9:30 p.m., expecting a quiet scene. Instead, we stumbled into something closer to a chaotic night market. The parking lot was packed. People were loitering around their cars like it was a social event. For a moment, I wondered if we’d accidentally shown up for a midnight console release, with eager fans waiting for their chance to buy.

    But no. Instead, I thought of Al Pacino in Heat, describing “the dregs and detritus of human life” circling the toilet bowl, waiting to be flushed.

    As always, I scoped out an open section of the lot. I didn’t want to park too far off and draw attention, just a strategic space near the Garden Center. My son and I moved quickly toward the entrance. My wife trailed behind, thanks to her shorter stride, but we kept the group together.

    The tone was set almost immediately. A couple entered just ahead of us; him dressed like someone in a “white trash male” Halloween costume, and her in an outfit that led me to believe, rightly or wrongly, she was a hired professional. It was hard not to assume a transactional nature to their night out.

    Inside, we were smacked with the unmistakable smell of urine. I half-expected to see someone relieving themselves in a corner or a bathroom door swinging wildly off its hinges. But there was nothing; no culprit, no bathroom, just the stench. The greeter didn’t greet. He stood stiffly like a late-night club bouncer deciding whether we were worth the risk.

    Still, once inside the belly of the beast, things felt oddly familiar. That gentle blue-and-white color scheme of Walmart had a strange way of calming the fight-or-flight system. We got down to business. Band-Aids for my son’s leg. Some forgotten essentials. This place was massive; easily the biggest Walmart we’d ever seen. Fortunately, the first-aid section was just to the left.

    As we gathered our items, we watched a group of young teenagers spraying perfume liquids on each other while their dazed, over-medicated parent enjoyed a late-night Dr. Pepper, hunched over a cart like they were on mile 23 of a grocery marathon.

    My wife was ready to leave. But my son, Elroy, wanted to explore the place he now referred to as the Mecca of Commerce. So we walked, partly to digest the Kookaburra Wings still testing our stomachs. Inevitably, we ended up in the video game aisle, where we saw our old friends from the entrance. The man in the costume and his late-night lady. He was trying to buy a game, and had sent his companion to find an employee to unlock the case.

    There was something weirdly honest about it. Taking your go-to escort to Walmart on a Saturday night for the Girlfriend Experience, capped off with some light retail therapy. Buying video games together. In a way, this man was my white trash spirit animal. Thank God I’m married, because I could almost understand the appeal. Cost-effective. Low maintenance. Fun.

    Perhaps I had this guy all wrong. I found myself wondering if he had stock tips. Maybe he’s the best accountant in Orange County. He probably runs a wellness clinic and helps fatherless kids set up Roth IRAs for their future. The light bulb of imaginary musings dimmed as I was pulled back to reality by the cold glow of the self-checkout kiosk, prompting me for payment.

    Walmart, in all its fluorescent, urine-scented glory, delivers what no curated Instagram feed ever could: truth. uncut, unwashed, unbothered. Where else can you see a budget-conscious couple’s version of romance, a greeter playing nightclub security, and teenagers engaged in what can only be described as a diabetic late-night shower of perfume?

    In the end, we accomplished our mission. And we got something better than supplies: an unfiltered snapshot of America after dark.

  • WWIII

    WWIII

    Monday and this week are shaping up to be a scorched-earth situation. President Trump has bombed Iran’s nuclear program. Three sites which I’m sure the Administration spent the last few weeks perfecting the pronunciation of,  have reportedly been destroyed. The justification? Either he felt it was a good time, or he spoke to the janitor at his son’s university who heard something from a friend. The one thing we know is that it was his decision, his leadership, and he’s not going to waste time like they did with Iraq, having the CIA make up imaginary weapons of mass destruction.

    Then you check social media, and apparently the sites weren’t destroyed. Or the uranium was moved days ago. Everyone knew. Everyone was informed. It was a waste of time.

    He didn’t consult Congress. Now they want to impeach him again. Can’t these nitwits get anything right? Who even knows what the truth is anymore; the law, the procedure, or the unwritten rule? The Constitution and the Unconstitution-tution. Maybe they declare; it’s time to amend the War Powers Resolution and roll back executive power.

    Members of the Armed Services Committee were notified via X. Nobody knows anything. The LA Sheriff’s Department felt compelled to tweet that they stand with Iran, only to delete it moments later.

    What do our allies think? What did they know? What will they do about it? You flip through the news and it feels like every channel is reading from the same script. ChatGPT has practically written the entire conflict. We’re now on the brink of World War III, as a small Middle Eastern country declares the Western powers can’t use their waterways. It’s starting to feel like a more absurd, 1984. Today we’re at war with the East—the Middle East.

    Russia is drawing red lines. Chinese memes declare they’ll never accept U.S. tariffs. Who’s writing the content? What’s the point? You end up with micro-tensions and microaggressions in your own mind. Subtle, constant undercurrents that unravel your moments of peace, triggering inflammation which has now become the root of modern illness. Turn it off. Shut it down.

    We no longer trust traditional media. And if we do, we must be fools. We’ve built our own East and West propaganda machines, warring with each other. What hope is there when truth is dead? The anchor stares blankly into the camera, floats through a teleprompter in Prozac euphoria, and delivers the one follow-up question meant to lull you into thinking there’s any critical thought happening at all.

    Then come the four-star generals, three-star generals, ex-CIA analysts, porn stars, New York Policy Institute fellows, brothers, geniuses, and baby-faced policy wonks like “Little Baby Billy Freeman” rambling on to soothe our nerves or stoke the fires in this, our season of discontent.

    As the Earth turns and we wait for blowback, we brace for the response. Unfortunately we still have to get up on Monday and to work. We pay our taxes. We pay our bills. We keep our kids in AAU baseball while the people of the world, collectively allow these man-children to lead us to the edge. The Doomsday Clock ticks two seconds to midnight.

    What can we do? What should we do?

    As the fish in The Cat in the Hat asks the children at the end: What would you do?

  • Father’s Day 2025

    Father’s Day 2025

    I asked my kids for a parade around me while I sat and drank my coffee. My son was quick to oblige, and my daughter was slower to follow after several prompts and me saying I needed to see some of those multi-thousand-dollar dance moves we’ve been paying for over the last 12-plus years.

    After a few rotations around the couch with various high steps, hand waves, and general silliness, the children came to a stop. Then I asked them for their rendition of the Von Trapp Family’s good night song and the light-hearted and fast Lonely Goat marionette show. We had a great laugh and reveled in the silliness of the moment.

    I love this time, and I love being their father.

    We then had to complete the Daily Stoic, a tradition now in our home, reading one of Ryan Holiday’s carefully curated stoic quotes, followed by his interpretation. We’ve done this consistently for several years. We do fall behind on the day-to-day reading and end up with these longer catch-up sessions on the weekend. This particular Father’s Day included over a week’s worth.

    I’m never impatient or in a rush during this time. I love reading the wisdom of these old sages and trying to find ways to connect it to my kids’ lives. Even reading this book now for the fourth time through, there is always new meaning to divine as we grow, mature, and age through life. Also just taking time to talk about things, to hear what they think, and be there together.

    I know that for the kids, sometimes it feels like a chore, maybe more than sometimes. I can see it when they lose focus or drift off into their own thoughts. Today, my son decided to stand up and move over to the mantle to pick up a baseball, which he immediately dropped. I rebuked him:
    “Can’t you just sit still for a few minutes while we do these?”

    It was all quickly forgotten. There was no punishment. We returned to the book.

    Today on Father’s Day, I get to officially be in charge, so we went slow and we took our time.

    We took turns reading the lessons, day by day. They’re both fantastic readers, and if one reads, I’ll ask the other what they thought it was about or how they’d apply it. Most days, to push through, they’ve become masters of repackaging, paraphrasing, and just regurgitating it back to me.

    After so many years, the base principle is the same:
    We focus on what is in our control and let go of what is not.

    I know, for myself and for them, that this is truly useful, practical, and meaningful information. It can and should be used in all parts of life. But I also know that only through daily and consistent repetition do the lessons and ideas really take root.

    I wait for that one glorious moment when they step back in a stressful situation, analyze it clearly, and make that cardinally guided decision; to be the good people I know them to be.

    I hope they will continue to find this wisdom meaningful as they grow, and that one day, they will pass it on to their own children. I know that when I’m a grandfather, I’ll still be doing this with their kids. I hope we’ll do it together whenever we can and that we’ll make the time.

    I think about my father’s consistent lessons, the things Dad would say, how he worked hard to be a good role model. He’d often say he was “constantly instructing,” providing constant vigilance against the dark arts. I’m especially reminded of him this first Father’s Day since he passed. His ways, his sayings, the phrases I knew him by and I can still hear them in my head.

    I remember when I would ask, “Dad, if you could talk to anyone from history, anyone at all, who would it be?”
    His answer was simple: “My dad.”
    I never could understand the answer. With all the amazing historical people, why he chose his father.

    I’m reminded of an exchange student party I attended at UConn. There was a priest there for some reason who described life as the tapestry of our lives, woven together by the people we love and who love us in return. The things they say and the places they hold inside of us remain, blending into this eternal tapestry we’re all a part of, stretching back to the beginning.

    It felt heavy at the time, surrounded by a nighttime fire and strangers all sharing in the moment, and it has stuck with me.

    Now slightly more than halfway through the average life, you reminisce, ponder, and travel around different paths. The midlife crisis of achieving the goals of society only to find out that most of them carry no weight. The greatness you never achieved. Dreams you never chased. The what-ifs you question. I move to the end and see my entire life.

    I know and have always known that being a father is the greatest gift. To be a great father is greatness.  It’s my vocation and the thing I take the most pride in. I’m grateful, thankful, and appreciative every day for the souls God chose me to be a father to, and I try in earnest not to take that for granted.

    Every day, I look to honor this gift by continuing to show up and be the example of a “good man” that my father was.  That’s what Father’s Day is. A thread pulled from the tapestry, handed down and tied with care.

    I don’t need a big celebration or the perfect day. I just want the time, the laughs, the moments that stack into something lasting.

    That’s enough.
    That’s greatness.
    That’s everything.