I wake up and go thru my routine and continue through my day ignoring what is going on around me and in the world at large. Our world is literally on fire and is filled with uncertainty…yet we pretend it’s just another day. My day is filled with addressing the priorities of others and embracing the belief that those priorities are the only important thing in the moment simply return me home each night exhausted and spent. The days are sometimes…just a grind.
So this morning while I’m on the treadmill…this video pops up on my feed… and after watching it…I find tears are streaming down my face. What the heck! Where did that come from? So I watched it again…
What I realized was that my soul needs this and it thirsts for me to step back and recognize the simplicity and beauty of the simple things in my life and world…music, smiles and playfulness…things that the grind feeds on… and robs me of.
So today…I will.
I’ll take a moment to watch it again…and again and begin to embrace the life, the beauty and the goodness…not only of this life…but in the one that gave it to me.
I’ve been wrestling with a real question lately: Will AI replace me as an Owner’s Representative?
I’m not paranoid, and I’m not doom‑scrolling myself into a panic. I’m just looking down the road and asking whether the value I believe I bring to an Owner is still going to matter. That’s not insecurity — that’s reality.
Here’s where I’ve landed:
No, I don’t think AI will replace me. But I do think it’s going to expose anyone whose value is mostly administrative.
What AI Does Exceptionally Well
AI is phenomenal at the “mechanical” side of this job.
It can tear through an entire spec book in minutes and flag proprietary language, insurance requirements, coordination gaps — all the stuff that normally eats half a morning. It can take a chaotic set of meeting notes and turn it into clean action items. It can summarize weeks of minutes without ever losing focus. Ask it to pull every RFI tied to a detail or every submittal referencing a specific keyword — it’s done before you finish the sentence.
It crushes administrative work.
And if I’m honest, administrative work consumes a big chunk of an Owner’s Rep’s week. Document control, summaries, cross‑referencing — all necessary, all time‑consuming.
AI compresses that work. And that’s a tool I’m more than happy to leverage for an Owner’s benefit.
What It Cannot Replace
Where AI stops is where my “real” job starts.
It doesn’t walk a jobsite and feel that something’s off before the numbers show it. It doesn’t pick up on tension between trades. It doesn’t hear the hesitation in a contractor’s voice when they say, “We’ve got it covered.”
It doesn’t read silence in a meeting.
AI can tell me what the contract says. It cannot tell me whether enforcing a contract clause today will cost the Owner more relational capital tomorrow.
It can draft a tough email. It cannot decide whether sending it will escalate a situation that doesn’t need gasoline.
AI doesn’t carry someone else’s money. It doesn’t sit in front of a Client and answer hard questions. It doesn’t navigate the politics of a large team with competing expectations.
I do.
When a contractor subtly shifts risk downstream, AI might flag inconsistencies. But it won’t lean across the table and calmly ask, “Help me understand how this wasn’t coordinated.”
That takes a relationship. That takes judgment. That takes accountability.
The Distinction Is Simple
AI processes information. I process reality.
AI reads documents. I read people.
AI identifies patterns. I interpret consequences.
AI can tell me what is happening. I decide what we’re going to do about it.
And in construction, decisions carry financial, legal, and relational weight.
AI has no skin in the game. I do.
How My Role Will Evolve
If AI removes the administrative burden, what’s left is the part of the job that actually matters.
Weak Owner’s Reps will get exposed. Paper‑pushers will struggle.
But the strategic, relational, risk‑aware Owner’s Reps — the ones who think ahead, see around corners, and protect the Owner’s interests — become more valuable.
Less time formatting minutes. More time planning the next three moves. Less time chasing paperwork. More time advocating for the Owner.
AI becomes the analyst. I become even more fully the advisor.
My role doesn’t disappear. It sharpens .
And honestly, maybe that’s the refinement we’ve needed.
Because when the grunt work fades away, what remains is a person — a human being with judgment, intuition, and accountability.
If I had a million dollars, I would’ve produced a TV show called Do Over. The whole idea would be simple: sit down with people and ask them about the one moment in their life they’d love to go back and experience again—not to fix it, not to guarantee a better outcome, but just to step back into it one more time. A true do over.
The show would start by interviewing the person about why that moment mattered so much. Then we’d follow them as they prepared for it—getting in shape, relearning old skills, losing weight, getting a makeover…whatever it took to authentically place them back in that moment. After that, the producers would recreate the situation so they could actually live it again. Cameras rolling, we’d all watch it unfold—however it unfolded. And when it was over, we’d sit with them again and hear what changed, what surprised them, what stung, and what healed. They’d get to see the moment through a new lens, with the wisdom they’ve gained over time.
I think that would be a great show to watch.
So what would my do over be? No question—I’d play one more quarter of high school football for my hometown Radford Bobcats.
Back then, I was #5, the quarterback. In a small town, that wasn’t just a position; it was an identity. I worked hard, but the truth is, I was average at best. I didn’t have the size, the speed, or the smarts. My passes weren’t all that accurate, and I wasn’t all that strong. When I look back on those games—now more than 50 years ago—I’m met with a familiar feeling of regret. I regret not knowing then what I know now. I regret not throwing catchable balls instead of trying to knock my receivers down with them. I regret not relaxing, not enjoying the game, not appreciating the guys around me. For decades, my memories were nothing but fumbles under center and incomplete passes.
Those were my memories…until recently.
I stumbled across a YouTube channel that had many of my old games from 1974, 1975, and 1976. I’ve spent hours watching them—good games and not‑so‑good ones. But the thing I’ve enjoyed most is seeing that young version of me play a whole lot better than I remembered. I did complete passes. I didn’t fumble as much as I thought. Sure, I drifted too deep in the backfield on sweep plays (just like Coach Lyndon always told me not to), but overall…I was better than the story I’d been telling myself for 50 years.
In a way, I got a small do over—at least in my own mind.
And it makes me wonder: what else in my life would look different if I could see it again? Old relationships I’ve beaten myself up over—would they look the same? Moments I’ve replayed through the years—would they feel different now? And the filters I’ve adopted, the ones I use to interpret the world based on how I think something went—how accurate are they, really?
I hope someone out there reads this someday and has the resources to create a show like Do Over. I think it could do the world a lot of good. It might teach us that our memories aren’t always the truth, and that we always have the chance to revisit moments with more grace, more understanding, and more kindness toward ourselves.
And if that day ever comes—if it’s not too late—sign me up as contestant number one. I’d love one more quarter.
When I was a kid, Saturday mornings meant parking myself in front of the TV to watch Superman. George Reeves was the man back then, and everything was in black and white. The episodes were basically the same every week: mild‑mannered Clark Kent, Jimmy Olsen, and Lois Lane all working at the newspaper… and sooner or later, either Jimmy or Lois would end up in some life‑threatening situation. As the clock ticked toward their pending doom, “mild‑mannered Clark Kent” would catch wind of the trouble and sprint off to the nearest telephone booth. He’d duck inside, and moments later he’d burst out as Superman.
The music always made it even better. It would shift from this tense, perilous buildup to a full‑on powerful crescendo the second Clark disappeared into that booth. Then—boom—Superman would leap into action. People would look up and shout, “Look… up in the sky… it’s a bird… it’s a plane… no… it’s Superman!”
Those moments lit something in me. I genuinely believed I could be Superman. I’d even clothespin a bath towel to the back of my T‑shirt as a cape, climb onto the playhouse in our backyard, and jump off just to see if maybe—just maybe—I could fly.
Fast forward…
Now here we are at the start of Christmas week. The shopping is done. The big meals are planned. Everything’s lined up for the usual adult version of Christmas. But I don’t want this moment to just be about buying and eating. I want to pause and sit with the significance of what we’re actually celebrating—and why it matters.
What we’re celebrating is the birth of Jesus. But not just that—so much more. From the very beginning, as Genesis tells it, God created man and woman and walked with them in the garden. Everything was perfect. God enjoyed them, and they enjoyed Him. Then that relationship broke, and sin entered the world. A perfect God and sin can’t coexist, so a gap formed between the two.
The Bible then walks us through thousands of years of history—events, people, prophecies—all pointing toward the day that gap would finally be closed. And the thing is, only God could close it. Humanity couldn’t. God had to do it Himself… and He did.
So what Christmas really is—and why we celebrate it—connects right back to that Superman moment for me. It’s the moment Clark Kent steps into the phone booth. The music shifts. Everything changes. Good is about to overcome evil. The rescue is underway.
Christmas is God stepping into the world He created to close the gap between Himself and His beloved creation. It’s what people longed for and looked for over thousands of years, never imagining it would happen the way it did.
Christmas is the beginning of God’s rescue plan.
As I move into the days ahead, I can’t help but imagine what it must have been like for those shepherds out in the fields that night—when the sky suddenly filled with angels celebrating the arrival of the Savior. Each night, I’ll look up and remember… and be grateful… that God did what only He could do to remove the gap.
When I lived in Antigua, Guatemala, I loved taking photos of doors. Every walk through the city’s cobblestone streets felt like a gallery tour—brightly painted frames, weathered wood, ironwork patterns, and colors that seemed to hold centuries of stories. Each door was unique, and each one invited me to wonder: what’s behind it?
Doors aren’t just functional. They’re symbolic.
A closed door sparks curiosity. Opening it feels like stepping into possibility.
At the same time, shutting a door can mark the end of a chapter—a relationship, a season, or even a way of life.
That duality is what makes doors so powerful. They’re thresholds, both literal and metaphorical.
Think about the last time you walked past a house. Where did your eyes go first? The door.
The design, color, and condition of a door often reveal more about the people inside than any other detail.
Doors aren’t just seen—they’re experienced.
A solid door carries meaning, grounding us with its presence.
A door that opens smoothly reflects care and attention; one that creaks tells another story.
The click of a secure latch reassures us. A knock announces a visitor—sometimes urgent, sometimes familiar, sometimes unexpected.
These small details shape how we feel about safety, welcome, and belonging.
Next time you step out to run errands or return home after a long day, pause for a moment. Notice your door—the way it looks, feels, and sounds. It’s been quietly doing more than you think…
As I sit in this season of Thanksgiving, I find myself reflecting back on a recent post I wrote entitled “Gaps.” In that post, I shared about the spaces left in my life by the loss of people and pets who meant so much to me—those who shaped me, loved me, and influenced me in ways I’ll never forget. Those gaps are real, and they carry with them a weight of pain. Yet, as the holiday season approaches, I’ve realized something equally powerful: I am deeply grateful for the fact that those gaps exist at all. They are evidence of love, of connection, of lives intertwined with mine.
I’ve thought often about the people who stepped into my life and left such an impact. Their presence was a gift, and even though their absence hurts, I wouldn’t trade the gratitude I feel for having known them. Gratitude, I’ve learned, can live right alongside grief.
There’s a saying I’ve carried with me for years:
“What if you woke up one morning and only had those things you thanked God for yesterday?”
That thought always stops me in my tracks. It’s a reminder of how much we truly have, and how quickly we can overlook it until it’s gone. We are blessed beyond measure, and yet we forget.
This holiday season, my prayer is simple: that I remain in a constant state of gratitude—for what is, for what was, and for whatever comes. Gratitude doesn’t erase pain, but it transforms it. It reminds me that I am undeservingly blessed, and that every moment, every relationship, every gift is worth cherishing.
Thanksgiving is more than a noun. It’s more than a holiday. It’s a verb when lived out correctly. And that’s exactly what I plan to do—give thanks, not just in words, but in the way I live.
A year ago, I was back in my hometown of Radford, Virginia, sitting beside my 91-year-old mother’s bed. November felt like one long, emotional tide—rolling in, rolling out, never still. Some mornings she was alert, talking about life, faith, and family with that familiar spark in her eyes. Other days she slept, withdrawn, agitated, or simply tired of the weight of going on. Every hour carried a different version of her, and the emotional toll on all of us was heavier than I ever expected.
On December 2nd, she slipped quietly and peacefully into heaven. For that, I’m grateful. But the gap she left—between me here on earth and her now in glory—feels enormous. It’s a distance I can’t measure, and a silence I still don’t quite know what to do with.
Months before losing my mom, something similar—though different—happened. Our 12-year-old mini labradoodle, Maggie, whom we adopted just two years earlier, woke up with a purple abscess on her belly. One emergency vet visit turned into another, and by the end of that horrible day… Maggie was gone too.
My wife and I both broke that day. And if I’m honest… I’m still broken.
And if we rewind another six months, I lost someone else—someone who shaped my life in immeasurable ways. A man I met in 2005 at the Rock Church in San Diego, where he served as Executive Pastor and I had just come on staff to help build the new facility. He was the one who persuaded me to go to Sudan… the first of many mission trips that would forever change my faith and life. A best friend. A confidante. A pastor. A mentor. A brother. I loved that man. I learned so much about God through him.
These are the gaps in my life.
They’re the echoing voids—the empty spaces that don’t get filled, the hollows that remind me every day that something or someone once lived there. I try to ignore them sometimes. Other times I try to fill them with distractions or busyness. And some days, I try to just sit in the darkness of them, letting the ache wash over me.
But still… they remain.
I don’t know that they’ll ever fully go away. I’m not sure they’re supposed to. And I certainly don’t want the memories to fade or get watered down with time.
But their presence—their continued, pulsing presence—reminds me how deeply I loved them and how deeply they loved me. It reminds me of laughter, joy, purpose, faith, and seasons of my life that were richer because they were in them.
I’m grateful—truly—for having had them. I’m better because of them. Their fingerprints are on my soul.
But I miss them. Terribly.
And maybe that’s what grief really is… the sacred space between what was and what remains. The gap. The echo. The reminder of love that still has nowhere to go…
There’s a phrase I’ve heard a thousand times: “It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish.” And I get it—finishing matters. Finishing builds legacy. Finishing earns respect.
But here’s the part people forget:
If you don’t start… you can’t finish.
You can literally change the entire trajectory of your life with one simple decision—a start. A first step. A moment when faith rises just enough to push you forward. A moment where something inside you says, “Okay… let’s do this.”
We underestimate that moment. We underestimate the power packed into a beginning.
Because starting is emotional. Starting holds both excitement and anxiety. Starting whispers possibilities while fear whispers what-ifs.
And yet… every meaningful thing in our lives—every breakthrough, every relationship, every change, every accomplishment—was born in that fragile little moment called start.
It’s why I love Mondays. Most people dread them. I welcome them.
Monday is a built-in reminder from God: Here’s a fresh start. A reset. A new mercy. A clean page where nothing has been written yet.
Our lives are full of endless possibilities—but possibilities don’t become reality until we decide to move. At some point, we have to stop rehearsing the excuses, stop overthinking the risks, stop polishing the plans… and just start.
Start the habit. Start the conversation. Start the healing. Start the business. Start the apology. Start the prayer. Start the walk. Start the change.
It doesn’t have to be pretty. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to begin.
Because that first little step—the one nobody else notices—that’s the one that unlocks the finish line.
So today, whatever dream God has been whispering to your heart… whatever assignment you’ve been delaying… whatever change you know you need to make…
For years now, the classic Chick-fil-A chicken sandwich has been America’s favorite. In fact, it has ranked #1 most beloved fast-food sandwich in survey after survey, year after year — even topping national polls for the past decade. Think about that. In a world overflowing with options, combinations, “secret menus,” and over-engineered creations, the simplest sandwich of them all consistently rises to the top.
A bun. A piece of chicken. And a pickle.
That’s it.
No elaborate toppings. No complicated sauces. No fourth-degree-of-heat spice scale. Just simple. Yet somehow, it tastes better than the sandwiches that try ten times harder.
The natural question is: why?
Most people say it’s the way the chicken is seasoned or the magic of the coating. Others swear it’s the pickle. But the real secret — the thing most people never even notice — has nothing to do with the sandwich at all.
It’s the package.
Yep. That little foil-lined pouch the sandwich sits in is the unsung hero. Chick-fil-A figured out that keeping heat and steam sealed in preserves every bit of flavor. Because of that foil lining, the sandwich tastes just as good 30 minutes after it’s cooked as it does the second it comes off the line. The secret of its success is where nobody is looking.
And you know… the same is true for us.
We spend so much time working on the part of ourselves the world sees — the “sandwich,” if you will. Our appearance. Our accomplishments. Our intelligence. Our polish. We keep working on the outside because that’s what the world reacts to. People respond to what they can see, so we keep presenting, shaping, editing, improving.
But what if the true secret to our lives — the flavor, the warmth, the impact — lives in a place no one else is looking?
I believe it’s in what we believe.
It’s in the internal “foil lining” of our lives: How we see the world. How we interpret people. How we define ourselves.
Do I see good or evil around me? Is the world for me or against me? Am I a victim or a victor?
Nobody forces us to choose. Nobody demands that we believe one way or another. It’s 100% in our control — the one area no one else can touch. Yet it is the single most important thing we can do for ourselves, and maybe for the world around us.
We don’t always need to change the sandwich. Most days, we just need a better package — one built from hope, perspective, gratitude, and truth.
Choose wisely.
And here you were thinking it was all about the chicken. 🍗
The older I get, the more I realize golf has been quietly preaching to me for years. Not with a loudspeaker or a sermon… just with those small, stubborn lessons that show up somewhere between the tee box and the 18th green. And honestly, the parallels between life and golf are almost uncanny.
Every Shot Is a Start
In golf, you can’t drag the last hole into the next one. Trust me—I’ve tried.
But life works the same way. Yesterday’s mistakes, yesterday’s pain, even yesterday’s victories… they don’t get to tell today who you are unless you let them. God hands you a brand-new shot every morning. You just have to take it.
Your Setup Matters
I’ve learned—usually the hard way—that bad alignment will sabotage a good swing every time. Life is no different.
If my heart isn’t right… If my priorities are off… If my walk with the Lord is drifting…
Then even my best effort ends up feeling strained. The setup matters—in golf and in life.
Even Good Shots Get Bad Bounces
You ever hit a drive that feels perfect… only to watch it hop into a divot someone else left behind? Life does that too.
You can make the right decisions, love people well, work hard, pray hard—and still face something completely unfair. But that’s where character, resilience, and faith get tested. The bounce isn’t the story… how you respond to it is.
Stay Where Your Feet Are
My worst holes usually come from thinking ahead—thinking about the scorecard, the water on 16, the putt I missed back on 3. But the best golf I play happens when I’m fully present for this swing.
Same in life. Regret pulls you backward. Fear pulls you forward. But God meets you right where your feet are.
Small Tweaks Change Everything
Golf rarely changes with grand gestures—it changes with little adjustments most people don’t even notice. Life, too, is shaped by the small things.
A new habit. A gentler tone. A prayer you actually stop to pray. A decision to start instead of waiting for “perfect.”
Tiny shifts… big impact.
You Play Your Own Ball
One of the quickest ways to ruin a round is to compare your swing to somebody else’s. Life isn’t any kinder to comparison.
God didn’t give me someone else’s calling, someone else’s gifts, or someone else’s course. I play my own ball—and trust Him with the journey.
The Battle Is Mostly Mental
I don’t think I’ve ever played a round where my mind didn’t try to sabotage me somehow. Same in life.
Doubt, fear, insecurity—they whisper louder than they deserve. But the moment I breathe, reset, and remember Who walks with me… the whole game changes.
Just Keep Showing Up
Some rounds feel effortless. Others feel like a grind. But I never get better unless I keep teeing it up.
Life rewards that same quiet consistency—showing up even when it’s heavy, even when it’s slow, even when you don’t feel like you’re improving at all. That’s where strength is built.
It’s Not About Perfection
No one plays perfect golf. But the best players learn how to manage their misses. Life’s the same story.
God isn’t grading us on perfect performance—He’s shaping us through growth, humility, and grace.
The People You Walk With Matter
A good round becomes great when the company is right. Same with life.
Family, friends, and just the people who show up in the hard seasons and stay long after the scorecard is signed—that’s the real treasure.
