Most marriages-and meaningful relationships in general-don't suddenly fall apart. It is most often a series of little breaks between two people who have no idea how to repair little breaks along the way toward one giant explosion. The mistake in the breakup is to believe the relationship blew up in the explosion and not in the little breaks along the way.
I find it interesting that when two people get married they are often asked if they will take each other for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health - but what I've never heard anyone ask is do you even know how to do worse or poorer or sickness? In a wedding ceremony, two people are never asked, do you have any idea how to fix this when it starts falling apart, because it indeed WILL start to fall apart? No, two people are asked to promise to hold something together that in all likelihood they have no practice or experience or witness to what it means to hold something together slowly falling apart. They make a promise in a moment that feels like beauty that can often become a promise held over the heads of a connection that has begun to feel more like hell. Dr. Curt Thompson says, "repairing ruptures is the way we create beauty and goodness in the world every bit as much as the way in which we create beauty in those places where it's easy to do." Thompson is saying that learning to repair small and big breaks isn’t just about preserving a promise—it’s about deepening and expanding beauty itself. In relationships, we often assume that conflict or distance is a sign of weakness or failure, but secure relationships aren’t those without rupture; they are the ones where repair happens consistently. Culturally, we celebrate love in its initial beauty—romance, friendship, connection—but we don’t talk enough about how love is just as much (if not more) about staying at the table when things get hard, when leaving feels easier, and when everything in you wants to walk away. We don't talk enough about love as owning our part, seeking understanding, and doing the slow, sometimes painful, work of rebuilding. I will admit, I was never good at the slow, sometimes painful, work of rebuilding. How could I have been? Most of the relationships in my life during the critical periods when I was learning about relationships looked far more like rupture than repair. It wasn't until after my marriage had completely fallen apart several years ago that I first heard about the kind of repair I'm writing about here. I don't know how it is, really, that when it comes to relationships we don't spend much time talking about rupture and repair. The way we build stronger brains is when neurons get disconnected and then reconnect with stronger signals. Our muscles grow when fibers tear and then rebuild stronger. Winter comes along in order to build a stronger spring. So much of life is about falling apart and coming back stronger. Yet, when it comes to relationships, we often simply rely on the promise of happily ever after. You know, Jesus came to earth because there was a rupture between God and us. Jesus died a brutal death on a cross to demonstrate there was no measure too painful for him to take to repair that rupture. Maybe we learned the lesson on that cross that repair is important and that God is always willing and quite anxious to repair our relationship with him. But maybe we overlooked an important part of that lesson, the part where God was telling us that the best way we can practice repairing our relationship with Him is to get good at repairing our relationships with one another. Repair not because God wants to prevent something beautiful between us from falling apart, but because repair is the foundation on which many of the strongest and most beautiful things are built. I live a life that is ruptured in many ways. I live in a world that is rupturing all around me, it seems. It all feels so challenging to many. I wonder if that's because we are so prone to see and feel rupture as a sign things are falling apart and not as an invitation to repair. I understand that. Many of us are much more experienced at rupture than repair. But I also know, all the way to death on the cross, repair is always worth fighting for. Rupture feels like the end. Repair is the promise that nothing ever is.
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Jesus often spoke in parables. He did so because he longed to reach people's hearts more than people's minds. Our hearts best connect at the intersection of each other's stories.
I've been playing around lately with turning some of my 3,000 articles into parables. Stories reach the heart sometimes in ways mere articles cannot. And my desire, like Jesus, is to reach hearts. With that said, I have turned an article I wrote last year into a story I want to share today. I'll link the original article in the comments. I'd love to know your thoughts. Stories always resonate with me, so this was fun to do. *** I sat on the edge of my chair, fingers gripping the neck of my guitar, pressing into the same old chords I had played a thousand times before. The wood was worn, the strings stretched thin, but it still felt like home. Safe. Predictable. Mr. Ellis sat across from me, listening, his fingers tapping on the music stand in front of him. When I finished the song, I let the last note hang in the air, waiting for his usual nod of approval. But today, he just sighed. "You play that well, Liam," he said, tilting his head. "But why do you never play anything new?" I shrugged, looking down at my guitar. "These are the songs I know." Mr. Ellis leaned forward. "I know. But are they still your songs?" His words caught me off guard. I frowned. "What do you mean?" He stood and walked to the shelf, pulling out a crisp piece of sheet music. He placed it in front of me. "Try this." I barely glanced at it before shaking my head. "I can’t play that." "You haven’t even tried." I sighed, feeling the pressure mount in my chest. "I just… I don’t know it. And I don’t want to mess up." Mr. Ellis watched me for a moment before speaking. "Keith, do you love music?" "Of course." "Then tell me this—when was the last time you felt something when you played?" I opened my mouth to answer but hesitated. I thought back to all the times I sat in this room, playing the same songs over and over. I told myself it was because I loved them, but now that I thought about it… maybe it was something else. A habit. A routine. Something I could control. Mr. Ellis nodded, as if he could see the wheels turning in my head. "I think, somewhere along the way, you stopped playing for the love of music and started playing for the safety of what you already know." I swallowed hard. "These songs… they remind me of when I started. Of when my grandfather gave me this guitar. Of when music felt… easier." Mr. Ellis softened. "I get that. But music isn’t meant to stay the same. It grows with you. And if you keep playing the songs of the past, you might never hear the music that’s waiting for you now." I stared down at my guitar, my fingers thoughtlessly tracing the strings. "Just try," Mr. Ellis said, tapping the new sheet music. "Not because you have to. But because maybe, just maybe, there’s a new song inside of you that’s been waiting to be played." I hesitated, then slowly set my fingers on the frets. I strummed once. The chord was unfamiliar, a little shaky, but there was something about it—something alive. And for the first time in a long time, I played not from memory, but from possibility. *Story is based on the following article written in 2024: https://www.rkcwrites.com/rkc-blogs/dont-let-the-emotions-of-your-past-write-the-songs-of-your-future 1/29/2025 0 Comments Picking The Right FightsThousands of my friends and colleagues across the state and country woke up yesterday morning having had their livelihoods threatened while they slept. A late-night executive order was issued from the office of the president that paused all federal funding that pays our salaries and supports the work we do for our youth, families, and communities.
The memo gave almost zero details as to what the pause would entail; even by the end of the day yesterday, none of us had been given any assurances that our jobs—or our opportunity to serve—were safe. The memo simply stated that funding would be paused while the administration assessed how the money was being spent. I believe that's a good idea. Everyone in leadership at that level has a right—a responsibility—to assess how the money they oversee is being spent. There is, however, a good and a bad way of going about that. I personally would probably say, "Let's take a look at how the money is being used and determine whether this is good stewardship going forward." A bully, however, would take your money first and then make you prove you are worthy of having it back—while making you live in fear as he decides, without you. This memo took the approach of the latter. Of course, this is all illegal. A judge put a temporary pause on the pause yesterday afternoon. But this is the fight this president wanted from the start. Now, my colleagues, our programs, and I have been reduced to pawns in his battle. In 2023, this president said he would fight the 1974 law that prevents a president from unilaterally sending out a memo in the middle of the night to immediately halt funding—funding that provides jobs, sustains communities, and supports families. Funding that enables a father to provide for his two teen sons. And now, he has sent that memo. And now, he has the fight he wanted to pick. Some have described the anxiety and chaos many of my colleagues are experiencing as a natural consequence of the memo. That may be true—but it was also premeditated. The emotions were the plan. They were not an unforeseen outcome. Because emotions fuel a fight. The outrage sparked by a memo only fuels the emotions of those who support it—emotions that serve to strengthen a man’s push for sole control over how every dollar is spent in this country. Sole control to take back money the moment he disagrees with how it's being used. Even money that, through constitutional processes, was already promised to the people and communities who depend on it. Yes, I am anxious this morning. Yes, it would have been easier to stay silent than to write this. But there is great power in having the details. There is even greater power in withholding them. And yet, the greatest power of all is in sharing them. Not opinions about a man—but the truth about how his choices impact the people I care deeply about. In the end, I may end up without a job. But that will not stand in the way of my fight. A fight I live to pick, even if imperfectly. A fight commissioned by my God—not by anyone who pretends to be God. A God who created diversity. A God who died on the cross for equity. A God who enters into the heart and soul of every human He has ever created with the same message: You are included. No memo can stop that commission. I am grateful to be surrounded by so many in this state and beyond who serve their communities with love, heart, passion, devotion—and fight. Theirs is the fight that makes me most emotional. A late-night memo may suggest you are expendable. But I have been in your communities. And your communities tell a very different story. Thank you. To me not a one of you will ever be expendable. 1/28/2025 0 Comments Look Forward, Not FarSteven Furtick says, "Look forward, not far."
I’m sure much of my depression in life has resulted from looking too far. And at times, it still does. It’s a cycle of sorts. You can clearly see where you want to go—the relationships you long for, the career achievements you hope to reach, the father you want your boys to see you as. You can see it all. But in seeing it, you also see every step it will take to get there. I think I’ve spent much of my life looking forward to my future while hiding from it at the same time. Maybe that’s a definition of depression—looking forward to a future with an intimidating path. Faith tells us it’s good to know where we’re going, but it calls us to be present where we are. Faith tells us it’s wise to have a destination, but we will never reach it if we spend our lives dreaming of arrival instead of living the day we are in. I have often resisted plans in my life. Plans can feel like a long, slow road to where I want to be right now. But that’s a me problem. Plans don’t produce anxiety. What produces anxiety is focusing on steps beyond today’s step. Worrying about next year’s steps instead of working on today’s step—that’s what creates anxiety. Jesus once said, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” Sobriety feels impossible if I fixate on staying sober next week instead of embracing the sobriety of today. Healing from trauma feels overwhelming if I worry about emotions that might be triggered next year instead of holding onto the peace I can find today. Writing an entire article can feel daunting. Writing this sentence makes it feel far less so. Andy Stanley says, "Direction, not intention, determines destination." Sometimes we get caught up wondering—How much further do I have to go? But in reality, the better question might be: Am I going the right direction? Direction is determined by what we do with this moment. With this day. String enough days together in the right direction, and one day, tomorrow will start to look a lot like where you wanted to go. I have a hard time driving at night. It’s harder for me to see. So I slow down. I pay attention to the road right in front of me. That’s great advice for driving at night. And in that, there’s also some great advice for living during the day. Look forward. Not far. It was around 60 A.D. The apostle Paul was in prison in Rome. He wrote a letter to the Church at Philippi, a church he had established—the first church ever established in Europe—a church that held a special place in his heart.
In this letter, Paul gets vulnerable. This was not the first time he had been imprisoned for sharing his faith, and the Roman rulers were growing increasingly weary of how rapidly Christianity was spreading—spreading, in large part, because of Paul's letters. Paul says to the church: "If I am to go on living in the body, this will mean fruitful labor for me. Yet what shall I choose? I do not know! I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; but it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body." You can feel it in this letter—Paul is ready to quit. He desires to quit, fully knowing how much easier life would be if he simply transitioned to his life with Jesus. But Paul also knows that the same Jesus has called him to work that is far from finished. This letter was written to the Church at Philippi centuries ago. But as God works, His words are never limited by time or audience. I have been there lately—wrestling between a desire to quit and the knowledge that now, more than ever, it is necessary to keep going. I have been there, feeling like it would be easier to settle into a life of simplicity for myself rather than fighting a weary fight for others—a fight that can feel unwinnable at times. But that is the spiritual battle of this world. The devil always tempts us with the easy path, while the God who died on a cross in the name of progress and future is a constant reminder that the necessary path will rarely be the easy one. As a Christian, can I be grateful for anything more than a God who refused to take the easy way out? Every day, I work in communities, helping people better understand that how people are born, who they are born as, and how they experience their earliest years ALL have significant impacts on their future health and opportunities. It is science; it is research. It is not opinion, and it is surely not politics—even if the latter is full steam ahead trying to undo the former. Oh, how I desire to simply quit the battle. Oh, how it would be easier not to know my purpose. But I do. And at the heart of my Christian faith is choosing a life that is necessary over a life that is desired. So today, I go out into my community. Additionally I am called to write. And in a time when more and more writing is auto-generated by a computer—rather than generated from a heart sitting in a prison cell—it is easy to wonder: What is the point? The point is that those who read my words—especially my sons, who will one day hold these words as my legacy—will know me well enough to recognize that these words are not those of a robot but of a man who deeply feels the hurts and pains of others, largely out of the hurts and pains that never stop living within himself. Robots can't feel pain. Humans can. Robots can't meet people where they are. Humans can. And so, as much as I may desire to turn my writing over to the robots, it is necessary for me—and for others—that I continue to fight with the pen I have. With the opportunity that God has given me to choose necessary over desired. Many of us are also in that place today. Let go or keep going? Choose desire or choose necessity? We all have unique contributions to make in this world. Often, those contributions change the world when we decide they are important enough to carry forward—even when the momentum of the world is standing against us. I want to encourage you: Your work is more necessary than ever. Keep going. Choose necessary. One of the cruelest aspects of trauma is it damages the system we most need for healing. Much more than trauma impacts the internal systems of an individual, it damages the systems an individual uses to attach to others. It hinders their capacity to have meaningful relationships. And by meaningful, I mean healing-centered relationships.
Before I go any further, let me say, when I'm talking about trauma, I'm talking about anything that happens to someone that becomes too overwhelming for them to handle on their own. Because whatever that is, if it causes one to live in a prolonged state of feeling overwhelmed, that's when the whatever that is becomes destructive to self and potentially others. And coming from someone who works in the world of trauma, as someone who lives through his own, I assure you many people are carrying around more than one 'whatever that is.' We often make the mistake of deciding that what someone else has experienced wasn't traumatic. But our personal definitions of traumatic do nothing to temper what feels overwhelming to the person whose experience we are judging. In fact, it often makes it a bigger burden to carry. What often makes an experience go from plain hard to downright traumatic is when an individual doesn't have someone in their life buffering them from the effects of the experience itself, and absorbing some of the harsh impacts of that experience in the aftermath. So an individual carries that experience forward in isolation. It's important to know, today you will see plenty of people, young and old and of all colors surrounded by people, maybe they will be smiling and laughing and skipping about, yet - they are living in isolation. They may have a few thousand Facebook followers, yet - they are living in isolation. When you are using all of your energy to hold something in, to hide something that is longing to get out, you have no energy left to attach to the people who might possibly receive what you are holding. It takes far less energy to smile and laugh and skip about than it does to hand over a burden to a healer. The smile is often the greatest tool we have to protect us from anyone ever being curious about wounds beneath the smiles. It's not like we don't want to hand our burdens over; inside we all long to be healed. But the attachment system we use to connect to one another in healing has long been broken and further disassembled by prolonged isolation. It's left us ill-equipped to both hold onto and share our burdens. Maybe that is trauma's deepest wound. Those who have an easy time handing their burdens over to another have no idea how impossible that feels to someone who has never experienced the handing over of a burden. So we begin to blame the burden holder for their unwillingness to heal, when in reality their system to heal has been long broken. Or in many cases, never created at all. Often times, trying to teach someone how to hand over a burden - how to be vulnerable - is like trying to teach someone to speak a language who has never had a voice at all. More and more, I cross paths with the voiceless. And it breaks my heart. Mainly, because no one has to remain voiceless. They just don't. First, we can all begin to create safe places for one another to share our burdens. We can stop judging one another's burdens, we can stop deciding for one another whether or not one should feel overwhelmed by their experiences - both past and present - and just accept overwhelmed. Accept it with an ear and with love. It's also important to know, often the overwhelmed aren't coming to you. Their system that hands over burdens is broken. Vulnerability is an invitation we offer, a peace and safety we roll out like a carpet in front of another. It is not a skill we teach. I'll say that again; vulnerability is an invitation we offer not a skill we teach. Sometimes we simply need to offer, "you look overwhelmed, friend. I get it. I'm here if you'd like to share some of it." I am here to absorb some of the impacts of your experience. And for the burdened. Burdens are hard. But burdens grow like a fire on gasoline when stored in isolation. I know in many ways isolation isn't your choice, but deciding I no longer want to feel isolated is. "No one will understand" is a lie your burden is telling you. I get it, not everyone WILL understand. Not everyone wants to. But someone does. I promise you. Begin the search for that someone. Maybe it's a counselor. A pastor. A friend. Not everyone understands that your system for finding a healer is broken. Not everyone feels your isolation, and many who do will blame you for it. But your life is worth the search for the one who will feel it without judgment. So search. Please search. Because when people ask me today - and even when they don't ask me - I will say, our greatest collective threat IS our isolation. It's such a lethal combination - the damage our isolation does to us as individuals and to our greater togetherness and unity - AND - layered on top of that - is the reality that we are better than ever at hiding the degree to which we experience isolation. We need a revival. A meeting in the middle of people who are willing to ask, "are you ok" - and the people who are bravely walking toward them with a willingness to offer up "I am not ok." Our world is not ok. Our attachment systems are broken. But they can be healed. They can be - if we will meet in the middle. The hurting and the healers, just meeting in the middle. 1/24/2025 0 Comments Are You A Believer Or A Belief?One of the biggest transformations I’ve made in my life is choosing to live as a believer rather than as a belief.
Deion Sanders says that when you’re a believer, you’re the creator of your own destiny. When you’re a belief, you are simply living out what people think you are—what society has projected onto you. For much of my life, I lived according to what people thought I was or what they believed I was capable of. I soaked up every one of those perceptions—some positive, some not so much—and I lived up to what others believed about me. But when you live out what people believe about you, you live life as a belief, not as a believer. Then one day, you wake up and realize you’re in a place that represents the grand sum of what others believed you could or couldn’t do. A place shaped by what others decided was right and wrong. And you wonder: Have I been living a life created for me, rather than a life I’ve created for myself? That’s why I take every opportunity to challenge my two boys. I challenge them to ask themselves: What do I believe about who I am? What do I believe is right and wrong in this world? What do I believe I can become—not based on what others want me to be, but on what I long to become? Growing up, I experienced a lot of “go here or else” directions. But in the end, you resent the “or else” more than you appreciate the place you were sent. You reach a point where you realize that the belief you’ve become doesn’t look anything like the believer you were meant to be. Today, all of the directions I pursue begin with one question: What do I believe? What do I believe I can be in this relationship? What do I believe I can create to impact the world? What do I believe being a dad looks like? What do I believe a good and kind person looks like? Sometimes, my answers align with what others expect. Sometimes, they don’t. But I no longer let those differences tempt me into returning to being a belief instead of a believer. It’s an interesting question to reflect on: Am I living as a believer or as a belief? Am I creating my destiny, or does my life simply reflect what others have believed for me? Am I blazing a trail, or am I blindly stumbling along one? Sometimes, people believe the best for us. Other times what they believe about us robs us of becoming our best. Until you decide what you truly believe about yourself and your path, you’ll never know the difference. Be a believer. And encourage the people around you to do the same. I rarely struggle deciding what to write about in the mornings. The words usually come to me.
Naturally. From somewhere more beautiful than me. Like magic. But as I was wrestling a bit this morning, feeling the tension of being at a loss for words, a dear friend sent me snow images from the beach. This particular image ended up being the words I was looking for. This image ended up being the magic. From somewhere more beautiful than me. This photo, the rarest of scenes, a snow-covered beach in eastern North Carolina. The ocean meeting the cold hush of winter's touch. Magic. The world has felt harsh to me lately. And if I'm not careful harsh can make me harsh. It can rob me of my magic. Harsh can lead me to believe there is no longer magic to be found at all. But the truth is, magic rarely presents itself without an invitation. It isn’t something we stumble upon by accident, at least not often enough to sustain us. No, magic is something we must actively seek, commit to - even fight for. Magic is found in a deep conversation, in an unexpected act of kindness, in the realization that you are still here, still breathing, still capable of love. But the magic is also found in the unexpected—like snow on a beach, where it shouldn’t be. A contradiction. A blending of opposites. Warm meets cold, ocean meets winter. A reminder that life is full of juxtapositions: grief and joy, despair and hope, endings and new beginnings. Sometimes magic is inviting in the opposite when the opposite feels so out of reach. Maybe that’s what faith is—the belief that magic still exists even when it doesn’t look or feel obvious. The willingness to seek it out, even when the world and the news cycle tells us otherwise. There is something rebellious about refusing to let the heaviness win. About choosing to find joy in a world that constantly tells you there’s no room for it. About choosing to see beauty, even when the world is cluttered with brokenness. So, I keep looking for the magic. Even when times don’t feel magical. Even when the world tells me not to bother. Because there, on a cold, quiet beach, where snow shouldn’t be, I’m reminded: Magic is still here. You just have to go find it. And it is often our dearest of friends who show up at just the right time to remind us of that. Like magic. For many years when I'd go to bed I'd feel motivated to write when I got up in the morning. Then I'd go to sleep, wake up, and suddenly the motivation was gone.
Does sleep steal motivation? Mel Robbins says, "I think motivation is complete garbage; it's never there when you need it." Motivation is readily available when you're planning—thinking about doing something, penciling it into your calendar. But when the time comes to actually do it, motivation is often long gone. I am sure many of us have encountered this in the new year. The changes we were motivated to make December 31 have been changes we haven't felt like making now that it's time to make them. So maybe the problem isn’t a lack of motivation, but a lack of capacity to act when we don’t feel like it. Robbins says real motivation comes AFTER the doing, not before. It comes AFTER we start doing the thing we want to do but don't feel like doing, and then, in the process of doing, we start feeling like the person we wanted to become as a result of making the change we wanted to make. Motivation doesn't get us going, getting going creates the motivation that keeps us going. Thinking about writing in the morning no longer motivates me; being a writer does. Dreaming, listening to inspiring podcasts, reading all the books, even finding mentors—none of that will be enough to become who you long to be. All of those things can be great resources, but ultimately your greatest resource will be figuring out how to do what you know you need to do when you don't feel like doing it. For me, figuring that out was understanding that sometimes my feelings are not my friends. When my feelings tell me I am sad, there are many times that it's healthy for me to sit with that sadness and know it is there to help me process a difficult time. But when my feelings tell me I don't feel doing something I know I need to do, when my feelings tell me I don't feel like writing in the morning when I know writing in the morning is who I am, then I need to get better at telling some of my feelings where to go. Because the ultimate motivation in life comes from being who you longed to be. From becoming who you longed to become. From living out a path you were created to walk. You’ll never go down that path if you wait to feel like walking it. You’ll only feel like walking it once you start moving Robbins says waiting on motivation is the kiss of death, so I guess it can be interpreted that NOT waiting is the kiss of life. So, which kiss—life or death? The choice is ours. Irish fans, how are you feeling after the tough loss?
I'll answer for this Irish fan. Blessed. On a day when I needed reminding that my joy, my contentment, my blessings do not come from man, or the systems and games of man, this Irish team showed up for me in a beautiful way. But they lost, one might say.... In the post-game interview, Notre Dame quarterback Riley Leonard was asked about the loss. He answered first by thanking Jesus, and then pointed to the Godliness and character of his opponents. Then he answered the football question. Yesterday, I spent time reading from the book of Jeremiah: Thus says the Lord (Jeremiah 17: 5-6): Cursed is the man who trusts in man and makes flesh his strength, whose heart turns away from the Lord. He is like a shrub in the desert, and shall not see any good come. He shall dwell in the parched places of the wilderness, in an uninhabited salt land. That sounds harsh, but in my life it is truth. The more I trust what man can do for me the more my eyes turn away from what God is always doing for me. The more I let the victories or defeats of man taste like victories or defeats in me, the easier it is for me to forget that in God there is no such thing as defeat. Defeat is something created by man. Victory is the very nature of God. Was I disappointed with the loss? Tremendously. But certainly not nearly as disappointed as Riley Leonard and his teammates who poured their hearts and souls into what turned out to be an incredibly exciting season for us Irish fans. But what Riley Leonard modeled during his press conference is that disappointment doesn't have to equal defeated. A loss in a human game doesn't have to feel like a curse. Because blessing and curse is not determined by human outcomes but by whom we turn to before, during and after those outcomes. Riley Leonard lost a human game. But Riley Leonard is experiencing victory today because of where he places his trust before and after the game. The man in me would have loved to have seen the Irish break their 35 year national championship drought. The Christian in me knows there are far worse droughts to endure. I know it because I have lived those droughts. Jeremiah goes on to say: Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord. He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green. Thank you Riley Leonard, and to all of your teammates, for reminding us in your moment of deep disappointment that you are not defeated, and that if our trust is in the right place, even in defeat today our shamrocks are all still a beautiful shade of green. |
Robert "Keith" CartwrightI am a friend of God, a dad, a runner who never wins, but is always searching for beauty in the race. Archives
February 2025
CategoriesAll Faith Fatherhood Life Mental Health Perserverance Running |