I told someone yesterday—someone who was once significant in my life—that I regret not taking the chance to repair a rupture when the opportunity came. I balked at it. I wish that choice had been as simple as yes or no, repair or not, but to say it was more complicated than that would be an understatement.
Dr. Curt Thompson says, “When it comes to ruptures, to repair them we must first imagine doing it, and without the imagination to do it, we never attempt it.” In the moment of that choice, I had never in my life focused on repairing a rupture. Not. Once. Ever. So not only did I lack the capacity to imagine what repair even looked like, I had no skill set whatsoever to pull it off. In my world, for all of my life, rupture looked like something you ran from, or yelled over, or crawled in a bed in the back room of the house pretending there was no such thing as rupture. Repairing the ruptures that tear two people apart is hard work. And if you've never experienced the beauty on the other side of that work—or even understood how the process works—what motivation do you have to enter into it? If you have only ever known the pain of rupture, why on earth wouldn’t you run from it, hoping the pain would just disappear? Especially when disappearing pain feels like a far more realistic option than building something from it. But here’s the truth: the pain of rupture never truly goes away. We carry it from one relationship to the next, and before long, every slight tremor in our current relationship feels like the 9.0 earthquake from the last one. Until there are no such things as tremors—every conflict, big or small, becomes an earthquake indistinguishable from earthquakes of the past. And eventually, everyone learns to run and hide under their heavy furniture at the first sign of an earthquake. I have had to work hard to reach a place where I can feel these tremors and remind myself: This is quite possibly NOT an earthquake. I have had to work hard to recognize that just because the ground shakes, it does not mean the earth is about to fall apart. I have had to make up for decades of NOT imagining the beauty on the other side of repair just to feel the slightest hint of hope that such beauty does exist. It is my hope to help people understand that what feels like an earthquake may simply be a tremor. It is my hope to help people stop running from the earthquakes that have rocked their lives—to help them see that their past ruptures are not the greatest predictors of disaster in the here and now. It is my hope that by helping people imagine repairs that have maybe not had that repair kind of imagination, that they too can begin to build a life on the foundations of ruptures and not on the run from them. Because if I have learned anything in my long life, it is this: You never outrun your ruptures. They will always find you. And when they do, you will have a choice—keep running or imagine repair. I know it can be hard to imagine repair, but beauty often comes on the other side of hard things.
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I’ve shared this high school memory before.
Back then, like now, wars were raging around the world. And in the early 80s, there were murmurs about reinstating the draft. I remember friends who were almost giddy at the idea. They had this bring-it-on attitude, ready to go off and fight. I didn’t get it. That wasn’t my reaction. My reaction was Canada. And how fast I could get there. That memory stayed with me—not in a way that haunted me daily, but in a way that subtly shaped something inside me. I think that was the first time I came face to face with the possibility that I wasn’t brave. That somewhere inside me I had adopted coward as part of my identity. I don’t think that way anymore. Because I’ve come to understand that bravery doesn’t always look like running toward war—even as I recognize that doing so may be one of the bravest things a person can do. Sometimes, bravery looks much smaller. At least on the surface. Bravery is getting out of bed in the morning—soaking in the first breath of the day when you’d rather not breathe at all. You get up not because you want to, but because if you don’t, something in you will wither. Because you know there are people who need the pieces of you that you still have to offer, even when you don’t feel like you have what it takes to offer them. Bravery is getting up and being a good and loving dad to your kids when you've lost all belief you can ever be that good dad. You do it not because you feel some sudden reassurance toward that belief, but because you'd rather feel like an incapable dad than a missing dad. Bravery is getting up and writing and sharing the insides of your heart, not because you need to prove you can share them, but because you so deeply refuse to ever go back to the place where you had no idea how to share those insides at all. Bravery isn't proving to the world who you are and what you stand for, bravery is being unable to sleep living out any version of you that doesn't look like who you are and what you stand for. It’s taken me a long time to get here. It's taken a long time to get from being a high school kid completely unaware of who he was to being a man who knows exactly who he is. There are still many days I'm not brave enough to be that man, but when I am feeling those less than brave moments, I don't lean into a need to prove I am that man, I lean into a fear of dying my way back to the man I used to be. Be brave today. Not to prove who you are, but out of a fear of turning into someone you are not. 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 1/28/2025 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. 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. 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. I am going to deeply miss our outgoing Surgeon General, Vivek Murthy.
No Surgeon General in the history of our country has done more to promote mental health wellness; no Surgeon general has done more to help us as a country come to understand that our mental and physical health are not even remotely different things. In a closing letter, Murthy revealed that he spent the better part of his two terms trying to answer the question: "What are the deeper root causes of the pain and unhappiness I encounter so often across our country"? He went on to say that, "answering that question is urgent because the status quo is harming our physical and mental health, robbing us of our optimism, and contributing to division and polarization." And the answer that Murthy came up with? He said, "After years of reflecting on the stories I have heard, delving into scientific data, and convening researchers, I have come to see there are three essential elements that fuel our fulfillment and well-being: relationships, service, and purpose. I spent 4 hours talking to school counselors in Chesapeake yesterday about how best to support students who are coming to school with mental health challenges. Which, really, is almost all of our students to some degree these days. And the one thing I came away with, the one thing I ALWAYS come away with, is the importance our students place, the craving they have, for relationships. A student coming to school with challenges almost always finds the less challenging path inside a relationship with someone at the school. Someone who sees value and purpose in them. Someone who often inspires in the student a desire to serve others and their community in beautiful ways they never would have discovered on their own. And it was also not lost on me driving home, listening to Murthy talk about his prescription for the "pain and unhappiness" he so often encounters, that in the midst of sharing time with those counselors yesterday, in the midst of living out a purpose that is deeply fulfilling to me, in the midst of serving others in a way I find meaningful and they seem to as well, this man, me, who battles his fair share of bouts with pain and unhappiness, felt entirely happy. I would not have traded that time yesterday for money or fame or power, the triad Murthy feels too many are pursuing with a false belief they will be the cure for their pain. On his way out, Murthy suggests we have a choice. We can choose "the status quo marked by pain, disconnection and division, or a different path of health, happiness, and fulfillment. Choosing the latter will require rethinking what defines success and a good life. It will require building our lives around the time-tested triad of fulfillment, grounded in relationships, service, and purpose." What I love most about Murthy's preferred choice is that it's not a choice we have to wait on the country to make, or even our neighbors or friends to make, it's one we can make each day. The choice to connect with friends and family in a deeper and more consistent way. The choice to identify the work or activities in life that fulfill us and lean into those activities, even if they don't make us rich or famous or powerful. And the choice to serve our neighborhoods and our communities in ways that make our being there value added. A lot of doctors throughout the ages have been credited with medical breakthroughs upon discovering various medicines and vaccinations and surgeries. Many of them indeed quite important. But maybe this nation's doctor has discovered the biggest breakthrough of them all. That the healthiest prescription we can all write for our lives is to return to the understanding we all evolved from. The understanding that our lives are absolutely dependent on our interconnectedness, on our service with and for one another, and it's in that understanding where we will find our truest happiness and fulfillment. Thank you for your service Surgeon General Vivek Murthy. It has truly impacted my life and so many of the lives I get to connect with. You were brave enough to call loneliness one of the greatest health risks of our times. I hope we will all be brave enough to connect with one another in ways that will eradicate that risk in the times to come. Do you have any scenes in your life people use to tell the whole story of your life?
I do. Divorce is certainly one of them. There are people who didn't spend one second inside my 22 year marriage, yet somehow feel like they know my marriage story based on watching my divorce scene. I have also made some poor choices throughout my life fueled by addictions and unhealthy habits. These are scenes I wish didn't exist but scenes I also know aren't the whole story. A lot of habits and addictions are born in unresolved pain, not in some wild desire to adopt addictions and unhealthy habits. Pain is often the unknown scenes that make addiction stories incomplete. I always think of Andy Dufresne in the movie Shawshank Redemption. Dufresne is convicted of murdering his wife and her lover, and portrayed as cold and emotionless during the trial. Most people assumed he was guilty because of that portrayal. But the movie goes on to show us the real Andy Dufresne. It shows us we didn't know the real Andy; we had no idea the stories that were written before the courtroom portray and those that would be written after that scene so harshly judged. I think it's also reasonable to note that not only do outsiders judge our whole stories based on individual scenes, but we often do that to ourselves. We make decisions or choices that leave us feeling guilt or shame, and we fail to give ourselves grace for the scenes that contributed to these choices, and at the same time fail to recognize that there are more scenes to be written in the story that currently feels like guilt and shame. The story is never over. Think of Peter. Peter, one of Jesus’ closest disciples, denies Jesus three times during His trial, even swearing that he doesn’t know Him. It's a heartbreaking scene, one of Jesus' most loyal followers, best friends, betraying him out of fear. Yet, one of the first things Jesus does after he rises from the dead is repair this bond between him and Peter, and then Peter would go on to become one of the boldest leaders of the early church. Jesus knew the betrayal scenes in Peter's story, but what Jesus leaned into more than those scenes was Peter's WHOLE story. He knew who Peter was before those betrayal scenes, and he knew who he needed Peter to become after those scenes. There are people in your life who don't know your whole story. There are days YOU don't fully recognize and give grace to your whole story. But God knows it. In every single moment, and in ever single scene of your life, God knows the whole story. And the beautiful thing is, our God, unlike humans, does not get stuck on scenes. Our God doesn't hold against us a bad moment or day or month or year. Our God is too busy adding grace to the scenes we've lived and writing the story of our scenes to come to spend any time judging or wrestling with us over any particular scene in our lives. It's a beautiful and healing thing to know that when we are judged by others or judged by ourselves over a particular scene, that it was just that - a scene. Maybe others want to call that scene the whole story. Maybe there are days even you call it so. But God never does. To God a scene is always a scene. Move on, he's nudging us. Move on from the scene and keep living the story God is trying to write. 1/2/2025 0 Comments Here's To Better In 2025This is the time of the year when we can become so obsessed with checking boxes that we forget to check on ourselves.
Many of us roll into 2025 after having researched new ways to eat, exercise, manage time, save money, read the bible, and countless other self-improvement ambitions. And in response, many of us have developed plans and goals and - checklists. Listen, those who know me know I've never been big on plans and goals and checklists. I'll also be the first to admit a little bit of all of those things sprinkled in my life would probably be helpful. I guess I have just seen too many people become so consumed with the plan that they lose total sight of where they are going. Or who they are going there with. I have seen too many lives become about checking all the boxes to the point they lose sight of what they ever wanted to become as a result of checking all the boxes. Checking boxes can be great accountability, for sure, until you lose sight of what you're actually accounting for. I have a few big health goals for 2025. I want to lose a few pounds. I want to exercise more. I want to improve my sleep. But the reason I want to do all three of those things is for one purpose. I want to feel better, and by that I specifically mean I want to have more energy and I want to feel more confident. I could design a spreadsheet that tracks my carbs and sugar (which I know are my key to losing weight), and I could print out all my Strava reports tracking my miles, and I could have a checklist I check each night when I don't stare at a screen before going to bed. Maybe all of that would help. But also maybe, I could get so obsessed with my lists and my reports that I'd forget to check in on me. I could forget to ask, am I feeling better? I'm not here to advocate for or against plans and lists. But I am here to advocate that you don't lose sight of you in your plans and lists and goals in the new year. That you don't lose sight of the better that you are aiming for. That you don't get so obsessed with your path that your forget about the you that is on it. And the people around you on it with you. Also, and maybe most of all, I advocate that you acknowledge that the you that is on that path is probably a lot better than you give yourself credit for. So whether you are checking boxes or not, when you check in on yourself, do so with grace. ☑️Here's to better in 2025. ☑️Here's to knowing we're already better than we know. I had a friend reach out yesterday and wish me a happy Thanksgiving. It wasn't a normal wish, though. Her words landed more powerfully than a wish - wishes usually come with such uncertainty and this felt far more assuring than uncertain.
This friend knew I was spending Thanksgiving alone. She knew one of the complications of divorce and estranged family ties in my world is often spending holidays alone. She said I just want to acknowledge that has to be hard. She said I want to acknowledge that sometimes choices that feel right don't often result in outcomes that feel good. She said I just want you to know I see it all. To be honest, those words - "I see it all" - made me very emotional in the moment, but then became quickly soothing. So soothing I had to spend some time reflecting on why. I would tell her later that after reflecting on her words, I realized I don't struggle with loneliness over the holidays. I suppose some of the broken parts of me have evolved to find great comfort in being alone. But I do sometimes struggle I think, and maybe often unknowingly, with feeling unseen during the holidays. Sometimes when the world gathers with their own over the holidays, those who don't have their own can feel hidden. Out of sight. Which isn't always the same as lonely. That is the only way I can explain why I felt so whole and completed by her words: I see it all.... We come into this world soothed by those who initially see us. Parents. Nurses. Caregivers. From the earliest seconds of our lives, we are soothed by those who see struggles in us that no one else in the world can see. And so maybe that never stops being our greatest source of soothing. Being seen. It is one of God's most loving promises to us, I see you always. Maybe it is the fear of NOT being seen, of battling struggles the world has assumed away or lost sight of in the treasuring of their own gatherings, maybe it is that fear that most chips away at the way we see ourselves. The way we hold ourselves in the dark. Until someone puts us quickly back together with, I see it all. I want to assure you this isn't a message from a man battling post-Thanksgiving Day blues. That is not the case. This is a message from a man committed to always wrestling with his blues and finding meanings that might make him stronger and wiser, and in his doing so, position him to offer light and hope to others. That has been such a pathway to fulfillment and joy for me. My friend's message to me yesterday took all of about 3 minutes. I can't overstate the power of those three minutes. I say this because we are rolling into the holiday season. For many, there are challenging stories in these holidays that they hope no one will ever see, and yet, at the same time, there are parts of their stories they fear no one will ever come to know at all. During this holiday season, not everyone struggling needs a dinner invitation. Not everyone struggling needs gifts. All that many need is a simple message that says, I see it all. Maybe a card or a note or a simple message that says I see it all, I want to honor your bravery and strength. That is a gift we can all give. And I want to assure you, beyond any wish or uncertainty, the worth of that gift is beyond a price most any of us could afford. These holidays for many are a time of great joy. And we should all soak up every ounce of that joy that we can possibly soak up. I am grateful for all the pictures of family gatherings and turkey trots and pure gratitude so many shared yesterday. They certainly became part of my joy. But for those who fear you were lost in that joy, unseen, I just want to say, I see you. I see it all. I see your strength and your bravery. And I hope you, like me, will discover there is great joy to be had in honoring your own strength and bravery. I am grateful for friends who offer that joy through the gift of being seen. And I encourage all of you, be that friend to someone someone in your life. Don't ever underestimate the power of a friend saying, I see it all. |
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
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