A good shepherd doesn't leave when the night falls.
Jesus called Himself the Good Shepherd because He never runs from His flock. And if we follow Him, we’re called to stay, too—to be the ones who stand firm, who shine light, who protect, who love, even when it’s hardest. When the sky darkens and the wolves creep near, the shepherd doesn’t abandon the flock to save himself. He doesn’t run to safety while the sheep scatter in fear. Instead, he stands his ground, staff in hand, eyes scanning the shadows. He listens for the sound of danger, ready to defend, to guide, to protect. Because that’s what shepherds do. In the daylight, it’s easy to lead. The path is clear, the dangers are few, and the sheep follow willingly. But the real test comes in the night—when uncertainty grows, when the predators close in, when fear makes the flock restless. It’s in those moments that the shepherd’s calling is proven. And it’s the same with us. It’s easy to show up when life is bright, when the culture is calm, when standing for truth and love comes without risk. But what about when darkness falls? What about when division prowls, when the world is restless, when the easy thing is to walk away? That’s when the real shepherds stay. The world needs people who don’t flee when the night comes. Who don’t give up when fear spreads. Who don’t retreat when the wolves of hatred, despair, and confusion circle. Anyone can lead in the daylight. Shepherds stick around when the night falls.
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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. 2/2/2025 0 Comments Take Up Your Folding ChairThe thing about complaining is that it's habit-forming. And the thing about a complaining habit? If you do it long enough, you can begin to feel like you're making a contribution when you're not.
Most people complain about things they want changed. Almost all chronic complaining changes nothing. Seth Godin says, "The best way to complain is to make things better." I think that's a great litmus test for our potential complaints—is this going to make something better? I also acknowledge that some people complain simply to complain, to let off steam, to signal belonging to a particular group, or maybe to hide from their own fears or concerns. I understand all of that. But I'm writing to folks who think complaining is a change agent. It is Black History Month. This month, we recognize brothers, sisters, and movements that built fights to make things better—fights that transcended the misconception that change can be won by complaining. I love the story of Shirley Chisholm, born in 1924 to immigrant parents from Barbados and Guyana. Chisholm didn't just complain about the barriers she faced as a Black woman in America—she shattered them. In 1964, after years of deep community service in her Brooklyn neighborhood, Chisholm was elected to the New York State Assembly, becoming only the second African American woman to serve in that capacity. Then, in 1968, she became the first Black woman elected to the U.S. Congress. Chisholm gained a reputation for her boldness (which is maybe the opposite of complaining) and was famously quoted as saying, “If they don’t give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair.” Not to be limited by where she could take that folding chair, in 1972, Chisholm became the first Black woman to run for a major party's presidential nomination. Her campaign slogan? Unbought and Unbossed. Chisholm faced what felt like unbeatable odds in her run for the nomination. She had no support from white politicians and very little from black male leaders. Yet—she ran anyway. She didn’t complain about being an underdog. She just kept showing up with her folding chair. Chisholm didn’t win the nomination, but she wasn’t done. She went on to finish seven terms in Congress before retiring in 1983. From there, she became a professor at Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts, teaching politics and women’s studies. She mentored young students, especially women and people of color, encouraging them to engage in politics and public service. Later in life, Chisholm reflected, “I want to be remembered as a woman who dared to be a catalyst for change.” There is nothing daring about complaining. It takes far more energy than boldness to complain—and that energy is often an energy-suck for people looking for spaces to fuel their courage to fight and make things better. There will always be reasons to believe there is no seat at the table for us. There will always be reasons and opportunities to complain about that. Or—we can see it as the best reason to pick up a folding chair. Fixing things never happens by complaining that things are broken. Fixing things always happens when people like Shirley Chisholm set aside complaining in favor of making something better. For Chisholm, that change started in her Brooklyn neighborhood as a young black woman and ended with her being posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom a decade after her death. Unbought. Unbossed. 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. 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. 1/18/2025 0 Comments Close Your Eyes, See The WorldI watched a news story last night about a college student, blind since birth, doing color commentary for an NBA G league team in Delaware. This young man can't see a thing, but relays the action to fans listening in on the radio as if he doesn't miss a thing.
When asked how he does it, he said he listens. Listens to the direction the ball bounces up and down the court. Listens to which side of the rim it hits when a player misses a shot. Listens for the swish of a shot made. He said he listens to the refs and the players and the crowd reactions. He listens to it all. He sees the game through the sounds it produces. It got me wondering if maybe sometimes we should close our eyes more. Maybe there are times we are more equipped to see what's going on in the world around us when we can't actually see what's going on in the world around us. Maybe we would be better off in some conversations closing our eyes, having nowhere to go other than toward the words of the person across from us who longs for nothing more than those words to be heard by the person across from them. Maybe on a morning walk, stop and sit on a bench, close your eyes and listen to the world. I think there are times the world is trying to tell us things that we miss while trying to see all that we think the world is begging us to see. I didn't finish watching this news piece and find myself longing to be blind. But I did find myself wondering if this young man, in his blindness, might at times see things in the world that I, full of sight, often miss. I found myself wondering if the way to gain a better understanding of the world at times, if the way to better know the people around me, is to simply close my eyes and listen. It's worked miracles in one young man's life. Close your eyes.... 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. |
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 |