Wisdom is how you live.
This morning, a song from my youth opened something I didn’t realize I’d been carrying. Welcome to the Black Parade became the doorway—through absence, grace, and return—that led me back to a place I didn’t know I’d left. Sometimes the song you’ve carried the longest is the one that finally carries you home.
Driving helped me remember something older than cars: the need for moments that hold our presence. As the world automates more of life, we face the quiet loss of the places that once returned us to ourselves.
We return to Die Hard every December not for the action, but for its quiet truth: a man trying to come home, a marriage searching for its center, and the courage it takes to tell the truth during the holidays. This is a reflection on grace, reconciliation, and why even the loudest stories hold a quiet Christmas heart.
We remember Home Alone for the chaos, but its real Christmas story hides in the quiet scenes — a church pew, a forgotten woman, and two strangers rediscovering the courage to return. This is a reflection on grace, honesty, and the small human moments that bring us home.
How a tattoo taught me systems, drift, and the beginning of my discernment.
A reflection on what happens when a life stretches beyond its natural shape — and the quiet grace of returning to the river you really are.
What started as a curiosity about meme culture carried me back to rupture, to grace, to Christ,
and to the simple, sacred decision to be. Always.
This reflection traces how presence and grace live in tension: between clarity and kindness, between comfort and awakening,
between the Christ who soothes and the one who stirs.
A quiet remembrance on how every inhale is borrowed and every exhale is a gift — a reflection that begins in a shared bed, expands through family, and ends in communion with all that breathes.
I never really interviewed for jobs. Each one found me through presence. And this morning I realized — Christ has been my longest interviewer.
