Satire or Steadfastness: Conscience in a World of 6,000 gods

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According to Erasmus (1941, p. 46), in his satirical work, he made fun of Pythagoras, who concluded that man is miserable. Man's central problem is not that he is miserable, but that he is unable to choose between good and bad at all times. Sure, he can refine himself, engage in university to gather knowledge, work, and invest to become better off than his neighbor which is why he works so hard in the first place, and through personal effort or Epicurean practice, which was an ancient train of thought that the ultimate aim of man is to pursue pleasure as an end in itself (Edwards, p. 5), can attain some peace of mind intermittently. Just look around our world today; those thoughts are not so antiquated as they are in our communities.

Instead, the real struggle lies in the inner workings of the heart and conscience. No matter how much a person debates or denies the existence of conscience, it remains—a persistent voice wrestling within, beyond the reach of self-improvement or external achievement. Can anyone be good or bad? And by extension, answer the question ultimately from a faith perspective or argument of reason or even those who just plain decide to avert the question as our scholars have posited (Hutchins, 1952a, p. 543) entirely, does not negate the fact that the real question remains at the end of the day, is there some type of supernatural being out there, a creator, God, or is man top of the food chain or is there some sort of reward or punishment for being good or bad as it relates to mans interaction with God (Hutchins, 1952b, p. 605)?

I exercise my own personal faith in the God of the Hebrews, or the Christian God, though I understand that many other cultures have their own views of a deity. According to some, there are more than six thousand gods (Hutchins, 1952, p. 544). That's a lot of gods to choose from, worship, obey, and honor. How do we remain steadfast, faithful, persevering, and head to our calling if we follow the Christian God? Paul encouraged early Christians to grow in their knowledge of God (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Colossians 1:10). But our pursuit of faith is not just a matter of belief—it is revealed in how we live. Our actions and priorities, visible in how we spend our time, demonstrate what we truly value and teach others by example.

It is widely accepted that the environment shapes an organism, so Nietzsche argued that human beings are molded by their surroundings and become resilient through ominous conditions (Nietzsche, 1918). Environmental pressures over time produce resilience and resistance to change or destruction. If this is true, then within a theological framework, the environment of a faith-based community powerfully shapes a believer’s faith so that we are not taken captive by a worldly outlook on life, though not always adverse, sometimes as disciples we endure discipline from our heavenly father (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Colossians 2:8; Hebrews 12:7).

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

Edwards, P. (1967). Epicurus. In The encyclopedia of philosophy (Vol. 3, pp. 3-5). essay, Macmillan Company & the Free Press.

Erasmus, D. (1941). The Praise of Folly (H. H. Hudson, Trans.; 3rd ed.). Princeton University Press.

Hutchins, R. M. (1952a). God. In The Great Ideas: A Syntopicon of Great Books of the Western World (Vol. 2, pp. 543-604). Encyclopedia Britannica.

Hutchins, R. M. (1952b). Good and Evin. In The Great Ideas: A Syntopicon of Great Books of the Western World (Vol. 2, pp. 605-636). Encyclopedia Britannica.

Nietzsche, F. (1918). Beyond Good and Evil. Boni and Liveright, Inc.

The Holy Bible: New International Version. (1999). Cornerstone Bible Publishers. (original work published 1973)

From Chemical Reliance to Deep Reservoirs

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Relapse is common for those with drinking disorders (Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, 2001, p. 31). I pray this won't be true for me. Science shows that community support groups and spiritual routines help protect against relapse. These practices are essential to sobriety and recovery. I am grateful for sobriety. Although melancholic thoughts still occur, I might have become a chronic abuser without changing my coping strategies. I replaced alcohol misuse with exercise, fitness, spiritual discipline, and a step program. Tears no longer subdue my depression and anxiety.

Since abstaining, I have started to hydrate from deeper fountains and cisterns of literature. This follows the recommendation to learn from those who are better than I am (Adler & Van Doren, 2014, p. 10). These works are beyond my academic reach, including Pascal, William James, Locke, Thomas Kempis, Augustine, Hegel, and assorted commentaries. For the record, I am not a book snob and do not understand what I am reading most of the time. Still, my modest home library is filled with great thinkers. Importantly, they are all supplemental and secondary to the written Word, which remains primary for me.

I believe God is the Great Physician, whose divine help and comfort are essential. Building on my exploration of new coping strategies and reading, I have learned that managing my depression and anxiety often involves depending too much on others for emotional support (Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, 2022, p. 53). Asking more of people than they can give leads to disappointment, just as others expecting more from me leads to falling short, particularly in emotional support. When relationships were stressed, I resorted to alcohol to numb the emotional pain.

Relying too much on others—and they on us—is universal. People in our lives are often broken. None of us is infallible. The 12 Steps remind us that others also have psychosis, neurosis, or flaws (Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, 2022, p. 48). This is human nature.

Just as wounds need time to heal, maturity does not come in a quantum leap. Transitioning from dependence on others, I've noticed that others may use our weaknesses against us and criticize our strengths in human relationships. This has been my experience in faith-based community settings, contrasting with my time in 12-step recovery programs. Like Paul's encounter on the road to Damascus, we learn that being weak is a superpower. Borrowing from the New Testament author, we find reassurance in this truth.

This brings me to the main question I want to ask: How can we relate to others more effectively, rather than repeatedly navigating conflict in relationships? Building connections with others supports health, and epidemiological studies indicate a lower risk of mental disorders among those who regularly attend religious services and are connected to faith communities (Holt-Lunstad et al., 2015; Keys et al., 2021). Can humility lead us to patience, kindness, and mercy? Seeking comfort from loved ones is natural. For mental well-being, seeking support is valuable. If close relationships cannot meet our needs, professional, therapeutic, or spiritually trained guidance may help reinforce mental health. It is within the realm of possibility.

Some relationships do not always result in a curative outcome. The main question I am raising, as I bridge the gap between mental health and spirituality, is whether spiritual leaders are equipped to offer effective therapeutic support for mental health. Experiences differ, but a key argument guides this narrative: stronger collaboration is needed between faith communities and trained professionals to support those facing depression, anxiety, and addiction.

Reflecting on this connection, I've had spiritual advisors who couldn't relate to my struggles or lacked therapeutic skills. Many counselors and mentors have genuine hearts and try to align talent with calling—admirable traits. As an adult, therapy taught me to discuss mental health with spiritual advisors and faith communities. Through no fault of their own, some cannot help the hurting (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Ezekiel 34: 1-6). Many with mental injuries fill Sunday seats. Some cannot offer emotional first aid; others lack resources for the mentally wounded.

I have felt deep inadequacy. My impotence and brokenness often seemed incurable due to my mental fitness struggles. Spiritual guides couldn't provide the support I needed, and some did not try to bring me back. In my despondency, I wonder if stigma—separating honest faith seekers from the perceived spiritual elite—leaves those with anxiety or depression alone after straying from the flock.

Love, tolerance, and careful observation of Jesus with the marginalized are vital. Everyone hurts, and most hide their brokenness. We must wonder if Jesus invites the weary to rest. If all are God's approved workers, we must carry his message—even if we don't fit today's Christian mold.

When does the path become pathological, as psychiatry studies religious psychological control's harm (Crowley & Jenkinson, 2022, pp. 332-354)? Would I have been welcomed in the 1st-century church? Do spiritual guides today lack mental health training to intervene, escalate care, and provide Godly insights for those facing severe mental conditions or addiction? Could spiritual assessment criteria help seekers in the Kingdom? Can medical education aid the church?

Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk, noted suspicion toward those eager to reform others (Merton, 2023). It's caustic for those with anxiety or depression to receive guidance from those offering it out of duty. This is especially true if guides lack empathy and understanding.

I've experienced spiritual self-righteousness. Spiritual vanity widens relational gaps. When it comes from those who pretend to care, the harm is deeper. This damages reconciliation, restoration, and hope. Do religiously trained counselors shepherd sincerely? Or do they advise artificially, with simulated motives?

I intend this writing to avoid blame and shame, but to highlight my main argument: there is a significant knowledge and training gap in the faith community regarding the integration of medical, mental health, and spiritual support. My goal is to encourage healthy dialogue and bridge this gap for better care.

No one shepherds our hearts like Jesus. People will disappoint us. As Jesus' students, we all stumble. How many of us have relied on supposedly more faithful people, only to face hurt or abandonment? Can we admit that, at times, we secretly judge others as less spiritual? Can we hear Jesus saying: "Everyone who raises himself high will be brought low" (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Luke 18:9-14)?

We often miss deeper emotional wounds in those seeking God's love, mercy, and forgiveness. John Locke (1952, p. 4) addressed his religious community about trust in spiritual leaders. I confess my own shortcomings, as God has revealed them to me. Locke explains that if we don't trust our shepherds, we won't seek advice or support. If left alone with our troubles, to whom can we turn?

We often return to old patterns; as the proverb says, a dog returns to its vomit (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Proverbs 26:11). Sadly, some compromise or abandon faith. Shouldn't we bridge the best mental health practice with living water? The book of Romans offers insight. I distill John Leifchild's commentary as I try to conclude this complex essay about understanding chapters seven and eight of the Roman Epistle. One who tries with all their power to do what is right while simultaneously acknowledging God's good and perfect will, His rules and laws, agreeing with them, and desiring to become sinless, yet feeling a real sense that perfection will never occur.

The innumerable attempts by the believer to achieve it, multiplied by countless starts and fits, exponentially outnumber the hairs on one's head. Sin is ready to find fault, point the blame, ignite shame, and accuse us as we try to attain an unreachable virtuous goal. The believer is exhausted and in desperation, seeking relief. Many a pew filler who seeks to do God's will suffers from continuous anxiety and depression, and, as a believer, exhaustion, anguish, and trying to keep up characterize my walk with God, which is a furious negative feedback loop. What happens? My faith reveals that a supernatural opponent is always at work, and he has many names, such as The Accuser.

He refuels, shifts gears, and picks up steam and speed; if it were a bet on the roulette table of life, he doubles down against us, and we become like a feeble fighter who is bleeding to death. Becoming self-aware, we learn how impoverished we are in and of ourselves; we require life support. We are thankful for Leifchild's interpretation of the battle within the inner person, as Paul described it centuries ago in his letter to the saints of Rome. Furthermore, Leifchild (n.d.) writes that it is impossible to keep our sin at bay on our own, to keep it in check, or to hold it down without God's help or the support of a trusted relationship. The temptation to indulge in simple, overt, or covert pleasures overtakes us again as quickly as wax melts under a flame.

We return, every minute, to our corner of the ring, each hour, day, and year to once again admit defeat and to make another, repeat attempt and resolution to be righteous, reminded of the constant relapse and the nagging draw to walk the line with a new striving to make good on our conversion and commitment while also searching for relief from the vicissitudes of life.

The miserableness again is that our mental state of unrest, torment, terror, frustration, and alternating depression coupled with anxiety overtakes us as we seek comfort and synthetic induced contentment from substance use (Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, 2001, p. 416) and alcohol instead of drinking deeply from God's cup of compassion or not pursuing the expert attention from those trained, equipped, and positioned to help with our emotional disturbances such as qualified mental health experts.

The miracle is hard to understand and requires trust and persistent faith. Unless Jesus is who he said he was, confirming our belief or unbelief in Paul's statement, "Who will rescue us from the corpse that we dwell in?" (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Romans 7: 24). Are we not all sure to suffer and experience a poor outcome without the cure that He promises if we neglect to follow His path? Can we also find support from our healthcare professionals to help us in our walk? Possibly.

Finally, it must be noted by the reader that we must find our tribe and people in which we can find comfort by admitting our faults first to God. Secondly, we can find relief from insurmountable guilt by talking about our shortcomings with someone we trust; doing so relieves our conscience, which is reassuring. What do we need to discuss with others whom we can confide in?

For starters, we ought to have someone to talk to about our pride, arrogance, and resentments. We should receive feedback from those who know us as outlined in the 12 Step (Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, 2022, p. 48). We ought to be able to talk about our tendencies toward greed. Hard to talk about and share is the lust of our hearts. Subtle are gluttony, envy, self-centeredness, and avoiding a duty to others, all driving self-will and not God's will for us. We ought to be able to talk about our personality disorders, the anxiety we feel, and the sad thoughts that plague us.

When we weigh ourselves down and are not able to perform cathartic communication, it often produces frustration, guilt, anxiety, and depression, and exacerbates the disconnect we feel; however, if we bring our deficits to God and those we trust to help us solve them together, he promises to help us, when we really look to him for support (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Psalm 73: 25-26). The good news is that God loves the disowned and displaced people of the world, because he knows we are harassed (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Matthew 9:35-38), and we know we need him.

Finally, Jesus has performed all the work that will ever be needed to help us with our unmerited state. We all need Jesus for ourselves, but we cannot follow Jesus on our own. In his story, he has often called upon those individuals with the most character flaws and personality disorders who were honest and open about their handicaps. May we find God in our time of need and use the talents he has bestowed to help others and all the resources available within the church and our healthcare system to experience his love while our time is short.

References:

Adler, M. J., & Van Doren, C. (2014). How to read a book. Simon & Schuster.

Alcoholics Anonymous World Services. (2001). Alcoholics Anonymous: The story of how many thousands of men and women have recovered from alcoholism (4th ed.). Alcoholics Anonymous World Services.

Alcoholics Anonymous World Services. (2022). Twelve steps and twelve traditions. Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc.

Crowley, N. & Jenkinson, G. (2022). Pathological Spirituality. In Spirituality and Psychiatry (2nd ed., pp. 332-354). essay, Royal College of Psychiatrists.

Holt-Lunstad, J., Smith, T. B., Baker, M., Harris, T., & Stephenson, D. (2015). Loneliness and Social Isolation as Risk Factors for Mortality. Perspectives on Psychological Science, 10(2), 227–237.

Keyes, K. M., Schwartz, S. B., & Susser, E. S. (2021). Psychiatric epidemiology. In Timothy L. Lash & Tyler J. VanderWeele & Sebastien Haneuse & Kenneth J. Rothman (4th Eds.), Modern Epidemiology (pp. 875-894).

Leifchild, J. (n.d.). The character described in the seventh chapter of Romans. Sermons by Leifchild. https://mail.biblehub.com/sermons/authors/leifchild.htm

Locke, J. (1952). A Letter Concerning Toleration. In R. M. Hutchins, The Great Books of the Western World (Vol. 35, pp. 1-22). Encyclopedia Britannica.

Merton, T. (2023). New seeds of contemplation [Audiobook]. New Directions. https://www.audible.com

The Holy Bible: New International Version. (1999). Ezekiel 34:1-6. Cornerstone Bible Publishers. (Original work published 1973)

The Holy Bible: New International Version. (1999). Matthew 9: 35-38. Cornerstone Bible Publishers. (Original work published 1973)

The Holy Bible: New International Version. (1999). Luke 18: 9-14. Cornerstone Bible Publishers. (Original work published 1973)

The Holy Bible: New International Version. (1999). Psalm 73:25. Cornerstone Bible Publishers. (Original work published 1973)

The Holy Bible: New International Version. (1999). Proverbs 26:11. Cornerstone Bible Publishers. (Original work published 1973)

The Holy Bible: New International Version. (1999). Romans 7:24-25. Cornerstone Bible Publishers. (Original work published 1973)

Portions of this post were reviewed with the assistance of an AI writing tool (OpenAI, 2026).

Drinking From a Fire Hydrant, Part II: Uncovering the Blindfolds of Leadership

 

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When I first graduated from RN school, the process of entering the nursing workforce was quite different from what it is today. At the time, in California, due to a nursing shortage, healthcare institutions often hired recent graduates to work in telemetry or critical care under emergency or temporary permits. This arrangement allowed new nurses to gain hands-on experience while studying part-time for the NCLEX exam, provided they obtained licensure within a set timeframe to remain accredited in accordance with regulatory standards.

I passed my NCLEX after six months working in the Coronary Care Unit (CCU), only to realize that I was on a heart transplant unit. Our patients were gravely ill, with severely compromised heart function, and many were awaiting transplants.

Needing to be perfect

My early days of new grad residency program were rife with trying to be perfect, accurate, and appear competent in everything I did, of course, under the watchful eye of a veteran preceptor, they new I was green and just short of having enough skill and ability to be dangerous enough to hurt someone. The lesson, then, was that I fell short of perfection and often completed my duties in a less-than-ideal way. Over the years, even as I gained experience, the desire to be perfect remained a persistent challenge. However, maturity has taught me to be honest about my strengths, abilities, and limitations. While competence is important, perfection is a myth. What matters most is showing up authentically, giving your best effort—even if it's imperfect—and modeling that authenticity for those you lead.

Assuming others can do what you can

My good friend, the Sergeant Major, often tells me, “Quit expecting you in other people.” This statement has always resonated with me. We each have our own methods, principles, and practices for approaching work, and that diversity isn’t inherently wrong—unless someone deliberately disregards essential instructions or standards. As my dad used to say, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” In other words, there are many ways to get the job done—not just yours—and that’s perfectly okay.

The challenge comes when we assume others can do things the same way we can, especially when delegating tasks or making assignments without considering differences in experience or training. Assigning tasks without understanding someone’s skill set can undermine confidence, particularly for those still learning. To avoid this, I make it a point not to assume others know what I know; instead, I focus on two things: investigating and validating before expecting someone to complete a task independently.

Refusing to disagree

Early in my career, especially while working alongside veteran critical care nurses, I was often described as “a quick learner but lacking confidence.” Honestly, those words stung. I struggled to project confidence, especially in the presence of senior medical attendings, residents, fellows, interns, medical students, and other allied healthcare professionals. My early years in critical care were marked by intense pressure to prove myself, build competence, and meet the team's high expectations. It took years before I became a true resource—a reservoir of knowledge, a preceptor, and someone others could rely on for guidance. That growth was fueled by my intense curiosity and relentless pursuit of knowledge, often spent in the medical library or poring over books and pamphlets. I truly was a novus medicinae studiosus—a student of the medical arts.

Looking back, I realize I often came across as agreeable and rarely challenged the status quo, especially in those early years. In leadership, this can be a double-edged sword. While agreeableness can foster collaboration, unity, and teamwork, it’s equally important to cultivate the skill of constructive questioning. Over time, I learned to approach disagreements not by outright objection, but by thoughtfully asking questions like, “Are we sure about this?” “Is this true?” or “What might we be missing?” This approach encourages open dialogue and critical thinking without creating unnecessary conflict.

Feeling incompatible

Finally, one of the most challenging blindfolds to remove as a leader is the persistent sense of inadequacy that floods my thoughts, emotions, and actions—often more often than I like to admit. I’ve previously shared about the VUCA environment, where our work is volatile, uncertain, complex, and ambiguous on a daily basis. In such conditions, it’s easy to feel unprepared or unable to support others, especially when it seems like others are outperforming you. Although these feelings are often unfounded and untrustworthy, recognizing them is crucial. Using internal dialogue and practicing cognitive reappraisal, as many behavioral psychologists suggest, has helped me navigate and overcome the daily challenge of feeling inadequate.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Reference:

Wilkins, M. M. (2025). The Hidden Beliefs That Hold Leaders Back. Harvard Business Review, 103(6), 131–135. 

Drinking From a Fire Hydrant, Part I: Uncovering the Blindfolds of Leadership

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In my first six months in a leadership role in healthcare, I often second-guessed my decision and wondered if I had made the right choice. I felt overwhelmed and questioned whether I had bitten off more than I could chew. Before applying, interviewing, and seeking advice for the position, a trusted mentor encouraged me to pursue this opportunity, believing that my core values would make me a good fit. Although I was initially reluctant, her coaching and encouragement inspired me to take the leap.

Often, it takes someone else to see our strengths that we cannot see in ourselves. Our self-reflections are not always reliable, but mentors can draw out qualities that may otherwise go unnoticed. After interviewing and being offered the role, I thought, "Here is my shot; I will make a difference." Yet I humbly admit that in those first few months, I felt out of my league. I remember a co-worker telling me, “Congratulations, you accepted the challenge.” I had no idea how true those words would become. At first, stepping into this new role felt like drinking from a fire hydrant.

All of us can recall those who invested in us—coaches, mentors, parents, and even grandparents. As we grow older, those early-life coaches fade into memory, and if we find ourselves in leadership roles, we are called to coach and mentor others. A friend of mine, a retired Sergeant Major in the USMC, once shared a saying that continues to resonate whenever my internal resolve runs low: Who motivates the motivator?

This question, though elusive, carries deep significance. Those in high-level, influential roles often depend on trusted peers to navigate the unique challenges of leadership. Collaborative coaching among leaders tends to be more lateral and peer-based rather than hierarchical. Leaders also draw strength, knowledge, and encouragement from informal sources—reading books, attending lectures, and engaging with articles by experts in their field.

While conversations with peers can be invaluable, seeking guidance from higher up the chain of command may feel intimidating. Leaders often worry about appearing incompetent or about losing their superiors' confidence. This leads to a continuous internal dialogue—a kind of mental gymnastics—that is far more common than many realize. When the need for support arises, there are practical steps we can take. As author and leadership thinker Muriel Wilkins (2025) reminds us, sometimes we must identify and remove our own blindfolds to move forward. She discusses several types of blindfolds we wear as leaders. The following section is a discussion in which I share my personal insights and experiences.

The need to be on top of everything or exercise command and control

Command and control arise from the feeling that you must always be in charge. For someone like me—a self-starter who prefers to take initiative and not wait for others—this has been a personal struggle. While this approach once demonstrated my reliability, dependability, and accountability to my leaders, I have learned that as a leader myself, it can actually communicate a lack of trust and prevent others from feeling empowered.

I have had to learn to step back, relax, and trust that my team is both capable and prepared to manage situations as they arise. If they need help, they will escalate issues appropriately. Letting go of the reins has allowed others to step up, build their own confidence, and practice self-initiative.

The urgency trap

As a critical care nurse specializing in cardiac care, developing an internal "spidey sense" is invaluable—and, when finely tuned, can save lives. For example, being attuned to subtle changes in patients who seem stable or are beginning to decline is a hallmark of experienced nurses. Many seasoned nurses rely on their "eye test": the ability to notice something off about a patient simply by observation, even before reviewing objective data such as vital signs, laboratory results, or imaging. This kind of intuition is only built over years of experience and allows nurses to act with appropriate urgency when the situation demands it.

However, in leadership, particularly when dealing with tasks and deadlines that are not life-threatening, I've learned—often through trial and error—that not everything requires an immediate response. Mastering this balance is a critical skill. For instance, prioritizing which emails or employee concerns truly require urgent attention, versus which can wait, is an essential aspect of time management. As the saying goes, sometimes it's a "Monday problem," even if you hear about it late on a Friday night.

Needing to be right

Deep down, no one likes to be wrong. If we are honest with ourselves, we often have a biased point of view. We may believe we are correct, have the right information, and can see every angle of a situation, but in reality, others may have a more accurate perspective.

When I was younger, I strove to be seen as just and correct, believing my way was the right—and sometimes the only—way. Over time, I have come to accept that I am flawed, not infallible, and just as prone to mistakes as anyone else. This realization has helped me, especially when navigating disagreements with direct reports. Now, instead of focusing on "who" is right, I try to shift the conversation toward "what" is right. This guiding principle—aiming for what is right rather than being right—has served me well in my career.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Reference:

Wilkins, M. M. (2025). The Hidden Beliefs That Hold Leaders Back. Harvard Business Review, 103(6), 131–135. 

Small Gatherings, Big Callings: How Scripture Shapes the Way I Lead

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There’s a familiar feeling that comes with Sunday mornings: the sense that it’s time for church, time to get showered and ready to go. However, since the pandemic, the way we gather has changed. With online services, flexible schedules, and our current family group, we now meet sporadically. When we gather in person, it’s often all together in the San Fernando Valley; for small groups, we meet in someone’s home, hosted by a member of our community.

Typically, we begin our gatherings with prayer and thanksgiving, followed by a brief message and Scripture reading. We then partake of the sacraments—usually a plate of Triscuits or Wheat Thins passed around, and a small paper cup of Welch’s grape juice. After a moment of silent reflection and prayer, we enjoy fellowship as a community of believers here in the Santa Clarita Valley.

Bible study has been a steady part of my life ever since my baptism. I’m not trying to be overly zealous here—just honest about the comfort and wisdom I find in Scripture. One of my favorite things is following those cross-references in the margins, seeing how verses connect across the Bible. The Thompson Chain Reference Bible is a great resource for this, but even the side notes in most translations help point out connections, whether between the Old and New Testaments or within a single book. It’s a simple pleasure that keeps me grounded and curious about my faith.

As a leader, my faith deeply influences how I respond to, treat, and interact with others, especially in professional relationships. While I am accountable to my organizational leader, I am ultimately responsible to God. Remembering who I truly serve guides me in supporting and leading my direct reports with integrity and compassion.

Even Jesus, when his disciples were focused on their own ambitions and hoping for special treatment—believing he would become a powerful earthly king—reminded them that he did not come to be served, but to serve others (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Mark 10:45). This example of servant leadership is one I reflect on often in my own role. The servant-leader mindset, as taught by the Greenleaf Institute, is more important than ever, especially in healthcare. With ongoing challenges like labor shortages and financial pressures, organizations need leaders who put others’ needs first. Servant leaders are able to meet the challenges of both those they serve and those they lead. Greenleaf (2008) suggests that true servant-leaders serve first because their genuine desire is to help others, and only then do they seek to lead. This approach continues to inspire my work and perspective on leadership.

Centuries ago, Thomas Aquinas addressed the argument of design in defense of the question, "Does God exist?" I share the belief that, just as an artist creates a lasting portrait, God intentionally created everything we see. There was a beginning—a moment of purposeful creation—rather than something coming from mere chance. As Aquinas (1952, p. 13) suggests, our world is the result of masterful design, not a random accident. This perspective also shapes my view of leadership: organizational influence does not happen by accident or mistake, but through intentional design and thoughtful action. My actions are a direct result of some influence on me, for example, the following.

“Don’t ask for a long life, don’t ask for wealth, and don’t wish harm on your enemies” (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, 1 Kings 3:1-12). What does this mean? Solomon’s father, King David, wasn’t perfect, but he consistently aimed to be faithful, to act with integrity, and to make wise judgments as a leader. When Solomon, David's son, became king, he recognized his own limitations and inexperience and turned to God—not to ask for riches or revenge, but for two things: a discerning heart to be a good follower himself and to lead his people well, and the wisdom to tell good from evil.

As someone who works in healthcare, I understand the importance of working hard to provide for one's family—it's an honorable and deeply valued pursuit. There’s nothing wrong with building a career or striving for success; in fact, God created us to work and contribute. However, I believe Jesus cautions us against letting personal ambition overshadow our concern for others. When our own success becomes more important than the well-being of those around us, we risk losing sight of what truly matters.

It’s important to remember that all our achievements are ultimately possible because of God’s provision. This idea is echoed in the message God gave to Moses for the Israelites after they escaped Egypt. As they began to prosper—with growing bank accounts, homes, and property—God warned them not to become proud or forget the One who makes prosperity possible (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Deut. 8:11-13).

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

Aquinas, T. (1952). The Summa Theologica of Saint Thomas Aquinas. In R. M. Hutchins The Great Books of the Western World (Vol. 19, pp. 12-14  ). Encyclopedia Britannica

Greenleaf, R. K. (2008). The servant as leader. Greenleaf Center for Servant Leadership.

The Holy Bible: New International Version. (1999). Cornerstone Bible Publishers. (original work published 1973)

Can Sorrow Be Healed? Reflections on Aquinas

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Can sorrow or pain be remedied by pleasure, prayer, and weeping, the support of friends, meditation and contemplation, or sleep? This question was posed by Thomas Aquinas centuries ago (Hutchins, 1952, p. 786). Reflecting on this, I realize how the sources of pleasure in my life have changed over time. In the past, drinking alcohol and seeking sensual experiences provided a temporary escape. Now, I find enjoyment in weight training, exercise, and reading enriching literature. Prayer and meditation have become meaningful remedies for sorrow in my later years. As a young man, I coped with anxiety and allowed myself to grieve openly when faced with significant losses and struggles I felt were over my head—specifically, the loss of my father, the loss of a job, and the loss of a home—each a pillar of stability in my life as a husband and father striving to provide security for my family.

Following my spiritual conversion, my passion for meditation has deepened, fueling my desire to explore the deeper aspects of mind, soul, and spirit. This journey has brought me closer to understanding the truth of the world and strengthened my faith in a higher power—the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Sleep, too, offers relief from sorrow and pain, especially when I am exhausted from worrying about things beyond my control or when decisions impacting my livelihood are out of my hands. Often, a good night's sleep after a period of mourning brings much-needed relief and renewal.

Perhaps most significant is the role of friendship in alleviating sorrow and pain. In my experience, having a good friend has helped me through difficult times. Professionally, as a registered nurse, I have seen how being a friend to patients during their recovery can ease their pain and suffering, even if only a little. These personal and professional experiences affirm the importance of compassionate support in overcoming sorrow.

Reference:

Aquinas, T. (1952). The Summa Theologica of Saint Thomas Aquinas. In R. M. Hutchins The Great Books of the Western World (Vol. 19, pp. 786-790). Encyclopedia Britannica.

Learning Trust the Hard Way on Three Wheels

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Saul Bellow, as quoted in Writers (Crampton, 2005, p. 22), observes that many people harbor a deep and persistent feeling that their own experiences lack authenticity or grandeur—that their stories aren’t epic or meaningful. This sense of inconsequentiality, he suggests, runs deep and can be overwhelming; it is therefore because of the possibility of these feelings being true that we fight against the temptation to believe it so, and as such, we write to tell our stories, the stuff of life.

This question of whether our stories matter, whether our memories are worth telling, lingered with me for years. Yet, it is often in the ordinary details of our lives—moments that seem small or inconsequential—that we discover the most profound truths. My own story is not epic by any measure, but it is mine and honest.

With this in mind, I return to a memory from my childhood, one that shaped my understanding of trust, consequence, and growing up. Before they were outlawed in the seventies and eighties, televisions were filled with commercials advertising the thrill of wilderness adventures, especially through all-terrain vehicles (ATVs)—targeting outdoor enthusiasts and Texas deer hunters alike. Honda and other manufacturers sold millions of the infamous three-wheeler ATVs. My grandfather had one, and so did my dad. I was no older than ten or eleven when my father brought ours home. He was, understandably, very protective of it, and would only let me ride after much begging and with my mother urging him to give me a chance—always insisting I stay right next to the empty city fields near our home in Texas City.

Of course, I would push the boundaries, riding up and down the back alley behind our house, kicking up dirt and tossing rocks, revving the engine when I thought I was out of earshot. My dad was usually in the garage, tinkering with his rifles, hunting deer feeders, turning a wrench on the old army jeep he was refurbishing, or welding up a piece of angle iron or pipe for a friend or work buddy. Looking back, and admittedly foolishly, we never wore safety gear or helmets. I’m thankful I escaped harm, as those ATVs—with their single front tire and narrow turning radius—were notorious for rollovers and serious injuries, which is why they were eventually replaced by the safer four-wheeled models.

One Saturday afternoon, after completing my chores, mowing the lawn, finishing my homework, and cleaning my room, I wandered out to the garage. Dad was there, sweeping up debris and dust, tending to his “man cave.” I came in, feigning boredom, searching for something—anything—that wasn’t another chore. I wandered over to the three-wheeler, climbed on, gripped the handlebars, and hunched forward like I was ready to ride. “Dad, when was the last time we started this thing up?” I asked, hoping to pique his interest. “You think we should warm her up?”

He abandoned his garage tasks, in a better mood than usual, and replied, “Yeah, let’s take her out a bit, but you stay close.” My heart raced with excitement—a moment I’ll never forget. I pushed the beast beyond the driveway and tried to get her started. I had to stand atop the footpegs, straddling the seat, and pull the black Honda cord with all my strength to start the 4-stroke engine. This model didn’t have an electric start like my grandpa’s, the one we called Big Red.

Once I got the three-wheeler running, I’d peer over the front deer rifle rack that my father had welded onto it, and roll out smoothly. I’d carve figure-eights in the field next to our home, always within sight and earshot so Dad could keep tabs on me—especially if I was going too fast. He could tell by the engine’s pitch, and with his sharp, signature whistle—a sound I now use with my own family—he’d pierce the air to get my attention. I’d slow down, though I always tested the limits.

This day, though, is really the heart of this story. Anyone who’s ever lost trust knows what it’s like—and maybe that’s what qualifies someone to write about trust in the first place. I always knew the rules: stay in the fields, never cross city streets, keep to the alley behind our street, don’t speed, and absolutely never give another person a ride. Period.

It was the perfect Saturday afternoon for a kid: chores done, the sun shining, and me riding our ATV, my hair blowing back as I did mini-donuts in the field beside our house. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted one of my neighbors—a girl from across the street—standing at the edge of the field, watching me. She was about my age, and her curiosity got the better of her; she crossed the street to see what I was up to.

In true pre-teen fashion, I sped up when I passed her, imagining myself as a Supercross racer, zooming past with a grin, hoping to impress her. I’d glance over my shoulder, feeling especially cool and self-assured. I can’t even remember her name now; her family lived on our block for only a short while, but that’s beside the point.

After a few laps, I finally pulled up next to her, grabbing the handbrake to stop. The ATV idled in a low rumble—loud enough to talk over, but not so loud that my dad, about two houses away, could hear us. Dad’s ear was always tuned to the normal hum of the ATV circling the field, but what I didn’t realize then (and do now) is that he could sense when something changed—like when I stopped.

I said hello and asked what she was up to. “Just watching you,” she answered. Wanting to be generous (and maybe a little taken by her smile), I asked, “Want to go for a ride?” Without hesitation, she walked right up—curious and brave—and said, “Yes.”

I scooted forward to make space, and she climbed on behind me. Before I could even say, “Hold on,” she’d already wrapped her arms around my waist. We puttered around the field—one and a half easy laps, not fast, just enough to feel the wind. In that moment, I had a fleeting sense of what it must be like to feel grown up, even though I hadn’t even hit puberty yet. For a second, I felt like the real deal.

And then I heard it—the sound I dreaded: Dad’s whistle. I’d been conditioned since I was a toddler to respond instantly, like a dog to its owner. I looked over to our backyard—past the neighbor’s fence, over the wild honeysuckle vines—and there he was: sunglasses beneath his trucker hat, arms crossed, wearing a face of disappointment.

I knew I’d committed a cardinal sin. I rolled the ATV to a stop and told the girl, “Sorry, I have to go home now—that’s my dad whistling.” She hopped off, unconcerned, and said, “Thanks for the ride. I hope you’re not in trouble.” I thought, You have no idea—but deep down, it was worth it.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I rode slowly back to the garage. I hit the kill switch, let the engine sputter out, and climbed off to face my dad, who was waiting for me.

He simply asked, “What did I tell you about giving rides on that thing?”

Intimidated with my head down, “No one is supposed to ride with me,” I answered fearfully.

“So why did you do it?” he pressed with intensity.

I told him the truth: the neighbor girl had never been on one, so I gave her a ride. I think he understood, at least a little, that his boy was trying to grow up, to feel responsible, to enjoy the rush of having a pretty girl ride along. But he said, “You’ve got to be safe. If she’d gotten hurt, then what?”

Ignorantly, I disclosed, “I didn’t think about that.”

“That’s the problem,” as he shook his head from side to side, he replied. “You never think.”

My punishment was clear: no more ATV riding for a long time, until I could earn back his trust. That lesson about trust has stayed with me ever since.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Reference:

Nancy, C. (2005). Writers. The Quantuck Lane Press. https://archive.org/details/writers0000cram

No Hall of Fame: Finding Water in a Thirsty World

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Imagine the Texas hill country—rolling hills, mesquite trees, and white-tailed deer in the background, a hunter’s dream during deer season. I used to visit a place like this with my dad: a log cabin tucked between two mountain ridges, reached by a rocky road that only a horse or jeep could navigate. Below the cabin, a converted mobile home housed hunters who leased it each season, all hoping for a successful hunt. The property, a mile or two from the main farm roads, relied on water from a spring at the base of the mountain. The water was siphoned off a dripping spring of the side of the mountain into a round stock tank, filtered, and then piped into the cabin and mobile home—clear, fresh, and abundant, just as nature intended. I remember showering and the challenge of making soapy bubbles with my wash rag because of the hard water. But what if that spring ran dry? No water, no showers, nothing. So, when our springs run dry in life, what do we do? Keep searching for a new spring and a source of strength.

Sometimes I think about where others get their strength. How do they muster the will to face daily challenges, bills, work, family, health, and the unpredictable world around them? I grapple with these questions myself, especially as I grow older. I’m grateful for my faith, which helps steady my mind and heart, even as life becomes more complicated. Yet, I wonder how those without faith cope. On the surface, many seem to manage well, but as a disciple striving to follow my path, I still struggle. My faith sustains me, but as Johnson (1971, p. 8) notes in his commentary on Job, no one is immune to pain, no one is vaccinated against experiencing adversity and hurt. So how do we deal with what hurts us?

I’m not talking about everyday mishaps like hitting your thumb with a hammer, twisting your ankle on a run, or stubbing your toe on the edge of your couch. Instead, I’m asking: how do we handle the deeper hurts that simply come with being human? Hurt is part of our existence, so how do we truly deal with it? If experience qualifies us to speak about pain, then everyone is an expert. We have all faced hurt and adversity; none of us is immune. I certainly don’t claim special wisdom; I wrestle with it like anyone else, but find solace in writing about it.

As a clinician, I am conversant, acquainted with, and no stranger to pain. Pain is always subjective; it depends on each person’s life situation, perception, and health (Emanuel, 2018, p. 52). For example, patients with terminal illnesses like cancer report both physical and psychological pain. Physical symptoms can include indigestion, nausea, and vomiting. Emotional pain may involve anxiety about their condition and depressive thoughts about living with illness. We see this with patients at times who have heart conditions as well.

Reflecting on this, I remember times in my life when I was overwhelmed by personal challenges—losing a parent, facing home foreclosure, navigating career changes, and managing complex family dynamics, along with the everyday realities of marriage and parenting. While these struggles may not compare to the severity of a life-threatening illness or heart attack, they still create real, painful experiences both physically and emotionally. Life’s adversity affects us all, even beyond major medical crises. My faith and conscious efforts to focus on gratitude help me find moments of peace and resilience.  From another perspective, Rathmell & Fields (2018, p. 65) clarify that pain is both a physical feeling and a behavioral response. We all know this to be true, no matter our personal experiences.

We can all relate to Job. I don’t believe God has called me to be what Morris A. Inch (1979, p. 29) describes in his commentary on Job as a “spiritually significant” person of influence—someone whose life is recorded alongside the great fathers of faith or whose name appears in a spiritual “hall of fame.” I won’t be remembered like Thomas Aquinas or C.S. Lewis, or as someone who led multitudes to faith. But I’m convinced there are countless Christians like me—living quietly, mostly unknown to others, but deeply known by God. Our relationship with Him is built through prayer, scripture, daily connection, our communities of faith, and our associations with our individual FBOs (faith-based organizations). Each of us carries His Spirit and is used by Him in the ordinary rhythms of life, telling our story not only through words but through how we live—imperfectly, but sincerely.

Drawing from Inch’s insights, I believe spiritual character is forged in the most challenging, bitter, and severe circumstances of life. Inch (1979, p. 29) insists it makes little sense to discuss persons of spiritual significance without first acknowledging the situations and experiences that shape and refine them. As he notes, God could have simply created a perfect, spiritually significant person. Yet, even Jesus—whose spiritual significance is beyond compare—chose not to take advantage of his divine rights, but instead became human and subjected himself to the same adversity, pain, and growth we all experience.

Ultimately, the call is not to avoid hardship, but to embrace it—trusting that adversity can shape us into people of deeper faith, resilience, and compassion. Like Job and Jesus, we are invited to rely more fully on God through our own trials, knowing that such growth is often found in the very midst of life’s challenges.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

Emanuel, E. J. (2018). Palliative and End-of-Life Care.  In J. Larry Jameson & Anthony S. Fauci & Dennis L. Kasper & Stephen L. Hauser & Dan L. Longo & Joseph Loscalzo (20th Eds.,Vol. 1), Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine (pp. 47-63). McGraw-Hill Education.

Inch, M. A. (1979). My servant job: A discussion guide on the wisdom of job. Baker Book House. https://archive.org/details/myservantjobdisc0000morr/page/28/mode/2up

Johnson, L. D. (1971). Out of the whirlwind: The major message of job. Broadman Press. https://archive.org/details/outofwhirlwindma0000john/page/8/mode/2up

Rathmell, J. P., & Fields, H. L. (2018). Pain: Pathophysiology and Management.  In J. Larry Jameson & Anthony S. Fauci & Dennis L. Kasper & Stephen L. Hauser & Dan L. Longo & Joseph Loscalzo (20th Eds.,Vol. 1), Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine (pp. 65-73). McGraw-Hill Education. 

Contracts, College Kids, and Chronic Coughs: A Faithful Life on Uneven Terrain

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If I could step outside myself and tell my story, it might go like this: The year 2026 began with bumps in the road, calling for a "four-wheel-drive" spirit to navigate the terrain. I find myself facing professional hurdles—labor negotiations, contract disputes, staff issues, and the never-ending work of managing patients and resources. Every day feels like a balancing act, from staff evaluations to vacation requests, all while trying to steer a department toward excellence alongside my leadership team. Even though the atmosphere is mostly positive, I’m still learning, still pushing to meet high standards and deliver the care our patients deserve.

Meanwhile, my story at home is just as complex. I’m trying to be a good partner to my wife as she manages her health and navigates the changes of perimenopause—both of us growing older together. Parenting isn’t simple, either. One of our children continues to test the boundaries, and I often question if I’m getting it right. I want to keep a faith-centered home, but there are days when even that feels like a struggle.

On top of everything, I write this while fighting off a stubborn sinus infection. My energy is nowhere to be found, and the confident, go-getter version of myself feels distant. Normally, I’d charge into these battles, but lately, I feel the wear and tear of life’s demands. What helps is talking with my wife, spending time in scripture and reflection, and journaling to keep my thoughts clear. I remind myself that I don’t need to numb these feelings with alcohol—faith and honest self-reflection are what get me through.

So I tell myself this story, not just to remember the details, but to make peace with what I cannot control. People will act in ways I don’t expect. Negotiations at work will move at their own pace. My health, my daughter’s choices at university, some work challenges—these are all beyond my reach. The only thing I can do is model respect, kindness, and professionalism, and be patient where it matters. When anxiety rises and frustration threatens my mental well-being, I return to my journal and remind myself: acceptance is the key. This story isn’t about fixing everything; it’s about learning to live with the unknown and finding strength in faith.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

When Strength Fades and Outcomes Disappoint: Learning to Lean on The Healer

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Do not become intoxicated by professional success, nor let setbacks drain you emotionally. Strive for balance, even though it is difficult to achieve. Do your best not to tie your actions or emotional well-being solely to outcomes. Integrity and commitment to your work matter far more than perfect results. Guard yourself against the lure of ambition, and resist the despair that insists your mistakes define you. On days when you are unwell or weighed down by illness—whether a fever, respiratory trouble, or simply feeling overwhelmed by the demands of work—remember: you are human and prone to fallibility. When you feel ill-equipped for your responsibilities, take a moment to reflect. If you feel too weak to continue, remember that it is when God often provides strength in unexpected ways, as you rely upon Him.

Recall that those who depended most upon God wrote, meditated, and prayed for guidance. They rarely relied on the strength of others, but leaned on the power of the Almighty Healer. When you consider all that you receive from hard work, remember that good comes with bad, joy with sadness, victory with loss. These experiences are meant to mold your character, teaching you to rely less on yourself and more on God. At times, it may feel as if the words from the great teacher are real to you: “All things are wearisome; more than one can say.” Especially in moments when words fail to soothe, be gentle with yourself; take the sorrow out of your mind, leave the pain of your muscles, bones, and skin behind, because you are getting older now, and those hindrances do not support you.

Hold onto this guiding thought during your studies and pursuits, especially when your mind races, your heart pounds, and your hands and feet fidget. No matter how much you strive to understand everything happening under the sun, or in the shadows of the moon and stars, some things will always remain beyond your sight. Whatever you set out to do, give it your best—allow yourself to strive for excellence, yet accept that your best will be imperfect. In the race of life, business, society, and community, the strongest do not always prevail, nor do the smartest or most prepared. Money and success are not reserved only for those who are best trained; as statistical analysis teaches, chance always plays a role.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Drinks, Deception, and Dependability: How Homer’s Nobody Reinforces Purpose in Life

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Stories have a unique way of resonating with us—at least, they do with me—because we can see ourselves reflected in them. One ancient work that everyone should experience, if they haven't already, is Homer's great poem, The Odyssey. The legendary Odysseus is an inspiring figure, and we can relate to his struggles or imagine our own lives as echoing those mythological adventures. One of the most memorable stories from The Odyssey is his encounter with the Cyclops.

As the tale unfolds, Odysseus and his men, after mooring their ships and exploring the island, are trapped in a cave by the fearsome Polyphemus (Butler & Dirda, 2013, pp. 527-539). The Cyclops begins to devour Odysseus’s men, eating them for breakfast and dinner. Imprisoned by a massive stone blocking the cave entrance, the men are desperate to escape. In a tense exchange of wits, Odysseus offers Polyphemus wine in hopes of gaining his favor. The Cyclops, growing drunk, promises Odysseus a "gift" if he reveals his name. Demonstrating his street smarts, Odysseus says, “My name is Nobody.”

Later, while Polyphemus is unconscious from the wine, Odysseus and his men sharpen a wooden stake and drive it into the Cyclops’s eye, blinding him. Polyphemus cries out for help to the other Cyclops, but when they ask who is hurting him, he yells, “Nobody is trying to kill me!” Perplexed, they assume he is ill and leave, laughing at his alcoholic buzz.

In the end, Odysseus and his squad break free by camouflaging themselves in sheep's wool under the bellies of Polyphemus’s sheep as they silently bid farewell. Once at a safe distance, Odysseus—ignoring his crew’s warnings—reveals his inner ego, shouting, " If anyone asks who blinded you, tell them it was Odysseus, the greatest man-at-arms.”

This story reminds us of our own search for identity and purpose. Odysseus’s use of cloak-and-dagger tactics was a smart way to outwit his kidnapper, employing a twist of espionage to secure his release. His prideful self-revelation symbolizes that while we may sometimes feel like “nobody,” each of us is, in fact, someone with a unique purpose and story. We can thank Homer for his long-lasting mythological epic poem on purposeful living, and we can appreciate contemporary scholars today.

Having a sense of purpose in life is vital to our well-being and even our survival. One key aspect of finding that purpose is our connection with others—a point that relationship experts consistently emphasize. Pogosyan (2026) explains that other people matter more than we often realize, echoing insights from positive psychology researchers like Christopher Peterson. She reminds us that the way we show up in the world and the quality of our interactions often matter as much to others as they do to ourselves. Meaningful relationships and engagement with others take precedence over simply spending time together.

Medical research has also highlighted the health benefits of having a sense of purpose. Dr. Jordan Grumet (2026), a palliative care physician, shares lessons from patients at the end of life, emphasizing the wisdom and clarity that can emerge in a person’s final days. Also, in a study of retirees aged 50 and above—the Health and Retirement Study—researchers found that a low sense of purpose was associated with higher mortality (Alimujiang et al., 2019). Purposeful living, in turn, is associated with greater happiness and lower levels of depression (Ryff & Keyes, 1995).

These researchers note that happiness is not simply about the absence of hardship. Instead, it emerges from a balance of life’s positive and negative experiences. Factors like work, relationships, finances, and where we live all contribute to our sense of well-being. Ultimately, while happiness is important, having a sense of purpose is a fundamental element of positive functioning, helping us navigate life’s challenges and find meaning—even when circumstances are difficult.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

Alimujiang, A., Wiensch, A., Boss, J., Fleischer, N. L., Mondul, A. M., McLean, K., Mukherjee, B., & Pearce, C. L. (2019). Association between life purpose and mortality among US adults older than 50 years. JAMA Network Open, 2(5). https://doi.org/10.1001/jamanetworkopen.2019.4270

Butler, S., & Dirda, M. (2013). The Iliad and the Odyssey: Homer. Barnes and Noble.

Grumet, J. (2026). The Paradox of Purpose: The idea that purpose must be grand leads to stress and feelings of inadequacy. Psychology Today, 26–27.

Pogosyan, M. (2026). The How of Human Connection: Why do other people matter so much when it comes to finding joy and purpose in life? Psychology Today, 30–31.

Ryff, C. D., & Keyes, C. L. (1995). The structure of psychological well-being revisited. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 69(4), 719–727. https://doi.org/10.1037//0022-3514.69.4.719

Frozen in the Truck Bed: Dad's Nighttime Rescue

 

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“Get up, boy,” came the weary voice of my father, his patience worn thin after countless tests. The night—whether Friday or Saturday hardly matters—was a typical Texas winter, when Arctic cold fronts sweep down and blast the state with frigid air. The combination of cold air and Texas humidity makes the chill feel even sharper. I remember how, on nights like these, we’d have to wrap the outdoor pipes, and Dad would keep the kitchen faucet running—faster than a drip, but slower than a stream—to prevent freezing. He’d do the same in the bathroom, especially during the holidays and those early January nights when the mercury dipped into the 30s.

My senior year of high school was a blur of parties and late-night drinking sprees. Even after working the late shift on Friday nights—unloading pallets from a grocery semi truck and clocking out at 9 p.m.—there was always time to find a kegger, down a few beers, then make a run to Taco Bell. Back then, it stayed open all night, so I’d grab a large Coke, nachos, and a fart-producing BRC, or bean, rice, and cheese burrito, wolf them down, race home, and crash to sleep off the beer buzz. Looking back with some embarrassment, this was the life of a Texas high school football player who was headed for the Marines—feeling invincible, arrogant, and immature, constantly testing both my parents’ patience. Would I graduate high school or end up stuck in the refinery town, working as a shipping and receiving clerk? Some thought my future looked dim, but I saw it as bright. Some doubted me; others believed.

One night, I found myself at someone’s house in town—one of those places where the parents were away, liquor was easy to come by, and the crowd included former high school graduates in their early twenties who could legally buy alcohol. They often had younger siblings my age, and back then, I didn’t fully appreciate the mischief that came from having older brothers and sisters around. The drinks flowed: Long Island iced teas, MGD Lite, and Coronas stuffed with lime wedges. Someone inevitably brought a party-ball—a mini beer keg—or set up the familiar Rubbermaid trash can, cleaned out and packed with six to ten pounds of ice, cradling a silver keg of unknown booze. Someone would work the tap, give it a few pumps, and golden beer would spill into red Solo cups. We’d tilt the cup at just the right angle for a perfect pour, no foam, just a small head. One cup, then another—who was counting? I’d mingle with friends, check out the opposite sex, all locals, of course. Sometimes another high school would crash the party, or a group of clashing cliques would show up, and things might get tense, but I never stuck around for fights. I was there to have a good time and drink with friends, but this night would be different, for my story circles back to the truck bed.

Miraculously—and I admit this with some shame—I made it back home from a friend’s house in Texas City. I navigated the parallel streets and back avenues, hypervigilant for stop signs and deliberately avoiding street lights and the main road into the city, Palmer Highway. The local police definitely patrolled the main strip, so I stuck to the quieter routes I knew well, especially late at night. Looking back, I’m convinced God sent angels to watch over me during those reckless high school years.

Normally, I parked in the driveway, but that night I pulled up alongside the street in front of our home, parallel to the house. The left tires of my truck rested on the street, while the right-side tires hugged the curb. The streets in Texas City are narrow, and if you park on the street, you often have to nudge your vehicle partially onto the curb so it doesn't block traffic. Some streets were barely wide enough for a single car or truck to pass—there were no dividing lines, since it wasn’t a two-way street. In my impaired state, I parked with most of the right side of my truck well up on the curb, so the majority of it was resting in our yard, straddling the boundary between street and grass. Our house sat slightly higher than the street on a raised lot, designed so rainwater would run off and prevent flooding. As a result, my truck ended up tilted at nearly a 30- to 45-degree angle along its length.

I hopped out of the cab and hustled toward the house, close to midnight. As usual, I tried to be as quiet and sneaky as possible—cracking the screen door slowly and jamming the house key into the lock with practiced stealth. Peering through the glass window of the front door, I noticed something unusual: every light in the house was on. Normally, only the living room would be lit, with an old, yellow, dim lamp, while the kitchen and dining room stayed dark. But tonight, the house blazed as brightly as Las Vegas, and a chill ran down my intoxicated spine. Just beyond the entryway, at the intersection of the living room and kitchen, stood the man of the house himself—my father. My heart fluttered, then pounded. And as is often the case when under the influence, my mouth spoke before my brain could intervene. I blurted out, “What are you doing up?”

The conversation that followed was anything but cordial—tense, hostile, and without room for negotiation. When my father asked if I’d been drinking, I dodged the question. Fueled by drunken bravado and the swagger of being eighteen, I shot back, “I’m joining the Marines. I’m out of here.” That declaration seemed to awaken something in my father I’d never seen before. He didn’t hesitate—he moved toward me with a sudden, almost primal protectiveness, as if I were an intruder rather than his flesh and blood. In that moment, I felt like a stranger in my own home, and for a split second, I worried he might actually throw me out to protect his family. As he advanced, I bolted—barely making it out the still-open front door. I stumbled down the steps, staggered to my truck, and climbed clumsily onto the rear bumper. Throwing one leg over the tailgate and then the other, I collapsed in the bed of the truck, wedging myself next to the left wheel well for support, and passed out cold.

Moments later—I’m not sure how much time had passed—I heard, “Get up, boy, you’re gonna freeze to death.” I looked up to see my dad reaching in to nudge me awake on the right side of the truck bed. I’d been out there long enough for him to get dressed, pulling on pants and a jacket over the boxers he’d worn when we’d last met at the front door. Again, he grabbed my right shoulder and urged, “Come on, get inside. You can’t sleep out here.”

At the time, I just wanted to keep sleeping—really, I had blacked out, not just resting. But my dad knew better than to leave me there. Reluctantly, dizzy and confused, I got to my feet and tried to stand in the slanted bed of my truck. Because of how it was parked, I quickly lost my balance and began to topple backward, headfirst toward the pavement—sure to land on my neck with nothing to break my fall. In that split second, my father caught me with remarkable strength, stopping my fall and holding me in a fireman’s drag, dragging my legs and feet after me.

He managed to sling my right arm around his neck and wrap his left arm around my back, hauling me inside the house. That act was pure love and concern—a father’s instinct. The last thing I remember from that night was waking up in the kitchen the next morning, where my dad looked at me with understanding and said, “Let’s not do that again, okay?” And that was it—the end of a moment where my father quite literally saved my life and changed my path. I could have suffered a concussion, fractured my neck, or broken bones—not realizing how important it was to make it safely to the day I’d be shipped out six months later. It was a lesson learned.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Blender in the Dark: Chugging Blue Bell for Coach's "Eat Big" Command

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It’s nearly 10 p.m. when I slip through the front door, careful not to let it creak or wake anyone. My part-time shift at H.E.B. in League City is over, and my old ’74 F-150 groans its way into the driveway—faded, battered, loyal. I’m exhausted, but there’s one more mission before I sleep: pack on pounds if I want to see the football field this season.

Coach’s voice echoes in my head: “Eat big, get big.” So I sneak out to the garage, where my secret weapon waits. The blender sits atop our washing machine, already loaded with a scoop of vanilla Blue Bell ice cream, a cup of milk, and a heaping spoonful of Mega-Mass 3000—the protein powder that comes in a bag big enough to feed a horse. I pulse the blender in short bursts—don’t want to wake Dad with the racket of ice and metal. The thick, frosty mixture swirls together, every ounce a step closer to the size I need.

I pour the shake into a plastic cup and tip it back like a man in a beer-chugging contest, trying to outrun the inevitable brain freeze. This is what late-night commitment looks like—the start of my own transformation, fueled by determination, a little desperation, and the wisdom of coaches who knew what it took to build strength.

Strength wasn’t always part of my life—at least not the kind you find in a gym. Growing up in Texas, I learned grit the old-fashioned way: through muggy summers spent mowing lawns and unloading shrimp boats, and playing pee-wee, junior high, and high school football-my lungs full of Gulf Coast air. Back then, I didn’t know I was building a foundation for something bigger.

The real spark came in high school, when Coach Dicus, our senior-year strength-and-conditioning coach, stormed into my world. He believed in discipline, not just dumbbells, and he made the weight room feel like a proving ground, not a punishment. I’ll never forget the day he organized a strength show after football season. We dragged benches and squat racks onto the auditorium stage after ripping out the weights from the stadium field house, turning it into a makeshift gym in front of parents, classmates, and guests, where the auditorium was generally used for other things like student body shows, plays, and band concerts, as well as school assemblies. Still, this time the stage was turned into a weightlifting meet.

Lifting wasn’t just about the weight on the bar that day—it was about showing up for your team, your town, and yourself. I can still hear the cheers, feel the adrenaline, and sense the moment my mindset shifted. That day, I realized strength is forged in public and that accountability can transform effort into pride. The football team had our meet shirts and shorts, part of the uniform for the show, I remember, solidifying my commitment.

Coach Dicus taught me that discipline and perseverance outlast raw talent. His mentorship shaped my training habits, but it was up to me to put them into practice. When my sights turned to the Marines, I knew preparation was everything. On weekends, I laced up my sneakers and hit the trails at Texas City Nessler Center Park, sometimes with a buddy bound for the Corps as well. We raced each other through laps, sit-ups, and push-ups, pushing past fatigue under the watchful eyes of ducks gliding across the pond at the local junior college. I also attended the majority of our recruit functions for potential Marine candidates before shipping out in my senior year.

Texas City, with its refinery skyline and the ever-present tang of petroleum in the air, was the perfect training ground. I didn’t know it then, but those runs conditioned my lungs for San Diego’s Marine Corps Recruit Depot, where the scent of jet fuel drifted from the airport next door—a new kind of burn-off stack, a new kind of test. These environments, whether refinery or hospital, have always been my crucible—constant reminders that strength and stamina are built in the midst of chaos.

Not every part of training came easily. Pull-ups were my nemesis. At first, I could barely manage one. Each attempt was a small defeat, but I showed up, day after day, perfecting my form and counting tiny victories. The Marines pushed me further than I thought possible, cementing my commitment to lifelong training. I learned that true strength isn’t just about muscle—it’s about resilience, about standing up to challenges in and out of uniform.

Now, strength means having the energy to play with my kids, to face down tough days at work, to keep growing as life changes. I lift barbells, get outdoors, and adapt my routines as I go. The details change, but the principle stays the same: consistency is everything.

I know what some people are thinking—“I’m not a Marine. I’m not motivated. I have kids, a job, and too many responsibilities. I don’t know where to start.” I’ve heard every excuse, and I’ve made a few myself. But every expert started as a beginner. The trick is to turn obstacles into challenges—two minutes of wall sits today, three tomorrow; a walk around the block, then a jog. Stack up those micro-wins, and you’ll surprise yourself.

There comes a point where you get tired of being tired. Maybe it’s when the stairs leave you breathless, or your clothes fit a little tighter. Let those moments make you thirsty for change. Start small. Seek out good instruction—there are resources everywhere, but nothing beats building your own momentum. Celebrate ten workouts in a month. Find a friend to train with. Let consistency—not motivation—be your guide.

Because in the end, strength isn’t about lifting the most or running the fastest. It’s about the will to keep showing up, to keep improving, and to keep moving forward—one rep, one mile, one day at a time.

Together in the struggle,

Brian