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

Blood, Bites, and Fresh Cut Grass: A Texas Boyhood Yard

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Growing up in Texas, summer was always a test of character. We didn’t have a gardener to keep our yard tidy—that responsibility fell to me as soon as I was big enough to handle our battered old Snapper mower. It wasn’t self-propelled and had no guard, so every push took effort, and I had to stay alert. Occasionally, the spinning blade would launch a stray stone toward the alley, and I could feel the neighbors retreat indoors, wary of a rock flying over their fence or through a window. Those hot, sweaty afternoons taught me much about the enemies that were present before I set out to cut our grass.

There was a day—a triple threat, as I call it—that I’m lucky to have survived. I was still green, barely out of middle school, and summer meant my parents were off at work while I was left with strict instructions from my dad to mow and edge the yard before he got home. Sometimes he’d wake me up by flipping on the light and yanking the sheets off me with the flair of a magician pulling a tablecloth, leaving me shivering in my tidy whiteys, abruptly robbed of comfort.

That day, I threw on my JC Penney tank top—one of those with big sleeves, not a classic ‘wife beater’—maybe OP brand, maybe just a knockoff. I pulled on a pair of cotton shorts and one of my dad’s trucker caps (he collected them, and I loved wearing them), along with knee-high white socks and some high-top tennis shoes—British Knights, not Jordans; only the rich Texas City kids had those. Out in the garage, I’d fill the battered old mower with a gallon of gas, in a platic funnel and spilling some on myself and the garage floor, I think wearing 87 octane gasoline actually charms and seduces the mosquitos in Texas, but that is just a theory, check the dipstick—which was always black and burnt—and primed the engine by pressing the rubber bulb. Starting that mower took real effort: the flywheel was so worn and the pull cord so temperamental that it would often snap back, stinging my hand like a belly flop. After a few tries, it would finally roar to life, rattling the loose plastic wheels and threatening to shake itself apart. I’d adjust the wheels to get the grass as short as possible, but it never seemed to matter—the Bermuda grass on the Gulf Coast grew back like a fever, always one step ahead of me.

People often romanticize Texas for its agriculture—picturesque longhorn cattle, 4H fairs, and annual rodeos. But behind the postcard image lies a reality less discussed: the relentless, pestilential mosquitoes that could make vampires squeamish, kamikaze yellow jackets, and militant red ants. These creatures are formidable adversaries, not to be underestimated, and always demanding respect, especially from the inexperienced. Surviving a Texas summer meant learning to work around them, developing a keen awareness and a healthy caution that shaped my outlook on more than just yard work.

But one day, I met my match—a humiliating defeat I’ll never forget. It was the middle of summer, and as usual, I fired up the raggedy lawnmower and began my rounds along the edge of the yard, up between our house and the neighbor’s. The grass near our air conditioning unit was a small jungle, thick with weeds taller than my knees and almost reaching the roof of our house; these were not part of our landscaping. I did my best to cut them back, never knowing what might be lurking in that thicket besides our battered old TRANE unit, which bore the scars of years of rocks hurled its way by the mower.

What I didn’t see this time, tucked perfectly under the eaves of the house and attached to a two-by-four, was a yellow jacket hive no bigger than a fist. My focus was on the mower, not the danger overhead. Two or three scout yellow jackets spotted me before I ever got close. It was too late. In an instant, one zeroed in on me like a heat-seeking missile—an F-14 jet with a vendetta—and nailed me right on the crown of my head, stinger punching through the mesh of my trucker cap.

Instinct took over. Without a thought for my dignity or the fate of the lawnmower, I jumped higher than I knew I could, leaving the mower running and my cap in the grass. I sprinted for the garage, arms flailing, swatting at my head, tears stinging my eyes as my nose ran like a river. Back inside, I danced around trying to compose myself, rubbing the painful welt I could feel through my thick mullet haircut. Only then did I realize the mower was still out there, abandoned and rumbling, a hostage to the enemy yellow jackets.

But that was just the beginning. As humiliating as it was to be bested by a yellow jacket, I still had 90% of the yard left to mow—and I knew that “I got stung” would never cut it as an excuse with my dad. No matter what, the job had to be finished.

So I mustered my courage and left the garage, this time more alert—eyes scanning and nerves taut, as if I were on a mission in hostile territory. It almost felt like a preview of the vigilance Marine training would later demand. I crept along the right side of the front yard and peered around the corner: the lawnmower was still idling, abandoned where I’d left it, my cap a few feet away, and overhead, yellow jackets circled like fighter pilots defending their airspace.

Taking a deep breath, I sprinted in, crouched low, and grabbed the mower handle with my right hand, never taking my eyes off the enemy above. With my left hand, I snatched up my cap, jammed it onto my head, and retreated, maneuvering the mower to carve at least two quick paths near the AC unit. Once clear of the danger zone, I paused to catch my breath and steady my nerves before finishing the rest of the yard and, eventually, moving on to the backyard.

Before I cut the back yard, I would go inside to get a drink of sweet tea, the kind we brewed was Lipton with a couple of scoops of white sugar, the type of wholesome nourishment most pre-teen boys are fueled on, contributing to childhood diabetes, no matter that it is not the point. I would sip a few slurps of that delicious syrup like Texas sweet tea, wipe the sweat off my brow, and clean my face with the front tail of my tank top as I recall looking down at my legs, socks, and shoes covered in enough fresh cut grass to be considered good mulch for our garden or better yet my legs looked that the hair on Chewbaca.

Heading out to the backyard to finish the day’s job, I had no idea that a second wave of danger awaited me. Oddly, the mosquitoes hadn’t bothered me much in the front yard, but the back was a different story. There was always a patch near the backyard garage that stayed damp and soggy—thanks to the Gulf Coast’s shallow water table and the constant threat of flooding—making it a haven for all manner of pests. That stretch between our garage and the neighbor’s chain-link, honeysuckle-choked fence was particularly swampy, a mini-bayou right in our yard.

But it wasn’t just mosquitoes waiting for me—the real engineers of the lawn were the red ants, notorious for building mounds all over the backyard. For some reason, there were always more mounds out back than in the front. As I set out to cut the grass, I paused midway through a straight line to swipe sweat from my brow and swat the mosquitoes feasting on the backs of my arms. Back then, before weightlifting and Marine training, my arms were soft and untested—prime targets for bloodthirsty insects. While I was distracted by the aerial assault, I failed to notice the ground offensive: a battalion of red ants had swarmed my shoes and lower legs. Apparently, I’d run the mower over one of their mounds, demolishing their fortress and provoking their wrath. At first, I didn’t even notice, but as they tunneled up beneath my knee-high socks, the stinging bites finally broke through my oblivion. Looking down, I saw both legs crawling with ants, their jaws clamped tight as if digging defensive trenches for a last stand.

For the second time that day, I bolted—abandoning the mower mid-cut and sprinting so fast that even the blood-bloated mosquitoes couldn’t hang on. Maybe it was the sugary sweet tea I’d guzzled earlier that made me so irresistible, but at that moment, all I cared about was escape. Bursting into the garage, I kicked off my tennis shoes, punting them down the driveway like a football, and yanked my socks off in record time. To my horror, the socks seemed to crawl away on their own, alive with frenzied red ants. I slapped and swiped at my legs as the skin reddened and swelled from the onslaught with a crimson glaze.

Still itching, scratching, and rubbing my head, I finally grabbed another pair of shoes and forced myself back outside to finish the last strips of the backyard. When I was done, I powered down the mower and stashed it in its usual, cobwebbed corner of the garage, its engine rattling to a stop. Only then did I head inside, strip down for a much-needed shower, and savor the fact that, for today at least, I’d survived the gauntlet—and would avoid the correction of an annoyed father. The yard was done, and so was I.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Shrimp boats and Cigarettes: Working at the Dike

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I can still vividly recall the scorching Texas heat shimmering above the pavement as I pedaled my bike home after a long day working on the dike—nearly five miles each way from our old house on 16th Avenue in Texas City. Those junior high summers were defined by relentless humidity, the smell of dried squid and shrimp guts, and my t-shirt stained with the aroma of the fishermen's Marlboro, of course, the annoying mosquito bites ciphoning my inexperienced deckhand blood with incessant itching, leaving an impression I carry with me to this day. I know that I grew up with classmates who were lucky enough to spend their summers at home, getting better at Zelda, Super Mario Bros., or Duck Hunt, but not me. I would learn the value of work. Although not intentionally, I sported a farmer's tan that would make most envious, as I rarely put sunscreen on my rebellious puny arms and legs. You can picture shrimp boats lined up at the dock on those midday mornings after setting out in Galveston Bay before the sun had time to heat all the surfaces of the Texas Gulf Coast. Shrimpers got an early start, got out, set their nets for a drag, and when they returned, brought the haul in to be weighed and sold for market. At the baitcamps is where I cut my teeth on challenging, grungy work, lessons that prepared me to be resilient.

My days began at zero-dark-thirty, well before sunrise. Texas summers brought mornings that were unexpectedly cool and damp, with temperatures in the seventies or eighties. A salty breeze from the bay refreshed me until the midday heat pressed in. I’d pedal my bike down 16th Avenue beneath flickering streetlights, racing past stop signs to make my shift. I was always up earlier than my parents, who were still asleep when I left for work—no one was going to give me a ride, so my bike was my only companion. Quietly, I crept out through the garage, leaving behind the comfort and security of home. The last thing I’d see was a swarm of Texas June bugs humming and fluttering around the bright outdoor garage light, a small ritual before I slipped away and pedaled toward the dike.

As I neared the bay, the air grew brisker, and I’d spot pickup trucks lined up outside the bait house. Inside, rugged men—some seasoned, others teaching their sons—gathered with fishing rods, tackle boxes, steaming coffee, and cigarettes. The bait house buzzed with anticipation for the day’s hopeful catch, mostly flounder reeled in by rock fishermen casting from the man-made road that jutted out into Galveston Bay. Live bait was essential, and we sold shrimp to eager anglers who transferred them into saltwater trolling rigs. The rock fishermen were a breed apart—down-to-earth, friendly, and always willing to strike up a conversation. In contrast, the sport fishermen with boats often seemed more presumptuous and less approachable. Some of the wealthier customers even treated me as if I were invisible, but I didn’t let it bother me—I simply focused on doing my job.

Customers would line up at the counter with a six-pack or two of light beer, an extra pack of smokes, lure tackle and weights, a bag of chips, Cokes for their ice chest, and a plastic-wrapped sandwich from the store cooler, like an Oscar-Meyer. I’d step outside to the bait wells to scoop up a quart of live shrimp, scraping the tanks with my net before transferring the catch into the fisherman’s troll. Sometimes, I’d earn a dollar or two in tips, which I’d tuck into my saltwater-soaked cotton shorts. I never seemed to dry off at the bait camp, always getting splashed by the tanks or shoveling ice into the display coolers. Lunch breaks were spent on the back deck, overlooking the bay as I ate my sandwich and a bag of Funyuns—my favorite snack back then. My duties included cleaning and turning the live bait tanks, removing dead shrimp to keep everything fresh, and repacking ice to preserve fish, crabs, squid, and other seafood for sale.

I remember every once in awhile ringing up customers and standing next to the store manager who was a seasoned baitcamp manager, he was tall, large in size, overweight but had strong hands that looked used and scarred from years of handling the tools of fisherman trade, he smelled like the ocean not stinky, more like a sweaty unshowered scent but not pleasant and had a foul mouth, the likes to make even a sailor blush, I am sure I learned things I was not supposed to know as a pre-teen, the tells of fisherman some true, some tragic about being on a boat, catching and not catching and the ups and downs with the whiles of their women. I would pretend to be working nearby and keep my hands on the tasks. Still, my ears perked as I eavesdropped on that old man as he talked to the regulars who came into the bait shop over a cigarette and what seemed like a bottomless pot of coffee, sipped enthusiastically from a styrofoam cup. The Texas Gulf Coast was renowned for its exceptional fishing and seafood, and those early days at the bait camp were my first taste of real maritime experience.

Whether I was hauling heavy boxes of shrimp and fish off the boats, shoveling ice, or learning the rhythms of tides and weather from seasoned fishermen, I was immersed in the realities of life by the water. Those long days instilled a deep respect for hard labor, forged my strength and resilience, and prepared me for the demanding amphibious training I would one day face as a Marine.

Together in the struggle, 

Brian

If I Could: Thriving in what Is

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Whilst typing from the security of my laptop, surrounded by books that bring comfort and allow me to boyishly daydream, I look into the bottom of a well-used white, cold coffee mug that holds a pour of a venti dark roast Christmas blend from Starbucks, no more than a three-minute walk away from our humble townhome. Pondering, 'What has my life become?', I realize that the pursuit of things not done nor attempted is okay and part of my life as self-discovery and fulfillment, thoughts from a man now fifteen months and five decades old. It is this inner fire of curiosity and learning, framed by the core value of incessant self-improvement, that keeps me searching and striving to expand my horizons. This body of mine, an unfinished product, guides my hands and thoughts through literature and contemplation.

If I could live a hundred lifetimes, I would seek experiences far beyond those I have ever known. I’d study at Oxford and try to find the places where Lewis and Tolkien met to share notes. Even though I currently walk a path of abstinence, I'd like to see a pub and think about what that might have been like over a pint of ale or two. In London, I would taste the morning fog and gaze at the edge of the banks of the River Thames and see if I could find the old school houses where Milton was educated. In each of these places, a fire within me would kindle, much like that of a blacksmith's forge, guiding me to new discoveries and experiences.

If I could, commanding a horse and carriage, I would once again don my ragged, sweat-worn, straw Stetson, pull up my Wranglers, and outfit my feet with the leather soles of my Nocona's. I’d homestead in the northern wilds of America, perhaps in the deep woods of Canada, or near the fisheries of Alaska. The sound of crashing waves mingling with the crisp scent of pine is hallucinogenic. I would rest for a moment to breathe in the crisp air in these asthmatic lungs. Learning the iron trade at the forge's fire symbolizes a past life of resilience and adaptability against the world, as taught by amphibious warriors. I would learn to scuba dive, exploring the views only seen by clownfish off the coast of Australia's reefs. And climb, short of breath, at least to the base camp in Nepal with an oxygen tank in tow. Each time, I am conscious of this burning desire that drives my passions that cannot be quenched.

I'd begin by embracing the arts and crafts more confidently, finding solace and expression in woodworking, pipefitting, and pottery, all of which symbolize my striving to build a life well lived. As I delve deeper into palliative medicine, therapeutic healing, and pastoral counseling, I will learn the importance of compassion and service to others, continuously drawing on the inner warmth and strength found in the blacksmith's forge.

If given the chance to lead, I would govern with wisdom and fairness, striving to cultivate a community rooted in tradition, family, and care. Yet, I know that the path to such leadership is not without obstacles. I once faced a challenging period in which dissent among team members threatened the very cohesion we were working to build. It was a test of my resolve, pushing me to adapt and reinforce the values of unity and understanding, and, through it, upon the anvil of life, my character flaws were hammered out into a finer tool. In teaching young men discipline, with Homeric influence, I would share the feats of Odysseus, Ajax, and Hector. Without a doubt, the shepherd boy who grew to be David, through physical prowess, rifle skills, tactics of fists and throws in wrestling, and the wisdom found in the letters written to the residents of Colossa and Ephesus for the foundation of power and strength, I recognize the significance of having a savior guide my effort. I would stand on the shoulders of those air, land, and Neptune's warriors before me and hand down the esprit de corps and semper fidelis of my brothers. My journey would culminate in the dream of writing an epic poem rivaling Virgil, Ovid, Homer, Tolstein, Lewis, and Solomon, a testament to a life's narrative rich with diversity and growth. Yet, in this reflection, I also find contentment in my current life as a Texas-born veteran, husband, father, caregiver, and a perennial peregrinator. I am content and thankful for Horace's reminder.

Reading brings relief, and a stanza from Horace’s Odes, Book 1, Ode 31—the final lines of a prayer addressed to Apollo—as interpreted by Bennett and Rolfe (1965, p. 28), hopefully is a salve for you. Although Greek and Roman in tone, these lines ring true for us today if our heart remains soft: “Frui paratis et valido mihi, Latoe, dones ac, precor, integra cum mente, nec turpem senectam degere nec cithara carentem.” The literal sense is as follows, rendered from Raffel and Johnson (1983, p. 29): “Apollo: all I ask is what I own already, and the peace to enjoy it, sound in body and mind, and a promise of honor in old age, and to go on singing to the end.” When I read the ancient works of Horace, I am reminded of the teacher's words in the wisdom literature texts in the Old Testament, the author of the thirtieth proverb ask for not be rich or to be poor, but asks to be fed with the food he needs (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Proverbs 30:8). That request is a plea to remain content. Horace reminds us of the futility of ignoring a contented life.

Inspired by Horace's Book II, Ode 18, one of the stanzas discusses the ego-centric and self-absorbed trap of the day, where Horace tells that he is not some heir of a wealthy deceased king, nor does he currently live in a home full of marble, gold, and ivory furnishings (Raffel and Johnson, 1983, p. 52). Horace embodies words to describe the gladness of heart in his poetry. In contrast, as I think about my workstation encased in the halls of a hospital, the tools of caring for others, gurneys, I.V. poles, medications, and alarming monitors, I am reminded to keep trying not to hide my light under a bushel. This simple setting of the hospital continues to represent and serve as an example for me to help others, in stark opposition to the grandiosity of today, yet it brings a profound sense of fulfillment and purpose. I have an affinity for great poems, especially those that represent the experiences all humans understand, the ups and downs, the joys and sorrows, the victories and losses common to all.

As I have often done before, when my mind becomes tangled with piercing, anxious, and intrusive thoughts, such as the lingering fear of not achieving my life goals, I turn to journaling and prose to make sense of my personal battles and struggles. Grateful for the ability to write, I sought the help of online language models to shape my thoughts more poetically, drawing inspiration from Horatian lines. I asked Perplexity AI to refine my original idea: 'I would rather inherit scraps from a dad who was a working nurse and caregiver, than inherit riches from a materialistic father who made his money in business.' This reflection was inspired by both Horace and Dickens. Each holiday season, we watch A Christmas Carol. Charles Dickens (Dickens and Douglas-Fairhurst, 2006) told the story of Christmas best in his novel. As such, each year I reflect and am reminded to focus on the moment when Jacob Marley explains to Ebenezer the meaning of his shackles and chains—symbols of the burdens he forged during his lifetime. Those who recognize the contrast between Ebenezer and his humble clerk will find greater insight.

Engaging with the AI's output opened a dialogue of creativity for me. I found myself encouraged and surprised by its choice of words. The poetic phrasing led me to think about the craftsmanship apparent in artificial assistance in helping me write better, and how it can help us in other areas of life as well. As I embrace it, the moral choice between the humble and the lavish in the stanza below helps make the most crucial thing crystal clear: the artistic value of artificial intelligence.

I'd sooner keep a caregiver's humble bread,
Then feast on gold by vanity misled.
His hands brought healing; theirs mere gain—
One leaves me heart, the other stain. (Perplexity AI, 2025)

As the dawn fades and the sun sets, marking another journey around our brightest star, we look forward to the days ahead, striving to grow in faith, strengthen our trust, and deepen our character. May our source of strength, that guiding light and deliverer for all who believe, inspire in us a spirit eager to share His agape.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

Bennett, C. E., & Rolfe, J. C. (1965). Horace: Odes and Epodes (Digitized ed.). Allyn & Bacon. https://archive.org/details/horaceodesepodes0000hora/page/n7/mode/2up

Dickens, C., & Douglas-Fairhurst, R. (2006). A christmas carol and other christmas books. Oxford University Press.

Perplexity AI. (2025). Assistance with adapting Horatian-style verse and language refinement [Large language model]. https://www.perplexity.ai

Raffel, B., & Johnson, W. R. (1983). The essential Horace: Odes, Epodes, Satires, and Epistles. North Point Press. https://archive.org/details/essentialhoraceo0000hora/page/n5/mode/2up

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

Knot Sunk Yet: Resilience through the Storm

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Feel the surge of salty sea spray as it invigorates your senses—the first sign that you are alive and ready for a new adventure. Before you, your ship stands strong and proud, tied to the pier yet longing for open water. You walk up to her bow, peer through and past the gunwale, and gaze up at her majestic mast and yard arm, noticing her stowed sails that soon will come unfurled and fill with the winds of the sea, your memories swirling of every challenge she has weathered and every safe return to harbor. You named her "Knot Sunk Yet" for a reason: she is a symbol of resilience—just like you. 

Every voyage she survived, every lesson learned at sea, is proof that you, too, are capable of rising above adversity. As you stand at the helm, know that you carry the spirit of every past triumph and the hope of new discoveries. Embrace this moment with courage and anticipation—the horizon is yours to claim.

Reflect on a time when you faced a new challenge, much like setting sail into uncharted waters. What sort of purpose lies within you on this next journey? How did you draw upon inner resilience and past experiences to navigate unknowns? Now, standing at the threshold of a new voyage, feel a blend of cautious anticipation and energetic resolve, eager for the challenges and discoveries that await.

All growth is a journey; you are both traveler and pilgrim, passenger and captain of your own ship. Words, like the nimble rudder of your vessel, though small, steer your course across calm and stormy seas alike. When swells rise and torrents threaten, these words will keep your keel steady, providing stability, structure, and support on your life’s voyage. As you navigate these waters, anticipate transformative growth—an evolution from uncertainty to confidence, from question to revelation. Every captain needs specific tools for the voyage, and the words that follow are cues and recaps for you, for the next journey ahead.

First and foremost, don't forget the ship's compass—a steadfast guide when clear skies fade, the sun turns gray, and your boat enters the Sea of Fear and Doubt. As you leave safe harbor and ready your vessel once again, you carry your education, training, and heritage, along with your previous experiences. Now, you set sail beyond the familiar coastline, venturing past the horizon and away from the comforts of home. At first, like all previous trips, the navigation may seem easy, aided by channel markers, ocean buoys, and nearby ships, but this sense of security is fleeting. As you steam into deeper waters and uncharted experiences, those markers will disappear. Your compass, however, will always point true north. Much like in navigation, where 'true north' is a fixed point of reference, in personal growth, it represents your core values and guiding principles. It signifies what is most important to you, helping you make decisions and stay aligned with your aspirations. When storms arise, and the seas grow rough, your compass will keep you on your proper heading, ensuring you remain on track to reach your destination and avoid running aground or shipwrecking your vessel.

Secondly, and equally essential, is the magnifying glass. As you chart more journeys on your life's course, you'll encounter small thumbnails, hidden messages, and subtle details—insights that may not appear at first glance but can prove invaluable when you might often drift off course. As you collect treasures—adventures, experiences, setbacks, and uncertainties—use your magnifying glass to uncover essential clues or hidden wisdom you might otherwise overlook. These observations not only guide you but also serve as reminders of how your abilities can grow from learning through failure or remembering victories. Learning from mistakes is a powerful way to cultivate a growth mindset, reinforcing the idea that challenges are stepping stones to developing your skills. Sometimes, only careful observation reveals what is unclear or ambiguous at first. The wisdom and experiences of others can also serve as guidance if you look closely enough. By focusing on life's small details and using each discovery as evidence of your ability to expand, you equip yourself to navigate more confidently and thoughtfully.

When faced with a problem or uncertainty, remember to pair your magnifying glass with a methodical approach, such as the scientific method. First, ask questions: What is happening? How is it occurring? Where are things going? Who is involved, and why? Be inquisitive. Next, gather facts and conduct thorough research. Then, form a hypothesis or theory to address your questions. Test your ideas by checking if they hold up to scrutiny, reason, and evidence. Analyze your results to see what you’ve learned, and finally, draw your conclusions. Now, let’s turn this method into action. Today, choose one question from your life's journey and apply just the first step: ask questions. For instance, consider a question like 'What small change can I make this week to improve my work-life balance?' or, ‘How can I incorporate the experiences of others to help me with a problem?’ or, ‘Where do go for strenght, support or clarity?’ or, ‘Who can I help today?’ or ‘Have I been here before and what do I know about myself to get me through tough spots?’ Jot down the answers, observations, possible causes, and potential solutions, engaging your curiosity without judgment. Share your discoveries with others who are like-minded and open to growth. In this way, you turn careful observation into wisdom, and wisdom into forward momentum on your journey. 

The next piece of equipment is your mortar and pestle. You may ask, 'How does a captain need a mortar and pestle for their journey?' The following will explain. Although you are the captain of your ship and not new to the seas, you also take on the essential role of provider, responsible for both nourishment and healthcare. You must care for yourself when hunger, fatigue, or illness arises. Here, the mortar and pestle become your indispensable tools: with them, you can prepare remedies, salves, and healing solutions, as well as transform raw ingredients into vital sustenance, grinding grains for bread, crushing spices for flavor, preparing herbs, or making butters from nuts and seeds.

When you're far from home, you might feel overwhelmed by challenges. You might face an intense period of uncertainty that threatens to capsize or shipwreck your boat and spirit. The mortar and pestle, both physically and metaphorically, are helpful. Just as herbs are crushed and ground into a fine powder to transform the taste of food or enhance its flavor, consider how life's trials and tribulations act as a mortar, grinding you into a stronger, more resilient person. By breaking down obstacles, you find new flavors of your character emerging—patience from enduring hardship, wisdom from overcoming setbacks, and strength from facing fears. These experiences may initially seem overwhelming, but they ultimately refine and empower you, much like spices releasing their aroma under the pestle, allowing you to grow into a more defined and robust version of yourself. This time on your journey, when you encounter a setback, you see it as another lesson—another ingredient in your growth. Your journey requires you to make good use of the ship’s kitchen and infirmary to maintain your strength and well-being, and remember how the act of transformation can turn adversity into empowerment.

As you explore distant lands and encounter new cultures, you will gather a wealth of knowledge about nutrition and holistic self-care. Embrace a multicultural approach and learn from the diverse doctors, counselors, and healers you meet along the way. Many shores around the world are rich with resources and wisdom. By staying open to cultural competence and new modalities, you equip yourself to thrive, drawing on global traditions to nourish and heal yourself throughout your voyage. Lastly, no voyage is without its dangers. Along your journey, you will face threats and challenges, some from without, others from within. As captain, you must also forge your own resilience, for you are not only the master of your ship but its sole blacksmith. 

Finally, you will need to repeatedly use the anvil as your foundation: a place to strengthen your resolve, repair what is broken, and shape your character in the fires of adversity. Be prepared to use it often. The anvil is more than iron: it is the foundation of resolve, where raw intent is tested and shaped by trial, each stroke of the hammer to the hot steel forging ability, progress, and heart. Consider establishing a daily reflection practice as a measurable way to build resilience. By writing down your thoughts and responses to daily challenges, you create a tangible record of your growth and fortitude. By training yourself physically and emotionally, you garner the competence to engage every challenge. Every ship has an armory, where weapons for fighting battles are stowed, created, sharpened, and fixed. Be prepared in season and off-season to stand your ground, and when you need to fight the enemies that attack you, make yourself durable, train yourself to be grounded, make yourself resistant to damage, and unshakeable, and when able, help others to remain strong.  

To help you start this practice, consider the following reflection prompts, which can serve as a guiding light as you consistently build and reinforce your resilience. What challenges did I face today, and how did I respond to them? What is one thing I learned about myself today? How did I demonstrate resilience or strength in my actions? What can I do differently tomorrow to improve my response to adversity? Which small victories am I celebrating today, and why?

You are one of many captains in the Fleet of Perseverance, and as such, remember your fellow captains as they navigate their personal voyages. Reflect on the shared challenges and triumphs, and consider engaging with them to exchange insights and support. Are you ready to embark on this epic course? You are. 

Remember, the tools you carry are few but essential: the steady compass (your inner values compass to navigate through life’s complexities), the revealing magnifying glass (to shed light on hidden truths and opportunities), the enduring mortar and pestle (to transform challenges into growth), and the unwavering strength of the anvil (as a cornerstone for forging resilience and character).

You’ll arrive at a land rich with secrets, where the compass guides not just for direction but toward hope and purpose. Consider this your call to action. Identify one courageous battle you will face this week. What specific action will you take to face it, and how will you measure your progress? The sea is vast, and your resolve must be unwavering. Choose your path with intention, and commit to making this journey not just a fleeting inspiration but a sustainable habit that propels you forward. Recall the name of your ship, the Knot Sunk Yet, and determine to make progress, such as minutes spent each day on the challenge, the number of attempts made, or reflections logged in a journal. Additionally, share your goals and progress with your fellow captains to foster a sense of community and accountability. These tangible signs will not only track your advancement but also reinforce your motivation by showcasing your journey toward success. May your seas be fair, your compass true, the sun bright, and your strength full of vigor. Have an adventurous journey until your ship reaches harbor once more.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Mud, Walls, and Willpower: Mastering Life's Obstacle Course

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Obstacle course racing has exploded in popularity over the past decade, serving not only as a test of physical prowess but, more importantly, as a training ground for spiritual growth. At the core of events like the Spartan Race and Tough Mudder is the opportunity to push beyond physical limits and initiate a transformative journey of the soul. These races are more than just adventures; they offer a profound exploration of the spirit. Participants, who often pay a hefty price for the experience, traverse miles of challenging terrain to embark on this spiritual expedition. Some of these events feature military-style challenges, overseen by former special ops soldiers, allowing participants to undergo a selection-like process or enjoy a boot camp atmosphere. In a culture filled with the comforts of modern life, such as Starbucks lattes and iPhones, these races satisfy a deep craving for raw, unfiltered challenges, providing a chance to earn an actual moment of transformation alongside a T-shirt or medal.

I admit I have a humble collection of 'winner t-shirts' and 'race finisher' medals. I loved the training for the races I participated in, and the feeling of competing against others and myself for the pure experience. One particular race stands out in my memory. At a pivotal moment, while climbing a steep, muddy hill under a cold, semi-bright winter sun, every muscle in my body screamed in protest, and I could taste the salt of my own sweat trickling down my face at one of the local races here in Santa Clarita Valley. The sound of my heartbeat was like a relentless drumbeat in my ears, synchronizing with the rhythmic squelch of my shoes pulling free from the thick mud. The air was filled with the earthy scent of churned earth and grass, a reminder of nature's raw power. Every agonizing step forward seemed like a triumph over myself, embodying the hero's journey in its essence and actually reminiscent of a time when I was in military fatigues overseas.

In this way, the obstacle course becomes more than a physical challenge—it serves as a metaphor for the journey of discipleship, where each struggle marks a step toward spiritual growth. The sense of accomplishment that follows is deeply rewarding, giving us stories of perseverance to share with friends, family, and even on social media. For a brief moment, we experience the hero’s journey firsthand—before returning to our daily routines, Monday-morning traffic, and the responsibilities of everyday life. We push ourselves through these routines, looking forward to those rare, meaningful breaks—like a family vacation—as milestones along our journey.

Recall the story of Odysseus, who was held captive by the goddess Calypso in her cave. Calypso offered him the gift of immortality so that he would not have to face the human struggle of old age (Butler & Dirda, 2013, p. 484)—a prize many would consider the ultimate desire. Yet, even such an extraordinary offer could not replace Odysseus’s deep longing for purpose, belonging, and home. Odysseus’ response to Calypso, before being released, reflects this enduring desire: he wished to return to his native land, to see his friends and brothers, and above all, to reunite with his wife Penelope. He famously declared, “Even if some god wrecks me when I am on the sea, I will bear it and make the best of it” (Butler & Dirda, 2013). In this, we can recognize the universal human struggle for meaning, as captured so powerfully in Homer’s epic.

Odysseus’s unwavering desire to return home mirrors our own search for purpose and belonging. Likewise, the challenges we face—whether on a muddy hill or in daily life—test and shape us. Deep within each of us is a longing to grow, to become more, and to fulfill the purpose for which God created us. If we are honest, we all seek moments of challenge that reveal and refine our character, much like Odysseus braving his trials.

I believe that God is wholeheartedly concerned with us becoming more like His Son and that He will stop at nothing to see that we get there. We were created in His image, and we were made to glorify and give Him praise.  Lest we lose sight of how to accomplish this without paying attention to His son, who gave us the example as well as others, we will never become who He created us to be.  I suggest there is a relationship between the Christian walk and “obstacle course racing”!

The Christian walk and obstacle course racing share striking parallels. Both are filled with struggles, uphill battles, and moments of victory—mirroring the journey of discipleship. Just as a runner needs essential gear to conquer a challenging course—like shoes for varied terrains or gloves for challenging obstacles—a disciple is called to equip themselves with spiritual gear (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Ephesians 6: 11). A helmet protects the head, just as salvation guards our minds. Gloves provide grip in slippery conditions, much like the shield of faith helps us hold firm in times of doubt. These tangible examples make the metaphor vivid and memorable.

When was the last time you felt pressed to your limit? Perhaps it was during a tense meeting at work or while endlessly scrolling through social media that you felt pressure to compare yourself? In those moments, what piece of spiritual gear helped you stand your ground? Personal visualization like this can transform abstract preparedness into urgent practice. Stand therefore, having fastened on the belt of truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness, and as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Ephesians 6: 13-15). The 'shoes of peace' serve as more than just a doctrinal idea; they can alter our day-to-day interactions. Imagine, for instance, how wearing these shoes might transform a tense commute tomorrow into an opportunity for kindness and patience. Instead of rushing in frustration, the readiness of the gospel of peace invites us to approach each encounter with calm and understanding, thereby positively impacting those around us. This shift from pretending to be religious to putting the spiritual disciplines into practice in our daily lives reveals how significant these spiritual garments can be in our relationships and interactions.

Being called to withstand the day of evil when it takes place is a challenge, but when it does, we can remember to stand firm in the truth that comes from the word. Remember the word planted deeply in your heart?  And the breastplate of righteousness, doing what is right, not showing others how right you are, but holding onto what is right, is the key. I dont know anyone who does this perfectly, but we try, and that is the key. And finally, wearing shoes that are quick to promote peace, not a war monger ready to fight, but being peaceable as much as is in your power to do so. In all circumstances, take up the shield of faith.

The shield of faith and the helmet of salvation are potent reminders that salvation is for everyone willing to obey, but for Christians, it is a complete assurance (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1999, Ephesians 6:16-17). This assurance of salvation is more than mere comfort; it acts as the mental fortitude that sustains a disciple through life's trials. In psychological terms, certainty about one's spiritual destination can fuel perseverance, much as a runner's confidence in reaching the finish line drives them to complete a race. Much like Odysseus’s desire for his home country, he was willing to travel on the seas and deal with Poseidon's taunts and agitations on a makeshift raft for his family and country.

As we close out 2025 and prepare for the seasons ahead, consider, for instance, the work of psychologist Angela Duckworth on grit and perseverance, which highlights how long-term commitment and resilience are key to progress in both spiritual and secular pursuits. Duckworth (2016, p. 250), for instance, describes the perseverance of the Nordic territory of Finland, which is often described as sisu, an approximate translation of grit. This profound connection between theology and psychology reinforces our motivation or grit, urging us to remain steadfast on the path of discipleship.

We know we will face challenges ahead. Let us remember the true purpose behind donning our spiritual armor: to stand firm in our calling and shine as beacons of faith in a world in need of hope. This journey isn't just about personal growth, but about embodying the love and truth of our beliefs in every interaction and moment of our lives. Let this resolve send you out with renewed energy, ready to face whatever battles come your way, knowing that your armor not only protects but empowers you to fulfill your highest calling.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

References:

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

Duckworth, A. (2016). Grit: The power of passion and perseverance. Scribner.

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

Beyond the Bodily Fluids: Dignity, Duty, and a Very Long Cleanup

 

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    The relentless beeping of monitors slices through the ward's stillness; each call light, alarm, beeping, or ring is a reminder of the fragile balance between life and crisis. The telementy unit is beginning to wake as the night shift ends, their twelve-hour march wrapping up bed baths, answering last-minute call lights, updating charts, sending blood samples off as the tube station “sucks” another carrier off to the laboratory, the nurse scurrying to complete the previous night's orders. My fatigued mind, belly full of at least one cup of coffee, heart pounding and racing in anticipation of what to expect after the report from the nightshift nurse, and the handoff is complete as the outgoing nurse says under her breath, “Good luck.” I can now hear an echo of the tension that fills the air. It's another day on the telemetry unit, a haven for patients grappling with cardiac disease and a host of other health challenges.

    The telemetry unit is composed of patients with cardiac disease and a myriad of other health issues. Most of the patients have uncontrolled blood pressure, out-of-control diabetes, struggle with their weight, and are non-compliant with medical prescriptions and medicines. Most patients, but not all, are ESL (English as a second language) or limited English speakers. Considering language barriers and a general literacy that falls short of a standard American high school education, one can see the dilemma of administering clinical therapy to these patient populations. As nurses, we all take courses and education to provide culturally competent care, because every human being has the right to affordable, high-quality care.

    Take, for instance, an elderly patient in her late sixties, female, from Guatemala, who struggles with both high blood pressure and diabetes. With limited English proficiency and understanding of her treatment plan, she often misses taking her medications, leading to frequent hospital visits. Her story exemplifies how communication barriers can significantly impact health outcomes. To mitigate these challenges, healthcare providers can employ practical communication strategies, such as using interpreters to facilitate understanding, using language line services to teach back to confirm patient comprehension, and providing written instructions in the patient's native language. These efforts can help bridge the communication gap and improve the quality of care.

    In the telemetry unit, staffing ratios are increasingly stretched, and resources are limited, exacerbating the challenges of delivering effective care. This situation highlights not just an individual crisis but a systemic issue within the healthcare infrastructure.

    One particular day, I finally got a less-than-adequate report on my four patients from the previous night shift RN, who was also a traveler, and when a report from the previous nurse (whose report starts out, “I barely survived.”, you already know you are going to get hammered. An incomplete handoff not only adds stress to an already demanding situation, but it can also directly affect patient safety, potentially leading to dangerous oversights or mistakes. To mitigate these issues, adopting structured handoff protocols, such as SBAR (Situation, Background, Assessment, Recommendation), can enhance clarity and ensure critical information is communicated effectively. It's also essential to actively verify and clarify any missing information before the previous shift staff leave, either by asking direct questions or using a checklist to confirm key details. Advocating for a safer handoff process, for instance, through regular feedback sessions and training, can prepare staff to deal with existing communication gaps in real time.

    I had barely finished getting a report on all of my patients when I overheard “Who has room 94?” from the central nursing station as the night-shift staff lingered around like tattered zombies, wrapping up their charts and stumbling out of the unit with sunglasses on to avoid direct sunlight. I reply with a confident, “I do,” and one of the nurse assistants on the unit says, “The patient in the room, you gotta come see this!”

    I hightail it over there to the room, though not at a code-blue speed and certainly not at a stroll through the park pace either. I get to the patient's room, and the first thing I notice is a middle-aged, confused patient standing in front of the door, and the patient is buck naked. I did not know why the patient was naked, nor could I see where the patient’s hospital gown was located. I recalled, though, that the bathroom door directly behind the patient was wide open, and I could see a trail of toilet paper on the floor (and not in the toilet where it should be). The single detail of my observation that immediately caught my attention was a clear view of the patient's IV that is no longer in their vein but on their left forearm, hanging on by a small piece of tape, actively bleeding. Assuming the patient had pulled it out, my first steps were to ensure the patient's immediate safety and call for assistance from the team. I quickly assessed the need to prevent further injury or a fall and perform first aid on the now non-functioning intravenous line, the lifeline to saving any patient, which is a working I.V. line that was now self-discontinued. My training kicked in, reminding me to prioritize infection control immediately. I ensured my gloves and gown were secure before addressing the loose IV and the hygiene issues. Securing the environment was critical. It was crucial to maintain a calm demeanor amid the chaos to prevent further stress for the patient and ensure my actions were guided by established protocols. With the team's help, we systematically began restoring order and addressing the situation. Grabbing a blanket, I draped it over the patient.

    What sent my mind through the roof was the room's shocking state when I entered. The distinctive smell and aroma hinted at an infection, an all-too-common presence in hospital settings. Ask any RN, and they will tell you that dealing with cases like these is no easy task. The room was a scene of sheer chaos, a manifestation of the struggles we face. It was clear that the situation demanded immediate attention and careful management.

    There was poop on the side rails of the bed and on the foot of the bed as well as the sheets the patient had previously been lying on, and there was poop on the bathroom walls and the handles of the bathroom door. There was visible poop on both of the patient's hands and on the buttocks, of course, and on the patient's chest and abdomen. In that moment, a wave of frustration and helplessness washed over me. It was one of those rare instances where the magnitude of the situation felt overwhelming, challenging my patience and resolve. Yet, amid the patient's dire straits and confusion, I realized that confronting these emotions head-on was essential to maintaining empathy and focus. Taking a few deep breaths, I reminded myself of the importance of staying composed. I engaged in positive self-talk, telling myself that I could handle the situation and reassure the patient effectively, although I do not believe that the patient clearly understood the gravity of the situation. Later, I knew I would need to debrief with my team to process the experience and discuss any improvements for future incidents.

    This was the worst case of a confused patient I had ever been responsible for. I said to myself, 'How am I going to clean this crap up?' I meant that literally. I had never in my career seen more poop painted on the exterior of a hospital room. I took a deep breath, gathered some supplies, gowned up, and, with the nursing assistant, headed straight into the room to clean this patient up and to start a new IV. As we entered, we quickly assessed the tasks at hand and divided them efficiently. I carefully managed the patient's IV and monitored vital signs, ensuring the IV remained secure while adhering to infection control protocols. Meanwhile, the nursing assistant and I focused on cleaning the patient and addressing hygiene concerns, reassuring the patient throughout the process to keep them calm. We engaged our environment of care stakeholders to assist with mopping, wiping, and refurbishing, ensuring clean linen and toiletries for a clean bathroom and patient room, and allowing our housekeeping staff to bring the patient's room back up to a clean state. 

    This clear division of responsibilities enabled us to efficiently restore order in a challenging situation. This all happened before 7:30 a.m. Despite the chaos, moments like these reminded me of the critical importance of resilience and teamwork in nursing. By focusing on the patient's dignity above the mess, I learned that quality care goes beyond physical treatment; it involves providing psychological comfort in distressing situations. This experience reaffirmed my commitment to treating each patient with respect, regardless of the circumstances, and highlighted the importance of collaboration in navigating demanding scenarios.

Together in the struggle,

Brian