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

"time and chance" free AI image from www.gemini.google.com

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

"ikigai" free AI image www.gemini.google.com

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

 

"frozen in the back" free AI image www.gemini.google.com

“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

"garage protein shake" free AI image www.gemini.google.com

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

"mowing the grass" free AI image www.gemini.google.com

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

"shrimpboats and cigarettes" free AI image www.gemini.google.com

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

"If I could" free AI image www.gemini.google.com

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)