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Life with Chicken and Broccoli

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  • Coffee is for Closers

    Coffee is for Closers

    “Put that coffee down. Coffee is for closers.”

    One of the many lines my father and I used to repeat to each other from Glengarry Glen Ross while we sold insurance together for eighteen years.

    As I sit here doing my accounting on this spring like day, March 10, working through QuickBooks, I am still entering revenue from our old health insurance business. I started in insurance with my father right after my glorious quitting at GE. I burned those bridges well and good. Quickly and abruptly. I had my fill of the long hours in accounting. When I figured out how to get ten hours of work done in eight, they simply tried to give me ten hours again. I was done with that.

    All these years later, five years after my father stopped working and two years after he passed away, I am still receiving these small commission payments from our health insurance carriers.

    They were my father’s commissions. Our agreement was that I would give him half, a deal we renegotiated and argued about more times than I can count. Too many fights, too many battles.

    Because of that experience, I am adamant that my kids will never work for me or with me. I can only work for them, so they can fire me anytime they no longer need me. That seems like the fairest way to protect the relationship.

    As time passes, the rose colored glasses grow even rosier. I remember the good times more than the arguments. It is a cautionary tale, but it was also my life, and it was good. There is far more to appreciate and be thankful for than there is to regret.

    We had big personalities, which meant strong opinions and strong fights. Now, with the perspective that time and death bring, I can see more clearly. My father might have understood my perspective, and I know I was not always right no matter how many times I retell the story in my own head. I was not wrong, but neither was he.

    If we could achieve perfect understanding, we could have perfect forgiveness. I know that truth intellectually, but it is hard to feel completely in this life.

    I cared deeply for my father and I loved him. I wanted to take care of him, and I did. In truth, I gave more than the half we agreed on in commissions to both my father and my mother. I was happy to do it. They were my parents and I loved them.

    Eventually I surpassed them, which is always the plan. Children are supposed to find their own way.

    But I still think back to those moments when things were good. When we would joke with each other and throw out lines from the movies. “Kibbits,” he would say to other people. Many of his expressions are etched into the ridges of my mind. They are part of my makeup now, even though I rarely say them aloud. Sometimes I say them quietly to myself and smile.

    The inner ghosts of the people who shaped us.

    I was proud to work with my father. I was impressed by him. He had gone through so many things and tried so many different businesses before finally finding insurance at around fifty five years old. His previous business had been hollowed out underneath him by his trust in the wrong people.

    That experience left its mark. The trust he struggled with after that was always a point of tension between us. I had never betrayed that trust, but I still felt the weight of it. It cut deeper than I ever admitted at the time.

    In the end, after all the arguments and the Greek word he loved to use, fouskaries, the nonsense and the noise, I find myself remembering the good days.

    The days when it was fun.

    When we were selling and laughing and shouting our lines at each other across the office.

    So in the end, all I really want to say is this.

    I miss you, Dad. I love you.

    That is what matters in the end.

    And I still smile when I think of you.

  • The Phantom Limb of Love

    The Phantom Limb of Love

    We are coming up on the anniversary of my mom’s passing, two years ago. It is less about the day itself and more about the slow remembering of her life as the date approaches. The weight grows a little heavier each day. The gravity of it becomes more present.

    I still miss her every day. There are moments when I forget she is gone. I will think of something and instinctively reach for my phone to call her and share it, only to remember a second later that I cannot.

    It is a strange feeling, like the phantom limb phenomenon. Except the missing piece is a large part of my heart, and sometimes my brain forgets to tell the rest of me that it is gone.

    Today I cashed in my Barnes and Noble rewards. Buying books with my mom was something special we shared growing up. Early on I was a terrible reader because of a hearing issue that had been missed. Later, when that was resolved and I committed to getting better, I fell in love with reading.

    My mother, as all good mothers do, fueled that fire.

    We would go to bookstores and pick out fantasy novels together. A father might say, “Why are you reading that nonsense?” But a mother knows better. My son was reading. Whatever he was reading was wonderful. She was proud of me.

    Those trips were usually part of a larger kind of day. The kind where we would run errands together, grab lunch, and she would buy me a small gift somewhere along the way. Simple days. Nothing extraordinary on the surface. Yet those memories remain etched deeply in my mind. I hold them now with a deep sense of gratitude.

    In the end we are still little children at heart. I can buy almost anything now, any material object I want. But none of it fills this space. The tears come from the heart and from a beautiful love remembered.

    Sometimes I think about the movie AI. The robot who just wanted one last perfect day with his mother. One day of being loved unconditionally by the only person who could give him that love. The quiet perfection of peace in a mother’s arms. The way she would look down at you with that expression of pure love.

    That joy.

    I think of the words of Jesus: so that you may have joy, and that your joy may be complete.

    Jesus promised that we would not be left alone. He said that when he left, he would send the Holy Spirit, described as the Comforter, the Advocate, and the Spirit of truth. That presence has always felt a little like a mother to me.

    All is not lost. Even though I am fully here in this world, I can also feel the almost imperceptible release of weight being removed from the scale of life. And yet I trust that death is not the end.

    I look forward to seeing her again someday.

    And to that embrace.

  • Dolly

    Dolly

    Aunt Lucy

    I feel compelled to write something for our family blog. I feel like I’ve been visited in my dreams by a spirit who asked me to jot down a thing or two. To let us know they made it safely and there is no need to worry. The history of the histories. The living memory of the people who shaped us, and who continue shaping us long after they are gone.

    Aunt Lucy was many things to many people. To my wife, she was a second mother and grandmother. To my mother-in-law, she was a second mom who listened and didn’t judge. She was an aunt by blood, but she became Aunt Lucy to all by the way she lived. Her title was not merely a fact of family structure, but something earned through years of love, admiration, and presence.

    The great ones share a similar mold. They are formed in love. Life subjects them to pressure, loss, and hardship. They pass through the crucible. They have every opportunity to harden, to close off, to become stone. But they do not. They remain soft at their center. They remain love.

    She was the mother of four children. Three daughters, Laura, Lisa, and Lorraine, and her favorite son, Robert. Near the end, I asked her, “So who is your favorite child?” Even medicated, she gave the answer only a true mother could give. She did not have a favorite child, because she had four. But she could have a favorite son.

    Aunt Lucy reminded me immediately of my own grandmother, my Yia Yia. She was someone who radiated love in ways both large and small. She would lean forward when you spoke, fully present, as if nothing else in the world mattered more than what you were saying. She chose to make you feel held.

    My grandparents died many years ago, and without discussion or ceremony, she filled that space for me. It was never spoken. It was simply who she was. People like Aunt Lucy do not announce themselves as pillars. They simply stand, and over time, everyone leans on them.

    She cared deeply for my children. She wanted to know everything. What they were doing. What excited them. She celebrated their lives as if their exploits were her own. Being around them brought her joy, and being around her gave them something they may not fully understand until much later. The quiet certainty of being loved without condition.

    She was the matriarch of her family. Even at the end, she was assigning roles, keeping order, maintaining the invisible architecture that holds a family together. She called my brother and me darling. She called the girls dolly. These were not just words. They were her words. They were her way of placing you safely within her world.

    I have vivid memories of our family vacations together, my family in law that simply became my family. We would rent houses in the Poconos or on Long Island for a week at a time. Mornings filled with quiet coffee and sunlight through unfamiliar windows, with an enlivening game of chess. Evenings filled with laughter, meals, a card game, and the simple comfort of shared presence. Those weeks now feel preserved, untouched by time.

    Watching her and Sal together was witnessing something rare. They were not just husband and wife. They were fully intertwined, as two souls who are married can strive to be. A kind of unity that only emerges after decades of shared experience, imperfectly perfect. It was beautiful to see. Something I hadn’t witnessed with my own grandparents, but something I was blessed to witness and strive for in my own life.

    They embodied the simple joy of being together. Being present. Greeting each sunrise as something new to experience side by side.

    Life was not easy for her. But life is not easy for anyone. We are all visited by loss. The more we love, the more loss visits us. It can make a person want to close their heart, to protect themselves from future pain.

    She never did.

    People like Aunt Lucy carry forward something ancient. A tone of voice. A way of caring. A standard for what family means. They become part of you without you realizing it. In the end, it’s amazing how someone you might describe as having a simpler life ends up having the most meaning and impact. Their influence moves quietly through generations.

    Just as with the death of my own parents, Christmas will now carry another absence. Another chair that will not be filled. Another voice that will not call out from across the room.

    Yet I feel peace knowing she is with the ones she loved who went before her. I imagine them together again, laughing, playing cards, resuming conversations that never truly ended. Making sure the dice are shaken in a cup.

    The casino in heaven just gained a fierce new player.

    And somewhere, she is calling someone darling.

  • Pizza Review: Krispy Pizza – Brooklyn, NY

    Pizza Review: Krispy Pizza – Brooklyn, NY

    It was finally time to head into New York for an early Christmas gift to my son. We were going to Krispy Pizza, the Brooklyn location he and I had been watching endlessly on Instagram. Stories, reels, posts. Long before we left Connecticut, the place had taken on a life of its own.

    Getting from Connecticut into Brooklyn is daunting. The GPS offered no clean path and sent us winding through Queens before dropping us toward the southern tip of the island. I assumed it would be an easy hour and a half, like going into Manhattan. Instead, it stretched past two hours. That extra time only inflated expectations.

    This was our family’s first real trip to Brooklyn. Born in the Bronx, with a mother from Queens and a father from Manhattan, Brooklyn had always been the forgotten borough. The red-headed stepchild. No one ever really went there, and anyone who did never had much good to say.

    We were pleasantly surprised. Once we arrived, the neighborhood felt calmer and less dense than the trek through Queens. Most people seemed to be home. The streets were relatively quiet when we pulled in around four or four-thirty.

    We lucked out with street parking and found a meter to cover our time. Across the street, in big red letters, was Krispy Pizza. The sign featured a self-made family crest filled with pizza and the father’s initial, Pete. I wasn’t even sure which door was the entrance. I pulled a handle and suddenly we were inside.

    Instant chaos. A line stretched all the way to the back of the restaurant, with barely enough room to move through the front. I’m not a fan of lines, but after that drive, there was no hesitation.

    During the ride, we had hoped to catch a glimpse of the proprietor we’d watched so many times online. Relief hit when we spotted him. Freddy was there. Dark hair brushed back, streaked with white flecks of mozzarella, his Sicilian skin looking like it had been baked in the same ovens as the pies to a warm Mediterranean glow. He had somehow created his own avatar and cast himself in a real-life movie. A true pizzaiolo. Head down, focused, moving with practiced rhythm.

    As we worked our way through the crowd, my brother and sister-in-law were already there. Instead of pulling a chat-and-cut move, we tried to find tables, which seemed impossible in such a packed place. Somehow, my wife made it happen.

    She struck up a conversation with a young guy holding a table while waiting for his girlfriend, who was stuck in the bathroom line. They had come all the way from Los Angeles and this was their final stop. Instagram fame again.

    She turned around like a daytime talk show host and did it again. Another table appeared. This couple was from Texas. I started wondering how many people in that room were locals and how many had traveled just for this moment.

    We finally sat down and sent in our order. We went with a mix of things to try. I had a regular slice, buffalo chicken, and the famous buffalo chicken pizza wheel. I watched Freddy the entire time. Head down, nonstop. Pie after pie. I wanted my son to go say hello, but it didn’t feel right. The line was long and they were just trying to keep up.

    Here’s where it gets uncomfortable, and probably why I kept hesitating to write this.

    The pizza was okay. Not great. Not bad. Just okay.

    We had built this place up in our heads. We had watched quiet morning videos of Freddy working alone, talking about his father and learning the family business with pride. What we experienced instead was a place that had become a destination. The priority now was survival. Crank out pizza. Keep the line moving.

    We didn’t order a fresh pie. We had slices from pies baked earlier and reheated. It felt rushed. It wasn’t the pizza we had imagined.

    The pizza wheel was my favorite. It was pretty good. But even as I ate it, I found myself thinking about how I could ask my wife, my mother-in-law, or my sister-in-law to recreate it just as well, if not better.

    As we sat there, enjoying our hard-earned tables, the truth settled in. The highlights were what they always are. Being with family. Making time to take an adventure. Stepping out of routine and turning a meal into a memory.

    Some places live better in anticipation than execution. Maybe if my son and I came back at nine in the morning, when the day is just beginning, it would be a different story. Still, that doesn’t make the trip a failure. It’s a reminder that the best part is rarely what’s on the plate, but who’s sitting across from you.

    Pizza score: 6.9

  • The Last Holiday Show

    The Last Holiday Show

    Sunday came and I found myself getting ready, excited to attend our final Christmas show recital. It was Olivia’s last holiday performance as a senior, and it struck me all at once that seventeen years have passed in a blink. Where did all this time go? The days feel long while you’re living them, yet the years slip by before you even have a chance to catch your breath.

    All those seasons of gathering our family for the holiday show came back to me. The performance has always been something special, a bright spot that lifts my mood just as the weather turns cold and dreary. It marks the beginning of Christmas, with all its magic, love, and giving.

    She looked beautiful on that stage. I felt like the proudest father in the audience. Every routine showed how much she’s grown, how hard she’s worked, and how steadily she has become her own person. I remembered those early performances when she was small and nervous, and how each year she stepped out there with more confidence and talent. All the practices, the patience, the late nights, the dedication were visible in every movement.

    I’m grateful to my wife for the countless hours she devoted to making it all possible—practices, recitals, overnight trips—staying steady through the friendship drama, cliques, breakups, and reunions that came with growing up.

    My pride in Olivia is beyond words. I always admired the seniors who stayed committed long enough to reach that moment when they received their flowers. Watching her become one of them felt surreal. Life moves quickly, and moments like this reveal everything that mattered along the way.

    I think about how many things I never finished myself, which makes me even more grateful that my children have their own sense of follow-through. They see things through to the end. They carry a strength that feels like its own kind of blessing. Every day I feel lucky to be their father, and especially blessed to have a daughter as talented, determined, and beautiful as Olivia.

    When the show reached the March of the Wooden Soldiers, my thoughts drifted to my parents. I felt the ache of knowing they weren’t physically with us after all the years they sat in those seats cheering her on, and sometimes dozing off. They didn’t get to see her big senior moment. That ache lasted only a heartbeat before a sense of comfort settled in. I knew they were with us in their own way, watching from a place we couldn’t see, feeling pride and joy beyond anything we could imagine.

    Sitting beside my brother reminded me how grateful I am for him. He has been steady through every chapter of our lives, carrying memories only the two of us share and bringing a sense of grounding and humor that makes our family feel whole. We were still very much the little boys who grew up wrestling, laughing, and knocking into one another. He is the last piece of our original tribe, and having him there made the night feel complete.

    Our extended family filled the row around us, in-laws who have become as real and true as any blood relative. Their presence added warmth to the evening and reminded me how lucky and blessed we are to have such a circle.

    By the end of the night, I felt refilled with love. The kind that settles deep inside you long after the lights fade, quietly reminding you that every step, every year, and every moment is a beautiful mystery worth living.

  • The Championship

    The Championship

    Sponsored by your friends, really your parents, who buy you the experience and cart you there.

    After last week’s game, there was a high. We had beaten the first-place seed, not just beaten them, but come from behind and dusted off the psychological ghosts of games past. Knowing you beat the best team, that you were down and didn’t fold but bore down and made it happen, it’s a powerful feeling, almost intoxicating. You knew you could do it, but now you had. Theory became reality.

    So this was our game to win, and with that comes its own kind of angst. But you take a breath, like always, and go back to the basics: see the ball, hit the ball. Take each play as its own little world and live in that moment, play by play, until you create your game.

    The Five Star Gold was our last hurdle, the obstacle to our goal. We had to find our way through, around, under, and over until we were victorious. Our D2 division had fifty teams, and Gold was the number-two seed. We had never played them before. Arriving just before the game started, I didn’t get a chance to see them field or get a sense of their energy. It doesn’t usually matter; good warm-ups don’t always translate under pressure. Metaphors and aphorisms can cut both ways.

    We got off to a slow start, but the good news was we were making contact. Hitting the ball and timing the pitcher eventually lead to good things. We were the away team but couldn’t produce a run after the first inning. The Gold managed to convert one run after two errors in their half. Luckily, we got out of the first only one run down. The parents were pacing along the third-base line. “They’re just warming up, it’s cold out,” one said. It was nice to have a reason. I nodded, though I couldn’t help thinking the other team was outside too. Didn’t they feel the cold?

    In the second inning we started to heat up, scoring two runs and taking a 2–1 lead. The wind started to blow again. We cooled off until the fourth, when a pitching change let us break through for four more. Suddenly it was 6–1. We were quietly optimistic, some of us a little louder, but cautious not to jinx it, just staying positive. Our pitching and fielding were outstanding, shutting the other team out for three more innings.

    By the fifth inning, it was 8–1. The cold wind that had been cutting through was forgotten as the clouds parted and we basked in the fall sun. In the sixth, we were on fire. The other team began to unravel. It’s the oldest cliché in baseball: it all comes down to pitching. We were hitting, yes, but also drawing walks, grinding out at-bats, playing with rhythm and confidence. You could feel it; the whole team was a unit, and they were all feeding and contributing to this win.

    Then Kevin came to the plate with the bases loaded and drove the stake in with a bomb to the outfield, clearing the bases for three runs. Like Icarus, he flew too close to the sun, trying to stretch a double into a triple, and got caught. I was jumping around myself like a kid hoping he’d make it, but he did his job and gave them mercy.

    Now up 15–1, the Gold had one last chance. Three at-bats, three outs. Joe, who had pitched all six innings of this championship game, finished like a star, striking out the final batter swinging. For a moment, time froze. Then the outfield crashed in, all the boys running to the mound, piling on one another in a swirl of laughter and joy.

    Just like that, we had champions in our midst. What an arc from our last fall season.

    For James, it was his first championship win on any team. So many runner-up finishes, so many consolation prizes. So close, so many times. It made me realize why this was the right time and why it felt deeper. He finally had the right team, a group of kids who loved and cared about doing the thing they loved. Maybe that’s what made it hit deeper. You only learn how to win by learning how not to. This victory wasn’t luck; it was layered with all the years of almosts, all the bruises and disappointments, all the small lessons that built the resilience to finally finish the job.

    As the team gathered for the photo, faces flushed, caps tilted, medals being bitten in the midday light, you could feel something bigger than baseball. It was joy, sure, but also proof. Proof that grit, patience, and faith in one another can build something lasting.

    That’s the beauty of a championship. It’s the journey, the stumbles, the rise, the shared heartbeat of a team that finally believed it could get there.

  • The Playoffs

    The Playoffs

    Driving down to our playoff game, the mood in the car is relaxed. So much has changed since we started our travel, competitive AAU baseball journey, even since last fall. Back then, we were a new team, a group of kids coming together from the western side of Connecticut with a few New York drop-ins. No single town was overly represented; we were all looking to get away from the small-town Babe Ruth baseball we’d played for the last five years and find something grander.

    It’s hard to describe your emotional state as a spectator and parent on the sideline. It’s like having your heart walk out of your chest and start hitting and catching balls. You pray, hope, and will things to happen from the fence, wishing to see your kid succeed in their own effort while keeping the team’s momentum alive. It really is an emotional roller coaster that you do your best to keep hidden as you coolly post up on the side of the fence.

    Our feelings that day were subdued, a kind of quiet solitude going into the game. We’d had an amazing season, only really facing a few defeats. The Patriots were the number one seed in our division or group, whatever you want to call it. When we beat them earlier in the season, it seemed they thought it was a fluke, a one-off their coach told them to shrug off.

    I remembered one of their fathers from a previous spring or summer game bragging about how his son was so talented that everyone wanted him on their team. He said that this wasn’t even his son’s “real” team, that it was the level below, and on that day, they beat us. He was the kind of dad who knew everything about everything, his sideline gear manufactured by pretension. He was a John Kreese type who expected victory, preached “Mercy is for the weak,” and could imagine punching through a car window if his son failed.

    Now we were playing his son’s team — the A team, the gold or diamond-level best. I hadn’t forgotten, because that kind of peacocking surety in a game of probabilities leaves a stink you don’t forget.

    We got off to a great start, two runs batted in, momentum on our side. Our pitching was superb, and we closed the first inning up 2–0. That held until the third inning, when two quick outs were followed by an error that let in two runs. We’ve never been the kind of team to rally with two outs, and we always seemed to face teams that did.

    We escaped the inning tied 2–2, but then the errors came, and we couldn’t hit anymore. The tie turned to 2–4, then another run came in. You could feel the momentum shift. The other team’s parents, whose voices somehow sounded like nails on a chalkboard, started chirping, and I walked down the line muttering a few expletives to myself.

    We entered the seventh inning down 2–5 but starting with the top of our lineup. I was restrained but hopeful. It was our best shot, though being down three runs felt heavy. James singled on a line drive to center, and we had a man on base. A dash of energy stirred as Will hit a fielder’s choice to second. Thankfully, James stayed up instead of sliding, and the baseman couldn’t complete the double play. One out.

    Up next, Joe hit a clean single down the line, putting runners on first and second. Our big hitter, Liam, stepped up. The stars aligned; the outfield was playing too shallow, and he crushed one to left that rolled to the fence. Two runs were scored, and now it was 4–5.

    They changed pitchers. Casey was hit by the new hurler and took a base. Runners on first and third. Keegan smacked one down the line, bringing Liam home and tying the game. Our runner advanced to second. Two outs. Tommy came up to bat and knocked a solid hit to left, bringing Casey home. 6–5, Rangers Black.

    We just had to hold them for one more at-bat.

    Then, like Maximus fighting the northern tribes, Will unleashed hell from the mound. Three pitches, three strikes, one out. The second out came from Kai making a ground play to first. Now two outs, no runners. The parents were burning up in the cool forty-five-degree air. We were doing all the chirping now. Their last batter popped one up, and Tommy charged in for a tough catch to close it out.

    It felt incredible. Even as I write this, I can feel the energy again — the kids shouting and sprinting toward one another. A hard-fought victory, not just over their opponent but over themselves. They learned what it means to stay calm, stay focused, and win through mindset as much as skill.

    As we drove home, the energy of the game still filled the car. We replayed the moments, analyzed the plays, and basked in the joy of his experience. All the gripes about playing on a cold Sunday night an hour from home disappeared, and even the smell of his cleats couldn’t touch this high. For one night, this was our World Series, and nothing on TV could compare to the greatness we felt out there under the lights.

  • Day Off with my Boy

    Day Off with my Boy

    A day brought to you by Miss Lil, my sweet and beautiful mother. I remember our day-off-from-school tradition, Mom, running errands together, buying a book at our corner bookstore in Danbury right next to future Walmart. We would have lunch, talk, and simply be together. Those were our special days.

    James and I had our day and kept the tradition alive. We went to the mall, stopped at Round 1, played our video games and coin pushers, and then faced off in air hockey. I eked out a win, 7 to 6. He was annoyed, but come on, give a middle-aged dad something. 😊

    We wandered the mall afterward and grabbed coffee at Barnes & Noble. The smell of books brought me right back to those afternoons with you. I still have my laminated Waldenbooks gift card. My fantasy books back then were five dollars, and you were always happy to get me one.

    I went looking for an Ethiopian Bible, of course I did, but they didn’t have one. We kept walking. On Level One, James found a video game for the Switch. I asked if he would always remember this day. He said yes without hesitation.

    It’s hard sometimes, because as much as I want to, I’ve forgotten so much. You start to feel like you’re losing the person or that you didn’t pay enough attention. But it’s just the way of being human—to forget. I’ve come to trust that when I die, it will all return: the joyous, wonderful memories, every detail. So I don’t sweat it anymore.

    I always think of that scene at the end of A.I. when the boy finally gets to spend a perfect last day with his mother. It hits harder now than ever before. He just wanted that one sacred day where he was the beloved son, being together and basking in her light.

    We headed to Buffalo Wild Wings next. They seated us like cattle waiting at the trough. I get annoyed being treated that way and rage quietly, but I stayed put; it was fine. Our waitress was clearly fighting battles greater than my imagined societal rules, so I let it go. Fifteen quick wings before the movie—spicy garlic and our family staple, salt and vinegar dry rub. They forgot our veggies, but we got them in the end. I wasn’t about to forgo included accoutrements. I am my mother’s son.

    Then came our main event, Tron: Ares at the Southbury Movie Theater, the last great local cinema around. It’s a throwback to the golden age: quiet, clean, and no nonsense. The elderly man who takes the tickets will take them until his body fails.

    I was happy to see only a handful of people in the audience, and the seats were perfectly cozy. I said, “Aren’t these seats amazing compared to when I was a kid?” James smirked, “You mean when they were wooden seats?” “No,” I said, “I’m not that old.” He laughed and said it was something Mima once said, and I told him that made sense.

    Back then our theater seats were close and stiff, with no recline, no heat. We were practically on top of one another. You had to pick your spot carefully and pray there weren’t disruptive kids in the row behind you kicking you in the back.

    We expected a complete train wreck of a movie based on a few YouTube titles, but we didn’t watch them. As Frank Costanza would say, “I like to go in fresh!” And I did. It turned out to be a fun, surprising romp through the digital world brought to life by The Dude himself, Jeff Bridges, the spectral father of 80s neon creation.

    On the drive home, we talked about the movie. I’m always struck by how similarly we think. My son is a digital reflection of me, thankfully better in every way and still uniquely himself. People say you shouldn’t be a fan of your own children, but how could you not be? How can you not be in awe of God’s creation, our own slice of heaven on earth?

    Our task as parents is to raise them, but along the way, we are the ones transformed. In guiding them, we rediscover what it means to live fully.

    “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights.” — James 1:17