As a 10-year-old boy, I joined the Burlington Boys Choir.

We traveled up and down the East Coast, staying in host homes along the way. To prepare us for these experiences, we took etiquette classes, learning how to represent our group with grace and poise.

I picked up lessons that have stuck with me for years: the proper order for silverware, dinner table manners, tying a necktie, writing thank-you notes, making a bed, folding a towel.

But one thing that was never covered? How to eat with chopsticks.

Today, at a Japanese restaurant with friends, I realized this gap in my education. I fumbled with those wooden sticks until, without a word, the waitress brought me a fork.

Clearly, I looked helpless.

But by the end of the meal, I kept at it, little by little. It wasn’t graceful, but I managed. Wounded pride is a powerful motivator to grow.

Here’s to learning new life skills, at any age.

When I was in college, an older couple at my church made me an unexpected promise: they committed to send me money to help with my school costs.

No strings attached.

Their generosity floored me. And sure enough, like clockwork, a check arrived in my mailbox every month for an entire year.

Funny thing is, I didn’t know them all that well. Yet they sacrificed their finances to give me an opportunity for education. The only return on their investment? My well-being.

I’m still amazed when I think about it.

Now, consider your own life. When has someone opened a door for you that you couldn’t have stepped through alone?

Hold that thought, because this week I stumbled across something fascinating: the most common symbol in math, one which appears in 94% of mathematical expressions.

What is it? The equal sign: =

We use the humble = to represent connections between ideas, from programming functions to ethical principles. But what does “equal” actually mean? At first glance, it seems simple. But when you dig deeper, defining it gets complicated.

We don’t all have equal talents, resources, or experiences. So, there must be a greater meaning than absolute sameness. 

To me, making things equal should always be synonymous with love. When it’s applied in a world full of extreme differences, magic happens.

Love has this mysterious ability to “equalize” what is imbalanced. It transcends logic or intellect or even legislation. Love is the great =.

On one side of the equation, giving love requires sacrifice. On the other, receiving love provides opportunity.

So maybe the equation looks like this:
Sacrifice ↔ Love ↔ Opportunity

Or, expressed another way:
Sacrifice = Opportunity

And often, the “=” takes tangible forms, like the ones which arrived in my college mailbox, month after month, without fail.

Late one winter night in high school, I had to drive home from a friend’s house.

However, there was a problem: snow and ice. But how bad could it be with just a few flurries, right?

My little Honda didn’t have much weight, and sure, there was the risk of hydroplaning. If you were an amateur. But at 17, I’d been driving for a whole year. Basically a pro.

My friend’s dad insisted on following me in his pickup. I didn’t think it was necessary, but fine. Off we went.

For the first ten minutes, everything was smooth, as expected. But then…

I hit a patch of ice. And the ‘ol Accord decided to put on a figure skating routine — a slip-sliding, stomach-lurching, 180-degree pirouette.

It all unfolded in slow motion. Total helplessness. Was I heading for a ditch? A tree? An upside-down disaster?

I braced for impact.

When I finally stopped spinning, I was staring into the truck’s headlights from the wrong lane. After catching my breath, I gave an embarrassed wave and drove back to my friend’s house to spend the night.

Lesson learned. Ever since, I’ve given bad weather the respect it deserves. I’m definitely built for warm climates.

Today, the office closed early thanks to ice-covered roads. Walking to my car, guess what popped into my head? Yep. That fateful evening, many moons ago, when young Brian took an unexpected spin. Some things stick with you.

So I drove nice and slow on the way home. Call me grandpa, but I’ll leave the joyride stunts to someone else.

I’ve already had my thrill ride.

Anyway, how many days ‘til summer?

Today I came across an image of a fighter jet breaking the sound barrier.

A high-speed camera captured the exact instant it surpassed Mach 1, the shockwaves forming a perfect cone around the aircraft. A split second made eternal, pausing what would otherwise be missed.

Camera technology amazes me. As advancements keep pushing the limits, we can freeze-frame even the fastest movements. No blur, just breathtaking detail.

Every Christmas, we listen to Michael W. Smith’s song, “Freeze The Frame.” The chorus always gets me:

Can we freeze the frame
And stop the hands of time?
Make the moon stand still in the sky?
My only wish this Christmas Eve
Is that we could all remain forever here
Can we freeze the frame?

That’s why I write this blog. What cameras do for motion, stories do for time. They lasso a moment from an ordinary day before it slips into the haze of memory.

If you feel life is flying by too fast, slow it down.

Record a story from each day.

Freeze the frame.

Like most people who breathe oxygen, I watched the Super Bowl last night.

But it’s never really about the game as much as those in the room. So we welcomed a few friends to the house for the annual spectacle of glitzy celebrities, eight-million-dollar commercials, and oh yeah… football.

But, oddly enough, Super Bowls make me think of my kids. And I realized something. It was the first time in over two decades that at least one of them wasn’t by my side.

As I munched on tortilla chips, a couple of memories came rushing back:

Twelve years ago, I took my three young boys — Luke, Jake, and Sam — to a Super Bowl party in a church gym. This gave Jess a well-earned break and the guys a fun adventure.

The men’s ministry had turned a basketball court into a massive viewing area. We unfolded our summer beach chairs, devoured pizza, and watched the game projected onto a wall. It was a blast. Simple pleasures, perfect evening.

I also think of my oldest daughter, McKenzie. During her middle school years, she operated her “Sports Diner” on Super Bowl Sundays. With the help of her sister Kate, she would create menus, take our food orders, and then serve an array of treats on fancy plates. It was the most exclusive restaurant in town. She spoiled us, and we enjoyed the five-star goodies more than the football.

The winners of those games? They’ve faded like old newspaper headlines.

But the faces around me and the traditions we built — those moments remain perfectly preserved.

Every Christmas morning, it happens on our stairwell.

Before we unwrap a single present, my kids gather for a photo. An annual tradition, a snapshot of time. And seemingly overnight, in the blink of an eye, they’ve grown from little ones to adults.

How did it happen so fast? I dunno. But the photos don’t lie.

Those same stairs hold other stories, too. Like the night McKenzie broke her foot on the final step. A painful moment, yet it unexpectedly led her to the man she would marry (a long and beautiful story).

Amid all the change, all of life’s movements, one thing remains steady: those stairs.

When the house sits silent, when miles separate us, I sometimes pause by those empty steps and look up, wondering where everyone is and what they’re doing.

There’s something powerful about a home. They are the containers of memories. Every room, every worn floorboard, every quiet corner and scuffed wall holds the echoes of the past.

Homes are reminders of the relentless march of time, and their familiar spaces forever link us to the ones we love.

Last night, Jessica suggested we watch the movie, Here. I wasn’t too excited after reading a few negative reviews. But wow… what a great experience.

The film explores how time is a function of our relationship with the physical world. And how the seconds, the minutes, the decades… pass in a breath.

It’s not your typical blockbuster, but it offers a unique approach to cinematic storytelling. Art that moves the soul. Most movies are immediately forgettable, but this one? It stays.

As the last scene faded to black and the credits rolled, three thoughts grabbed me: 1) life is short 2) so live with vision 3) and allow the quietness of an old house to remind you of these things.

So here’s my suggestion: every once in a while, put down the phone. Sit in your favorite chair. Let the walls, the furniture, the spaces speak.

Because in those memories, the past whispers:

Cherish the Now. Cherish the Here.

A lot of my work requires proofreading.

Today was one of those days. And that included searching for what I call “weasels” in a manuscript, those sneaky pests that represent repeats or bad grammar or the misspells.

I’ve always been a pretty good speller. Even won my 6th-grade spelling bee and qualified against the big-shot 7th and 8th graders.

I was kicking butt in the competition until I made a rookie mistake. As a rule, you can’t stop and start over. And that’s what I did, on an easy one. Instant disqualification.

The word? “Gorilla.”

I stuttered when speaking the letters, saying “G-O-RR-I…” and then started again. But nope. A bell rang. Game over. My world championship dreams vanished, and I was stunned. No second chances.

When I returned to class, my friends asked, “What word did you miss?” I wanted to tell them it was an archaic, seven-syllable monstrosity of French origin, spoken rarely since the 17th century.

But, no. It was freakin’ GORILLA. And I was too embarrassed to tell them.

To this day, misspellings haunt me, especially the G-word. I still flinch whenever I see or hear it. Those three syllables and seven letters are burned into my brain forever.

So yeah. Weasels. Me don’t like ‘em.

I’m 99.9% sure my 5th birthday party was at McDonald’s.

Imagine a small, brightly colored room packed with kindergarteners. Throw in some Happy Meals, frosted cake, and a mysterious orange drink. Yep, that place became ground zero for craziness.

Then it got even better. A certain red-haired clown named Ronald made his entrance with that creepy grin and ensured he’d haunt our dreams forever.

Good times.

The last time I attended a five-year-old’s birthday party was 13 years ago, for my youngest child. But today, I celebrated another one, for the sweetest little girl you could ever meet.

Blonde hair, dark eyes. A heart full of love. Always up for a cuddle, a walk, or a round of hide-and-seek.

Happy 5th Birthday to our fluffiest family member, a bundle of legendary licks, our Golden Retriever, Cali.

Think I'll grab her some fries from Mickey D’s.

Old habits die hard.

Do any old-heads out there remember the song, “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia”?

Today I experienced, “The Day the Internet Went Out at the Office.”

Apparently, nothing gets done without this invisible cloud that runs the world. Life stops. It’s a zombie apocalypse. Civilization barely hangs on.

When it’s down, there’s chaos. When it’s up, there’s music, feasts, and conga lines.

How did we get anything accomplished before the good ‘ol WWW? Phone calls? Maybe carrier pigeons or Morse code?

Some of us once lived in the distant 1900s. Theoretically, we know work is possible without Wi-Fi, but strangely, no one seems to remember how.

Well, I left the office and rushed back home to jump online. It was important.

I had the sudden urge to listen to Reba McEntire on Spotify.

Ahhh, February, the month of love.

I’ve been the recipient of many loving acts from many amazing people. The greatest one? When Jess stood at an altar in March 1998 and vowed to cherish me through thick and thin. Still thankful for that.

But another sacrificial act occurred in my neighborhood yesterday, in the black of night, on the side of the street.

Sugah, my neighbor’s black and white tuxedo cat, went missing. As hope faded after a full day of searching, they finally found him, stuck in a nearby storm drain.

But it wasn’t an easy rescue. After prying the metal cover off, the owners had to lower themselves into the murk to grab him. Thankfully, Sugah is now safely back home.

A diamond ring symbolizes lifelong commitment. But when someone dives into a pipe, willing to pull you from life’s darker places? That’s love incarnate. If you’re fortunate enough to find both in one person, you’ve hit the jackpot.

Here’s to love in all its messy, beautiful forms.

In middle school, basketball was my escape.

I played non-stop, especially in my cement driveway. Rain or shine, for hours, long enough for my hands to go raw. The steady rhythm of dribbling and shooting was like therapy, helping me process a rough patch in my life.

Decades later, an adult neighbor — whose living room window faced my bball goal — told me, “You bounced that ball all day and night. But I didn’t mind. I knew you needed it.”

I never realized my obsession must have driven people crazy. But his kind words stuck with me.

That memory came rushing back tonight as we did something we hadn’t done in years: we went to a middle school basketball game.

We were there to support a family that means a lot to us, watching their son take the same court ours once did. Sitting in those gym stands, I felt the weight of time. Memories of my own boys playing, then flashes of myself at 13, a skinny kid shooting for peace of mind.

And in that moment, it seemed like a final goodbye. An adieu to middle school basketball. A farewell to the Berkeley Bulldogs. A grateful nod to yesteryear.

Life moves on. Eventually kids grow up and seasons change. Driveways go quiet.

But one thing’s for sure… I can still drain a jumper.

This weekend, Jess wanted to improve her home workspace.

And it didn’t require any expensive technology or heavy equipment. The cost? About $30. 

For installation, I thought we might need a ladder, but in the end, it wasn’t even necessary. My job was to remove an outside window screen. But why? What was the project that made her heart flutter?

Turns out, she just wants to watch the birds while she works. So… we mounted a feeder that adheres to the window closest to her desk. 

Honestly, I used to think birdwatching was only for old folks with too much free time. I was wrong. It’s for everyone. There’s something mesmerizing about these colorful visitors descending from the heavens to enjoy the feast we’ve set out.

It’s also a perfect lesson in the law of attraction. When we create space and extend an invitation, unique experiences come right to us. Sometimes landing just inches away. Now, throughout the day, our new friends arrive in a flurry of feathers, their wings making thumps against the glass.

When life feels stressful, I try to remember: Watch the birds. They’re reminders of a bigger plan at work, one that unfolds all around.

If you haven’t done so already, hang a feeder. See what comes your way.

It’s the best $30 I’ve spent in a long time.

For years, my family reunion happened every December.

The gathering overflowed with aunts, uncles, cousins, and an endless spread of Southern food. Deviled eggs, anyone?

But tonight offered a different annual get-together: the Duke-UNC basketball game. The contest is a slice of home for me. I grew up about 30 minutes from both campuses, and the rivalry runs deep.

I’ve always bled Carolina blue, and whenever I watch, I’m reminded of old friends and the years of bets and trash talk at school.

This evening wasn’t great for the Heels. A blowout loss. During player introductions in Durham, the Cameron Crazies have a tradition of chanting at opposing starters: “Hi ____, you suck!” Sadly, given the outcome of the game, they weren’t all that wrong. But that’s okay. We’ll get another shot soon.

Reunions always come back around.

Back in my Boy Scout days, we had a camping trip where no one was allowed to talk.

The entire weekend — silent. Imagine telling a troop of 13yr old boys to zip it.

Each person carried a stick, and if you were caught speaking, anyone could ask for it and cut a notch with their knife. Notches meant no merit badge. And no merit badge meant you just wasted your parent’s money. Not a pleasant way to return home.

I struggled, but somehow kept my mouth shut. And it actually taught me something valuable: if we all thought before we spoke, the world would be a much better place.

I’ve remembered that lesson over the years. Take today, for instance. Someone got on my nerves, but I bit my tongue.

But honestly… even when I hold back, that doesn’t always mean my thoughts are as pure as the freshly fallen snow. If you push me too far, I (probably) won’t say the words, but this is what I’ll be thinking:

I hope every time you wear a new pair of socks, you step in something wet.

May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.

May all your babies be born bald.

There, that feels better. I think I just earned myself a merit badge.

As a kid, I had a hollow book on my shelf.

From the outside, it looked like any other novel, but inside was a hidden compartment where I stashed my treasures: cool bottle caps, dog-eared baseball cards, a few quarters.

I like to think I have a similar place in my mind. A quiet nook behind a cover titled, On The Other Side. In that deep, secret area, I store the questions too big for answers in this life, the mysteries I can only hope to understand once I step into the great by and by.

Yesterday, I added some new contents. It involves the tragic crash last night of a commercial jet and a military helicopter in D.C. No one survived.

And then there’s this: Jess has a first cousin whose wife is an American Airlines attendant. She was scheduled to work that flight but called out sick before her shift.

Ok, my frontal lobe just melted. How is that explained?

Of all days, of all flights, she felt too ill to go. And her life was spared. Was it chance? A thread in some unseen matrix? And why does the pattern always seem to weave tragedy for some and a narrow escape for others?

Sigh.

On the other side.

Every morning starts the same.

Shower. Walk downstairs. Work out. It’s usually still dark outside, and about 99.9% of the time, I do not feel like exercising.

But I have a trick. I tell myself: Brian, once you’re done, you’ll enjoy the newspaper and a hot cup of coffee.

Start the Rocky music. Knowing my “reward” keeps me moving. Eye of the tiger.

And here’s what I’ve realized — one of the most underrated secrets to a happy-go-lucky heart: Always have something to look forward to.

It’s about savoring the present by anticipating the future. What gets me through a cold January? Counting down the days until our family beach trip, where I slather on sunscreen and throw a frisbee with the kids and walk on the pier and stare at the ocean and shine a flashlight at night searching for crabs in the sand.

The same trick works in daily micro ways. A long drive becomes a break when I have a podcast or audiobook queued up. Cleaning the garage or tackling yard work feels less like a chore when there’s a little treat at the end. Maybe a McDonald’s sweet tea. Or a Starbucks latte. Hey, I earned it.

The power is always in my hands to plan a fun future. That way, even dreaded tasks lose their bite when something good waits on the other side.

Might be time for some more push-ups.

Financial planning frustrates me.

Why? Because math and I don’t always get along. Honestly, I’d rather walk barefoot on Lego’s than study a spreadsheet. But it’s kind of like organizing a closet or scrubbing dishes or going to the dentist. Once I do it, I feel much better.

Thankfully, I married a woman who’s a whiz with numbers. This human calculator can slice and dice with the best of ‘em. Funny how opposites attract. And I’ve learned that in great partnerships, 1+1 somehow equals 3.

Take that, math.

Haircuts can be stressful because I’ve had my share of bad ones.

For a long time, I bounced between several franchise spots, with wildly inconsistent results. Just when I’d find someone good, they’d vanish, and the search would start all over again.

A couple of years ago, my son recommended a private shop owned by a stylist. I had nothing to lose, and it turned out to be a smart decision. The haircuts are always fantastic. But there's one thing this place does that keeps me coming back, something none of those chains ever thought to do.

At the end, she applies hot shaving cream to my neck, followed by a straight razor shave. Then she wraps a warm towel around my head for a scalp and shoulder massage. Ahhh, any tension melts away. I tell people about it all the time. Plus, it’s included with each cut.

Sometimes what sets you apart doesn’t have to be a grand gesture; it can be the little, thoughtful extras that no one else offers. Shaving cream, a razor, hot towel.

Small things matter.

On a recent trip to my hometown in North Carolina, I walked three blocks from my dad’s driveway to revisit an old building.

It’s a small, familiar place weathered with age. In that little 20x20 ft structure, my love for the arts first sparked to life.

Years ago, it was an art studio run by Mrs. Riddle. Back in elementary school, I’d pedal my ten-speed there for afternoon sessions. It was a haven where I explored cartooning and experimented with charcoals, drawing anything that came to mind.

As I stared at the structure, I wondered what had become of my teacher. A quick search revealed her obituary; she passed away fifteen years ago at the age of 98. Reading it, I uncovered something I’d never known about Mrs. Riddle: she spent many years as a forensic artist for local police, using her talent in ways that left a lasting impact.

As I gazed at the timeworn studio’s corner window — which is where my desk sat inside — memories of those childhood afternoons came flooding back. And the thought struck me. Unassuming places like this can be the launchpad for a lifetime of discovery. Discovering not just the arts, but the remarkable people who shaped you along the way.

And as I’ve learned, those discoveries often come decades later.

I walked Cali today in my childhood neighborhood.

That’s when an old memory came to mind. My dad’s home sits at the bottom of a steep road, and back in the good ol’ days when it snowed, the city would close the street for sledding.

Kids appeared by the dozens pulling plastic and wooden sleds. A winter paradise for hours. We’d make barrel fires at the top to warm up before fearlessly launching ourselves down the hill over and over.

Those days are forever gone. The city doesn’t close roads anymore, probably something to do with insurance and litigation. That means the new generation of kids have no idea what they’re missing. Thank goodness my time was before all the red tape.

But not everything from those distant winters is lost. Tucked away in my attic is a vintage Sears sled, a speed machine of wood and metal, still in great shape from all those snowy rides.

A relic of America in the 70s, both me and the sled.