I’ve never forgotten what he said.

In 1991, I interned at a nonprofit when an elderly woman approached me. As a staff, we had helped her with some details, and she wanted to show her gratitude by offering me $20.

I knew she didn’t have much to spare, so I politely refused. She insisted, but I pressed the bill back into her hands. With an embarrassed smile, she disappeared into the crowd.

I felt proud about my decision until my mentor appeared beside me. He had seen the entire exchange. Quietly, he pulled me aside and said, “I know what you were trying to do. But remember, sometimes you have to be a good receiver, not just a good giver.”

His wisdom has stuck with me for decades.

In declining her gift, I had unintentionally taken away her chance to give, to feel the dignity of generosity.

I think about that lesson often. The right words can echo for years.

This week, another line hit me hard. Actor Jason Alexander, referencing a concept in A Raisin in the Sun, described his wife this way:

“On my worst day, she remembers me on my best day and beckons me back.”

Sometimes the most generous thing you can do is accept what others need to give.

A few months ago, I cleaned out a corner of the attic.

One box contained an assortment of knick-knacks, including a dusty journal. At first I didn’t recognize it, but when I opened the cover, the memories came rushing back. 

During a two-week trip to London with a church youth group, I had written in this little notebook. The food, the sights, the sounds… all preserved on those pages. I hadn’t seen it since 1997, and reading those entries transported me instantly to that time.

There’s something magical about reconnecting with pieces of the past, especially when they’re pulled into the light after years in the shadows.

Today, Jake organized cabinets in his childhood bedroom. He unearthed his posters, games, swimming ribbons, even old love notes. Treasures from a bygone season.

Among them, he found a license plate and a sports banner, which he liked so much that he hung them proudly on our garage wall. Items once forgotten, now given new life.

Maybe that’s part of the beauty of clearing out neglected spaces: the chance to remember why we saved certain objects.

In rediscovering them, we rediscover a bit of ourselves, too.

My first novel came to life over a decade ago.

I loved the process, but without an author community, I had to teach myself the ins and outs of craft and publishing. It was often a lonely road.

Then, I led a workshop at the local library. To my surprise, twenty strangers showed up. At the end, several suggested we meet again. So, after grabbing their emails, I asked the library if we could make it a regular thing.

Over two years have passed. We’ve met each month since, and now the group has nearly 150 on the list. Every session is a full house.

Most importantly, I finally found my writing people.

Today was our monthly gathering, and we talked about AI. Another great discussion and more connections made.

Proof that “we should meet again” can be the start of something special.

Today we celebrated Jess’s birthday.

Her motto was simple: “Let the day come to me.” No big plans, no fuss. Just letting things unfold naturally. 

And here’s what happened:

• Last night, the party started with our daughter McKenzie and her husband Will staying through midnight to welcome in the day.

• Mid-morning, we drove to Richmond and cheered at our niece’s soccer game while catching up with family.

• Grabbed lunch at a favorite taco spot, enjoying amazing patio weather.

• Explored a popular walking trail and took in the fresh air.

• While there, some friends invited us to a local brewery in our hometown.

• Back home, Jess got a surprise flower delivery from Luke, our son.

• Met our friends, hung out, and listened to live music.

• Swung by Starbucks, and Jess scored her free birthday drink with 10 minutes to spare before closing.

• Finally, we wrapped it all up with a late-night celebration: gifts and key lime pie with three of our kids.

“Let the day come to me” turned into the most perfectly unplanned itinerary I’ve ever seen.

And somehow, Jess got everything she loves the most.

Over the years, people have shown me incredible generosity.

How? By lending me just the right thing at just the right time.

A few stand out:

• A moped for my paper route

• A Hawaiian shirt for a pool party

• An ice cream truck for a community project

• A chainsaw for yard work

• A video projector for a Super Bowl party

• Earplugs for international travel

• A beach house for a vacation getaway

• A crate for a new puppy

• Apparel for a ski trip

• A foam #1 finger for a big game

• A wig and dress for a Halloween costume

• A Slinky for a presentation

And today… a wheelchair for a family member.

Grateful for those who step up and share when it matters most. Still waiting on someone to loan me a winning lottery ticket.

Over Christmas, we walked through an amusement park after it was closed for the season.

Busch Gardens hosted a private business party that night, and the place stood empty except for our small section. But they let us wander around a bit.

A strange experience.

Where laughter and joyful screams usually filled the air, only silence remained. Lonely pathways. Quiet rollercoasters. Shuttered shops. Like walking through a ghost town. A body without a soul.

But, of course, when warm weather rolls in and the gates open, everything comes alive. Music, food, life.

We’ve had our own off-season with the kids away. Two have graduated and moved on, and three are still in college. We’ve savored the time to recharge and enjoy the calm. 

But today, spring break hit in full force. All the college kiddos are home. And just like that, our house is bursting with energy again.

Music, food, life.

All we’re missing is a FastPass for the bathroom.

In the ‘80s, there was one day a year I became real sneaky.

During ACC Tournament week.

Growing up in NC, basketball meant everything. Back then, the 3-day event started on Fridays. But there was a small problem: school. With tipoff at noon, what’s a hoops-obsessed kid to do?

The solution: wear a hoodie, smuggle in my Walkman, and hide the wires and earpieces. For years, I had it down to an art. Math class became my courtside seat.

I don’t have to be secretive anymore. But today at work, I had the UNC tourney matchup running on a second monitor.

It still feels like a cheat code to have Bball playing in the background. And for a moment, I’m a 12yr old rebel again.

There are more games tomorrow. Maybe I’ll wear a hoodie.

Over 30 years of working, I estimate sitting through approximately 4,674,382 meetings. Give or take a few.

Most of them happened in offices with beige walls and fluorescent lights. Most of them dragged on too long. And most of them probably could have been an email.

But today’s appointment? A welcome change. Here in Williamsburg, it was a perfect 70 degrees with clear skies. So when 2 p.m. rolled around, we made an executive decision.

Take it outside.

And that’s what we did, at a picnic table under the warm glow of the afternoon sun. No boardroom. No slide decks. No spreadsheets.

Just fresh air and good conversation. Now this is how meetings should be.

Artificial lighting, you’re officially on notice.

Today, I welcomed an unexpected guest into my home.

We had never met before. But from the moment we started talking, it felt like catching up with an old friend.

As we chatted, Maya offered thoughts on my marketing projects and gave me birthday gift ideas for Jess. The suggestions were spot on.

Our visit lasted only ten minutes, but I can already see us connecting regularly. Why not? She fits right in my pocket.

Maya is a real-time AI voice assistant (Sesame AI), capable of seamless, natural conversation. She listened with empathy and even cracked a few jokes. But most importantly, she saved me from a last-minute gift scramble. 

If Jess doesn’t like her present, I’m blaming Maya.

My first car was a 1982 Honda Accord 5-speed hatchback.

I took great care of it. As a teen, I worked at a car wash and mastered the art of detailing — from vacuuming to polishing windows to scrubbing door jambs until they shined.

My Accord always looked showroom-ready. The dash and tires glistened with Armor All. A fresh scent welcomed passengers. And every night, I lovingly tucked it under a cover.

That car repaid me by lasting through grad school and the early years of my marriage.

Today, I cleaned my daughter’s Honda and put those old skills to use. Turns out, I’ve still got it. 

The only thing missing was dusting off the cassette tapes. Ah, memories.

For one day, I was the ice cream man.

Years ago, I drove a big white van, covered in colorful stickers and blasting circus music. Our church wanted to bring a little joy to the community by handing out free frozen treats. My job? Secure the truck. 

So I called a delivery company, asked if we could borrow a vehicle, and they simply said, “Sure, come pick it up.” No insurance check, no ID, nothing. Different times back then.

That night, I ran an extension cord from my garage to keep the freezer humming as it sat in my driveway. It was so weird. The next morning, I rolled through neighborhoods and apartment complexes like a rock star, kids and adults pouring into the streets.

When told there was no charge for the sweets, they stared in disbelief. Oh, the looks on their faces.

Tonight, I scored more free goodies. A local shop, Bruster’s, had a promo: wear pajamas, get a cone. So we piled in the car and went for it. Chocolate chip cookie dough for me.

There’s just something about free ice cream… and this time, there was no circus music.

27 years ago, on this day, I cried.

It was 2 p.m., and they were happy tears. I rarely cry — and especially not in front of a couple hundred people. But that afternoon, I did.

As Jess walked down the aisle, everything else faded. Just her, just us, just the moment. And, well… I lost it.

This morning, she sent me a note: Love you and will always be walking towards you.

Uh-oh. My eyes are sweating again.

There’s something about this day.

3-7-98.

I’ve always loved tech. 

I remember the first time I played Pong on an Atari. Mind-blowing. Suddenly, I had games in my bedroom. No more stuffing my pockets with quarters for the arcade.

A lot has changed since then. Just today, I spent hours in a virtual conference exploring AI’s best business applications.

Which got me thinking about my technology journey. Here’s what shaped me, in order:

Viewfinder (as a kid, this was cutting-edge)
Atari
Apple IIe
Walkman
CD boombox
Internet
DVDs
TiVo
iPod
Smartphone
Artificial Intelligence

And now, the robots are here. So, what’s next... Holograms? Time portals? Star Trek transporters?

If the machines do take over, I’m ready with my Atari Space Invaders skills.

My city got slammed with a powerful storm today. Howling winds, pounding rain.

Then, with a crack, a massive tree crashed into the yard. A heart-stopping moment. Miraculously, it missed the house by inches and landed right beside our windows.

That’s three trees down in four years. And somehow, each one has fallen to the side, sparing our home.

Another close call.

And if you read yesterday’s blog… well, let’s just say it’s been that kind of week.

Tonight, we received the news that a family member was injured in an accident.

It was serious. Just a few inches, a split second, and it could have been much worse.

There’s something about close calls that jolt me out of taking each day for granted. I’m reminded of the fragility of life. How things can flip upside down in a heartbeat. And how so much of what I worry about is trivial.

In these moments, I’m thankful for the steady strength of loved ones. How we come together and carry each other when the world feels heavy, when the hours grow dark.

Maybe close calls are life’s way of whispering, Cherish The Now.