In the 70s, I spent a lot of time in these places.

My grandparents and I would head there often, wandering through the endless aisles as if hunting for treasure. And we weren’t alone. These locations drew in huge crowds.

If you’re a certain age, you definitely remember… the old-school department store.

In my hometown, Belk was the big boy and ruled the mall. In that one spot, you could shop for apparel, jewelry, toys, tools, and furniture. Even seashell-shaped ashtrays.

Some memories are vivid, such as the cosmetic counters glowing under bright lights, and the smell of fragrance thick in the air. And those bulky seasonal catalogs. We would order back-to-school clothes by mail and wait weeks for the package to arrive.

Today, I read the old way isn’t working anymore. According to experts, the U.S. model has been in decline for decades, and the traditional department store no longer fits how we buy things.

Now, there are new ideas. Instead of rows of cardigans, retailers are offering restaurants, champagne bars, espresso cafes, and spa chairs. Some host immersive, after-hours plays at night.

Apparently, today’s shopper wants more than perfume and polyester.

But I’m still nostalgic for those past days. And nothing beats the thrill of hiding inside those circular clothing racks.

It’s a regret of mine.

I have almost no pictures from high school or college, only scattered snapshots in my mind.

The jobs I worked. Friends I made. Late night get-togethers and early morning meet-ups. No cameras. No smartphones. We were fully engaged in the moment and blissfully unplugged.

Today, the scene is reversed. Everything gets recorded. At events, a sea of phones rises to capture it all. Young people will one day have a visual log of their lives that makes me a bit envious.

But there’s a downside. When unsure what to do with our hands or hearts, we clutch the nearest distraction: the black mirror in our pocket.

In awkward situations, we retreat to the glow of a screen. Even at milestones, we’re busy filming instead of simply feeling. It becomes an easy escape when connection calls.

Technology isn’t the villain; it’s just a tool. And I remind myself these days to simply look someone in the eye. Being truly present might not always fill my camera roll, but it nourishes something deeper.

I’m challenging myself to sit quietly in waiting rooms without checking email seven times. These opportunities are everywhere. Boredom can be fertile ground for creativity or unexpected conversation.

In many cases, the phone shouldn’t be my first option because the best stories are often unfiltered and unposed.

Not every memory should be saved to the cloud.

My life-long obsession.

Friends who know me well could probably guess. High school meant two or three daily. By college, the habit grew so relentless a dorm friend called it "the only constant in life.” I took that as a compliment.

Reliable. Satisfying. Packed with protein and always ready…

The peanut butter sandwich.

Most days, I keep it classic and plain: soft bread with JIF, creamy never crunchy. When I feel dangerous, I might smear in some jelly.

I’ve devoured more PB sandwiches than anything else, and no other food comes close.

I read the average American kid eats around 1,500 PB&J's before finishing high school, and people consume about 3,000 total in a lifetime.

Amateurs. I’ve easily demolished those numbers.

Yep, just give me a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of sweet tea, and I’m happy.

Throw in some Doritos and it’s a party.

One of the best decisions we ever made as parents.

We did this for several years, during elementary and middle school, and the experience shaped our family more than anything else…

Homeschooling.

Each of our children eventually entered public school, which we also loved, but those early years gave us the gift of time together.

We discovered the freedom to shape our days. Unhurried conversations. Tailored instruction. The kids became naturals at talking to adults.

But the true magic came from active learning. Our motto: “The world is a classroom.”

So we explored. Poked and prodded. Asked questions in the minivan, over lunch, doing errands. Economics came alive while splitting a pizza at Costco. Marine biology surfaced at the beach. The neighborhood pool transformed into PE class, and Busch Gardens turned into a seminar of life lessons.

We traveled often, whenever curiosity called. No approvals or “excused absences.” Just packed up for new adventures.

That’s why I smiled when I read today about homeschooling families who turn DisneyWorld into a curriculum. Some go weekly, even daily, using the Magic Kingdom to enhance their schooling.

Science, language arts, budgeting, time management… all there inside Mickey’s gates.

Culture and geography? Epcot.
Architecture? Park design.
Economics? Pirates of the Caribbean.
Wildlife? Animal Kingdom.
Physics and astronomy? Space Mountain.

They even do math on the fly, calculating wait times and studying crowd flow like analysts.

People sometimes raise eyebrows at homeschooling. But for us, bending the rules unlocked something incredible.

Besides, who needs textbooks when you’ve got churros and a roller coaster?

There’s something powerful about this idea.

This week, I came across the “Two Token Theory.”

Here’s how it works. Picture two people locked in a disagreement, and between them sit two tokens on a table:

• “This is the End of the World”

• “This is No Big Deal”

If you’re the one who messed up, grab the “End of the World” token first. Beat them to the frustration and own the problem.

Suddenly, the other person holds only the “No Big Deal” token. You’ve hogged the drama, leaving them with nowhere to go but grace.

It’s a counterintuitive way to lower tension because an over-the-top apology sucks the oxygen from anger. Outrage disarms outrage.

But this approach only works if you mean it. Donald Miller calls empathy “shared pain.” A true gift is choosing to walk into someone’s pain instead of around it.

And to most people, being understood matters more than being right.

Public Service Announcement:

I learned today that researchers have discovered something odd. The worse you play golf, the higher your odds of a tick-borne disease.

What? The link seems random, but the logic checks out.

Bad golfers lose more balls. More lost balls means trampling through thick grass and wooded patches.

Tick headquarters.

So if your drives regularly vanish into the wilderness, maybe stick to the driving range. Or accept defeat and abandon your precious Pro V1s.

The real lesson: Improve your swing, lower your Lyme risk.

This has been a Public Service Announcement.

These are little cheat codes.

When I was a kid, my dad taught me a way to remember the Great Lakes. “Think of all the homes around those shores,” he said. Then came the trick: H-O-M-E-S. Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, Superior.

That memory hack sparked something, and I began seeking other clever ways to hold information and ideas.

I call them frameworks because they’re like mental scaffolding, a structure that organizes my thoughts and can be applied to many situations.

Over time, a few became my go-to’s:

• Stephen Covey’s 7 Habits reshaped my priorities

• Rick Warren’s 5 purposes grounded my ministry work

• Donald Miller’s StoryBrand grid clarified my messaging

• Ray Edwards’s PASTOR model sharpened my writing

Then there are the classic tools such as SWOT and the 5 P’s of marketing, so reliable they feel like cheating. I’ve even cooked up a few myself for editing and branding.

Recently I came across another interesting method. Jensen Huang, the CEO of Nvidia, uses an approach he calls T5T. All 30,000 employees must send a regular email to their boss with the “Top 5 Things” they’re working on or noticing.

This simple action gives a snapshot of the organization's health. Considering Huang leads a $3.9 trillion company and is worth $138 billion, I’d say the framework’s doing its job.

Pretty sure he owns several HOMES around the Great Lakes.

At 7yrs old, Kate became family.

And from the beginning, we felt more complete. She joined us through an Ethiopian adoption, a journey full of prayer and paperwork.

When we first met Tigist — her birth name, which still holds special meaning — she spoke almost no English, knowing only a few words:

Mom and Dad.
I love you.
Chocolate.

You know, the essentials. But soon immersed in everyday life, she picked up vocabulary and phrases with help from her siblings and a steady diet of Disney shows. Hello, Hannah Montana.

Kate quickly found her voice. Watching this Amharic-speaking little girl master a new language was like witnessing a flower unfold.

Now she’s a college sophomore, and you’d never guess she once relied on hand gestures and hugs to make herself understood. It’s a testament to Kate’s abilities and resilience.

Whenever I face the challenge of doing something tough, I think of her.

That’s where my mind went this week while reading about Meta’s “Superintelligence” project. Their latest AI models go beyond mimicking speech, aiming to read between the lines and grasp nuance.

The researchers working on this tech are being offered multi-million dollar packages. So, Zuckerberg, if you’re still throwing millions at language geniuses, Kate’s your hire.

But fair warning… her contract may include a chocolate clause.

The championship was in reach.

At ten, I spent a summer camp week tucked in the North Carolina mountains, where the air carried the scent of pine and freedom.

On the last day came the highlight as campers circled the pool for the ultimate showdown: the cannonball contest.

I advanced through the early rounds with no trouble. Somehow, my skinny frame created enough splash to keep me in the game.

Then the final round arrived. Just me and a chubby guy, standing at the edge of greatness as everyone watched.

When I jumped off the diving board, my knees slightly wobbled, resulting in a mediocre plop. But my opponent followed with a thunderclap and claimed the trophy.

The loss still stings.

This week, I learned about the V-Position Splash. Turns out, competitive splash-making is real, and there’s a strategy to it.

Here’s how the technique works: hit the surface at a 45-degree angle, legs drawn up, butt leading the way. Right after impact, snap straight. When done correctly, you get a big kaboomie.

This year’s world record holder — yes, this person exists — used this exact V-move and created a 33-foot water wall.

If only I knew this science back in the day.

So, chubby kid from 1980. I want a rematch.

Everything starts small, unless you’re a whale.

Recently, I spoke at a business gathering, and like most talks, I wanted an opening story to hook the audience.

But nothing clicked. And then — suddenly an idea. An object lesson. So I went to Amazon and ordered exactly what I needed.

What did I buy? A packet of Sequoia tree seeds.

Those tiny seeds can eventually grow as tall as the Statue of Liberty. Hard to believe something so enormous begins from fitting easily in your palm.

I gave one to each person in the room, sharing how these giants spend years beneath the soil, roots stretching in silence, before skyrocketing toward the heavens.

Hopefully I encouraged the group to keep going, especially when their business feels small or slow.

I thought about that talk this week after stumbling across an old image of Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon. He’s sitting at a cluttered desk in a garage, typing on a keyboard, a spray-painted sign hanging behind him. The company started with him as the only employee, thirty-one years ago today.

Fast-forward to 2025: Amazon is worth a quizillion dollars, and Jeff is among the richest people alive. But in 1994, it was just one guy and a big vision.

When you’re tempted to quit, pull up the photo. Then imagine a Sequoia seed.

I’m sure Jeff is still happy to sell you one.

For our family, July 4th never needed fireworks.

When the kids were little, we lived in a neighborhood built for memory-making. A place where doors stayed unlocked and bikes scattered the sidewalks.

The layout helped. Streets curved into a perfect circle, with a patch of woods tucked in the middle. A walking path sliced through and connected one side to the other. At the front sat the swimming pool, the beating heart of summer.

Then, on Independence Day, a special event unfolded.

McKenzie, Luke, Jake, Kate, and Sam decked out their bicycles with streamers, flags, and pinwheels, preparing for the annual parade.

Around 150 others joined in, either on foot or something with wheels. Parents pulled wagons. Golf carts shimmered in red, white, and blue. Dogs wore star-spangled hats.

A firetruck led the way, blaring its horn, and a pickup with Uncle Sam followed behind, tossing candy to onlookers.

Following the procession down each street, everyone met at the park by the pool. After a reading of the Declaration of Independence, there was lunch and a pie-eating contest.

And then came the inevitable big splash competition. An epic showdown featuring children and adults, all graded on who got the biggest cheers.

The only thing louder than fireworks? A dad belly-flopping in front of 150 neighbors.

After almost a decade in that community, we moved away seven years ago. But those memories feel like yesterday, resurrected every July 4th.

Turns out the best part of the Fourth never lit up the sky.

Something special happened tonight on a front porch.

Not just any porch, but the one from my childhood. I spent countless hours running through the grass it faces, chasing lightning bugs and playing football. Yet I always ended up on those concrete steps with friends, consuming thousands of popsicles and drinking from the nearby water hose.

It was our stage for everyday life, where we greeted the mailman and welcomed visitors. Where we handed out Halloween candy and waved at neighbors.

Funny how a small space can hold such emotional weight, but the meaning often hides until enough years have passed.

The yard is quiet now. The paint on those stairs flakes off in strips, like time shedding skin.

But tonight, something magical returned.

While in town for a quick visit, the July 4th fireworks show took place at the city park, about a mile away. And from that familiar stoop, I could see the explosions in the sky, over the treetops.

The best part was my dad standing beside me, both of us looking at the bursts of color, sharing the same view I hadn’t seen since the early 90s, when I last lived at home.

For a few perfect minutes, time doubled back. Everything was just as it had been.

Breathtaking.

I may have to drink from the water hose next.

It began the summer I was 13, with a neighbor and a VHS player.

He had a stack of tapes and a mission to educate me on scary films. We’d stay up late watching movies that made me double-check the locks before going to bed.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Friday the 13th.
The Shining.

All the greatest hits of nightmares.

But while he turned into a superfan, I veered in the other direction. I like to feel better after a movie, not worse. And no part of me wanted a Camp Crystal Lake t-shirt.

Then this week, I heard about something new: Summerween.

A second Halloween, except in June. Folks carve jack‑o’-melons and swap ghost stories in the backyard. The parties include slasher flicks and costumes with a seasonal twist: zombies in lifeguard gear, vampires with board shorts, witches wearing sunhats.

I think I’ll pass.

It’s all fun and games until someone brings out the chainsaw.

These wise words somehow seem to stick.

When my kids were small, bedtime came with a ritual. I’d tuck them in, head for the door, then turn back with the same parting prayer:

“May God give you the wisdom to know what is right and the courage to do it even when it’s hard.”

Sometimes I’d trail off mid-sentence, letting them finish the thought.

Now they’re grown, but they still remember. And when they’re home, they often beat me to it, shortening the phrase by only saying, “Even when it’s hard.”

With everyone spread far and wide, I text Dad’s Weekly Wisdom to our family group chat. While I’m no mountaintop monk, I try to share what I learn.

But today, Jake gave me a gem he heard from his JMU professor, Dan Schill. Only four words, but man, so powerful:

“Start before you’re ready.”

I love that. Don’t wait for permission or perfect conditions.

Motion creates momentum, which brings clarity and confidence. Readiness often follows action, not the other way around. Otherwise, it’s tempting to mistake planning for progress.

I’ve always gained more from leaping than lingering. Think of the high dive. At some point, stop counting stairs and just jump.

For me, here’s the secret: courage is more important than competence, especially in the beginning.

Trust the path will unfold as you walk. Instead of waiting for a magic reveal beforehand, take the first scary step.

That initial fight against inertia is the hardest. But movement doesn’t need to be monumental. A nudge can do wonders.

Or, in Jake’s own words: “Go on 2, not 3.”

Even when it’s hard.

How does this place get so much buzz?

I remember when a new store opened near my childhood neighborhood. The sign appeared without fanfare, containing the block letters: Domino’s Pizza.

We had never heard of it before. But soon, the mystery started a movement. When the promise landed — 30 minute delivery or free pizza — families treated the restaurant like magic, ordering multiple times a week. Our sleepy town lost its mind.

Fast forward to today. A business launched in Virginia, and the grand opening went bonkers. People arrived hours before the ribbon-cutting. And parking? A clogged nightmare. One attendee described waiting 45 minutes just to get out of the lot.

A local media outlet interviewed someone who described the crowd as “worse than Costco on a Saturday morning.” That’s serious trauma.

What store could stir up this level of hysteria?

Buc-ee’s.

Yep, Virginia’s first location, at 74,000 square feet with over 120 gas pumps and a price tag of more than $60 million. Even the Governor and Lt. Governor showed up.

I truly wish Buc-ee the Beaver well. Maybe one day I’ll stop by to see what all the fuss is about. But I’m not going anywhere near that madness anytime soon.

Too bad I can’t get Beaver Nuggets delivered in 30 minutes or less.

A first time for everything.

Today we visited a local museum to escape the heat. But there was a challenge… long walks aren’t an option for Dad.

Thankfully, the gallery had a solution: free mobility scooters for those needing help. After a quick lobby demo, Dad zoomed off, weaving through exhibits like a race car driver.

I recently read about a 93yr old World War II vet. Once a devoted motorcycle rider, his friends surprised him with a scooter customized to resemble a Harley Davidson.

Unfortunately, Dad’s wheels didn’t come with chrome or flame decals.

But he still handled corners like a champ. Next stop: Daytona.

Today I gave my 89yr old dad something he hadn’t seen in ages.

Around 8:15pm, Jess and I got in the car with him for a short drive and the promise of a spectacle.

It didn’t disappoint.

After parking, we followed a trail until we found a bench with a perfect view. There, we watched the sun perform a slow descent across the James River.

A summer sunset at Jamestown Beach.

The daily finales are stunning over the water as the fireball disappears into the darkening Virginia sky. And the shore offers a wide-open sightline, near the spot where our nation began in 1607.

Where Dad lives, the horizon lines are blocked due to many trees. But this evening, he enjoyed a front-row seat, grinning like a kid, soaking in the amazing sight.

Some sunsets linger a little longer. This one will stick around for years.

This is not how I wrote the script.

Quiz: What converts a car’s mechanical energy into electrical energy?

Answer: An alternator.

This morning, our car wouldn’t start. A jump got me rolling, but AutoZone’s diagnostic brought the verdict: the alternator died.

I dropped the sedan at a repair shop and drove a different car to North Carolina to grab a second vehicle. Arrived, stepped out, and — surprise! Dead battery.

Another jump, another AutoZone. And the culprit? Yep, an alternator.

Now I hunted for a mechanic at 3:30 PM on a Friday. The first one couldn’t. The second was found by Jess, after several frantic phone calls.

Thankfully, they fixed it in a couple of hours while I waited, then I hit the road and got home by 11pm.

A day for the books:

7 hours of driving
3 mechanics
2 states
2 AutoZones
2 new alternators

Almost makes me yearn for the horse and buggy days.

Fear lied to me for years.

For a long time, I ignored a preventive medical procedure. Just the idea made me shutter.

Doctors called it routine, but I wanted nothing to do with the whole deal. Worst-case scenarios played in my mind. Some people freaked me out by describing the prep like a medieval torture chamber. I almost canceled but finally stuck to the plan.

The dreaded exam?

A colonoscopy.

And it was a breeze. Sure, a few yucky drinks and mild inconveniences, but nothing terrible. Afterward, I laughed. All the panic wasted on something about as annoying as a traffic jam.

I thought of that today when I came across this quote:

Worry is the misuse of your imagination. What if we used our imagination to think of all the good things that could happen?
— Ray Sefah

Anxiety, I’ve learned, means I’m drifting into a future which doesn’t exist. It’s my reminder to return to the present.

In the end, the tube of doom was more meh than medieval.

This takes me right back to my mid-twenties.

In the 90s, I worked at a youth camp in Virginia. Tucked deep in the boonies, the property became a sauna in July. Zero air conditioning meant surviving with box fans and prayer.

During one of those summers, I listened to a particular CD on repeat. The catchy tunes and whip-smart lyrics spoke to that season of my life.

When I hear those tracks now, I’m reminded of the gravel paths and back-of-the-knees sweat. Also, the cafeteria tater tots.

And the album that ushers these memories? Going Public by the Newsboys, released in 1994.

I thought about those songs again after recently learning the band got pulled from radio and dropped by their label, following misconduct allegations against their lead singer. Promoters and venues have canceled their tour dates.

The news stings but doesn’t stop me from listening to that nostalgic album. One track in particular — Spirit Thing — still hits home. And four lines always stick with me:

I took the pulpit
Then backed down again
Some things in heaven
Cannot be explained

I close my eyes. Somewhere deep in my mind, the cicadas hum and the box fan whirs.