A perfect day.

For our family, it often starts with a boat. Captained by Luke, ours launched today from Southport and glided down the Intracoastal Waterway past fishing piers and wild marsh grass. 

About an hour in, we dropped anchor at a quiet beach and jumped in, bobbing in the water while talking and laughing. We then cruised forward and moored at a marina restaurant for seafood and burgers. 

On the return trip, an afternoon shower caught us, but we just turned up the music and outraced the storm to our dock.

Back home, we enjoyed pizza from our favorite local spot and took an evening stroll by the Atlantic Ocean. As the night grew late, the living room of our glowing cottage buzzed with games.

I sank into sleep, smiling.

A perfect day.

What marks the true start of a beach vacation?

Not the walk down the pier. Not even that first ocean view or the nostalgic sunscreen smell. There's something better.

The beach grocery store run.

In our case, the Oak Island Food Lion.

This one blasts you with arctic air the second those sliding doors whoosh open. Inside, the aisles gleam with forbidden treasures. Popsicles and bright orange chips. Candy and cookies. Various treats that would horrify your non-vacay self. And of course, bottled drinks for miles.

In our family, everyone gets to grab whatever they crave. No judgment. If you want rainbow sherbet, powdered donuts, and frozen pizza bites, just toss them in.

Bonus points if you ride to the store on a golf cart.

Have you heard of the Shibumi?

Pronounced Sha-boo-me.

Not long ago, a strange sight began appearing along the shores of Oak Island. Flowing and flapping. Bright blue and teal. These coverings — half tent, half parachute — protect beachgoers for hours.

Shibumi Shade was founded in 2016 by three UNC graduates fed up with heavy umbrellas during Emerald Isle vacations.

So in 2015, they created a prototype using PVC pipe and hand-sewn material. A year later, they tested their first 32 handmade canopies on North Carolina beaches.

And word spread, fast.

In only four years, they left their day jobs to run the company full-time. Today, you’ll find their invention on over 800 shorelines around the world, with more than 300,000 sold.

This afternoon, sitting beneath a similar covering, we looked up and down the oceanfront at a parade of sky-colored fabric whipping in the wind.

A genius idea, rooted in the Carolinas.

Still waiting for a cooler that rolls easily on sand.

I remember visiting amazing places for the first time.

The electric chaos of Times Square
Sunsets melting over California beaches
The wonder of DisneyWorld
Holy ground in Jerusalem
Soul-stirring moments in Ethiopia
Snorkeling in Belize
Afternoon tea in London
Breezy views from Aruba’s cliffs
Tacos by the sea in Mexico

Every destination had its charms, but none stir my heart like a quiet island on the North Carolina coast:

Oak Island.

For years, the little coastal town has been our family’s refuge, where the clocks take naps and the only traffic jam involves beach bikes and flip flops.

We meander through powdery sand and stroll across the Ocean Crest pier. We bike sleepy roads and wave to strangers who always wave back.

Our time to unplug and breathe.

The best spots rarely need neon. Just rocking chairs and salt air.

❤️ OKI

I believe boredom is a gift.

Not the kind wrapped in shiny paper, but one that quietly shows up when your schedule clears and your phone dies.

Most people rush to fill the silence with noise or media. Boredom is a rare luxury in a connected world where every second hums with distraction. Maybe we need more of it, not less.

But… if your days have started to blend together, especially at work or school, here are a few tricks inspired by an article I read today.

Shake up your routine
Take a different route on your walk. Maybe bike to the office. Or use the stairs and pretend you’re in the Olympics.

Make everyday tasks a bit more interesting
Try an unfamiliar grocery store or turn cleaning the kitchen into a timed challenge. Bonus points if music is involved.

Stretch your creativity
Order a dish you can’t pronounce or sign up for a fun class. Give some glitter to those Tuesdays.

Why bother? Because spice rewires your brain. Surprises jolt the hippocampus and create new neural pathways. Plus, dopamine kicks in and sharpens focus and energy.

That’s all it takes. Small shifts, a little novelty. And suddenly the ordinary feels fresh again.

Turns out, your brain just wanted tacos from that sketchy food truck.

I probably watched too much TV growing up.

Most afternoons during middle school, I followed the same routine: backpack dropped, shoes off, television on.

Then came the sitcom parade that shaped my worldview more than any textbook:

Three’s Company
The Brady Bunch
The Jeffersons
Gilligan’s Island
Wild Wild West

I didn’t care for daytime game shows, and soap operas bored me to tears. Primetime didn’t hook me either, unless there was sports on.

But once in a while, magic cracked the evening lineup:

The Incredible Hulk
The Dukes of Hazzard
The Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday nights

On Friday evenings, I also watched the opening credits of Dallas for that cool aerial shot of Cowboys Stadium.

These days, streaming has scattered TV rituals, and everyone views things at their own pace. This week, I saw an article about the top series of 2025:

Severance
The White Lotus
Stranger Things
The Bear
Andor
The Last of Us

All great in their own way, and I’ve caught a few episodes here and there.

But nothing beats racing home after school, unwrapping a Little Debbie oatmeal cookie, and hearing...

“Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip…”

I heard a great quote today.

“Leaders bring the weather. Your energy is the weather at your company.”
-Mel Robbins

The most memorable leaders in my life didn’t just manage workflow. They shaped the atmosphere.

And two of my all-time favorites entered during my high school and college era.

Kathy Hayes ran camps for the Burlington Parks and Rec Department. I worked with her for several years, and she made every season a highlight reel.

She didn't hide in the admin office, but joined the chaos by playing games alongside the kids and checking in on the team, laughing with us, and treating staff like friends not subordinates.

Then came Mark Payne, my high school music teacher. Orchestra. Jazz. Marching band. He led them all with boundless energy and a sense of humor.

Before he showed up, our music program was forgettable. By the time he left, we were winning competitions and parading through DisneyWorld.

Attitude sets the tone. How a leader operates trickles down to the entire organization. It’s hard to stay grumpy in a workplace when the boss shows up buzzing with passion.

The strongest mentors push hard by challenging people in a supportive culture. And in place of using threats, they’re more prone to wild dares.

Kathy and Mark changed the weather.

When I think about it, true leadership is convincing people that giving 110% is a totally rational thing to do.

When I woke up, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

One morning years ago, I stepped outside and stood frozen. Our house resembled a Halloween prank on steroids.

Toilet paper clung to tree branches and wrapped around bushes. Two-ply strips dangled from gutters like streamers. Cars slowed down as drivers stared and pointed.

Eventually, we learned Dad’s friends had TP’d our property for his 50th. Although cleaning took several hours, he loved every minute.

Today, we celebrated a different milestone: Dad turned 89.

We mailed him a box of goodies, along with a shiny birthday badge to wear. I wondered if he’d even wear it, thinking he might feel too silly.

But he wore the ribbon proudly, all day long, as a medal of honor. He vowed to save it for next year.

Mission accomplished.

This time, he was decorated instead of the lawn. And no one harmed a single roll of Charmin.

Here’s to at least 89 more years.

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.