Tag: mental-health

What I’ve Learned so Far About Life

Life ain’t a straight line. It’s not fair, it’s not simple, and it sure doesn’t wait on you to get your act together.

I’ve learned life will knock you flat more times than you think is reasonable, and just when you think you’re done, it hands you something beautiful.

People come and go. Some stay. Some wreck you. Some save you without ever knowing it. And sometimes, it’s the same person doing all three.

What matters is showing up—being real, and not pretending you’ve got it figured out.

About God

God’s not the preacher in the pulpit telling you to try harder.

God’s been in the silence. In the tears. In the porch swing moments. In the second chances.

I used to think God just wanted me to serve and obey. Now I know He wants me whole, free, and home.

I’ve learned God doesn’t waste anything—not even the pain, not even the years I thought were lost.

About Me

I’m not bulletproof, but I’ve taken a lot of hits and I’m still standing.

I’ve carried too much for too long. I’ve hid behind work and projects because it was easier than feeling what was real.

But I’ve also learned I’ve got more heart than I gave myself credit for. I’ve learned I can sit in the hard stuff. I can love people who are hard to love. I can still believe in better days.

About Grief

Grief is a ghost with a key to the front door.

You can’t outrun it, and you can’t outwork it. It waits. It teaches.

I buried my grief so deep I didn’t even realize it was shaping me.

But now I see—grief isn’t weakness. It’s proof that I loved someone more than life itself.

And now, I carry that love forward. Not as a wound—but as a fire.

About Living

Living isn’t just getting through the day.

It’s paying attention. It’s listening to the quiet voice that says, “Don’t miss this.”

It’s letting someone in, even when you’re scared they’ll leave.

Living is remembering that I still have breath—and that means I still have purpose.

About Hope

Hope isn’t loud. It doesn’t kick the door down.

It whispers. It sits with you. It says, “Try again.”

I’ve had every reason to quit—and yet, I don’t.

That’s hope. That’s grace.

I’ve learned hope comes in strange forms—a text, a glance, a moment when the world slows down and something just feels right.

Hope is still choosing to build. Still choosing to believe.

And if I’m honest, sometimes the person who changed me didn’t preach, didn’t fix, didn’t even try.

Just listened. Just stayed. Just saw me.

And something in me started to shift.

Maybe that’s what God does, too. Just shows up—and stays.

And for the first time in a long time…

That’s enough.

I’ve been asking myself lately why I’ve done all of this.

I’ve been asking myself lately why I’ve done all of this.
Why, in 1989, I sat in the yard with a notebook computer, working while my son played nearby — but not really paying attention to him. Why I’ve poured 65 to 80 hours a week into work, every week, from college right up to now at age 67 — through Evergreen, ministry, and community service.

I can see the pattern stretching back decades.
In college, I juggled studying and part-time jobs because I thought that’s what it took to make something of myself. In 1993, I turned down a safe regional manager’s job because I wanted the freedom to build my own thing. I consulted for 26 years, worked in co-ops for 5, then left under a cloud. I started consulting again, built a WISP to $55K a month and 730 customers in two years, only to be dismissed by the majority owner for lack of fealty. Ninety days later, I started Evergreen — and I’ve been slogging ever since.

Somewhere along the way, I built my life around the belief that it was my job to build, to fix, to carry. That I should never settle for “good enough.” That if something needed to be done, I should be the one to do it — even if it meant giving up comfort, time, or relationships.

I’ve lost everything more than once, in cycles of 8 to 10 years. I’ve rebuilt more than once. And in between, I’ve driven myself with an intensity most people don’t understand — and maybe I don’t fully understand either.

If I’m honest, I think I’ve been chasing significance more than success. Trying to prove that what I build matters. That I matter. That I’m the kind of man who doesn’t walk away when things get hard, no matter how long it takes.

But lately I find myself wondering…
Can grace win over the cynicism I’ve picked up along the way?
Can purpose rise again from all the pain and loss?
Can light reframe what I’ve lost — and maybe even redeem it?

I don’t have those answers yet. But I know I’m still here, still building, still hoping. And maybe that’s where the next chapter starts.