The Alien Tour Guide

I think about what it would be like to be a tour guide for an alien visiting from another planet.

Of all there is about humanity to know, what would I show someone who has absolutely no context about our planet? Where does one even start? What would demonstrate that we're more than just pieces of meat?

We start with the best of what we are. What are the things that show what we are when we are at our best? Or when we are most human? Most humane?

I'd show them the National Parks, often called America's best idea. It shows the care we have for creation, and our appreciation for beauty. I'd show them our most cherished public libraries, demonstrating our commitment to making knowledge accessible, and putting learning at the center of our communities.

I'd take them to a locally loved marathon, like ours in Detroit - because it would show them sport and community at the same time. Marathons are electric places, there are the inspiring runners - who are everyday people - that each have an inspiring story of why they run, thousands of volunteers, people lining the streets and cheering on strangers from their porches. And in Detroit, there's a polka house handing out beer, and a group of people with Scottish heritage handing out whiskey shots to runners going by.

I'd take them to the neighborhoods of our cities, and the community meetings in smaller towns - to see people who look out for others, for no applause or compensation. I'd take them to a wedding, a funeral, and a child's first birthday party so they can see the full spectrum of what love can be.

I'd take them to a local company's production of a Shakespeare classic, as an example of a human condition so timeless people care to share the story centuries later. I'd take them to a water treatment plant to show them we've cared about problems as basic as sanitation for centuries, too.

I'd take them to a backyard bonfire to see friendship at its purest. Or caroling, with people singing for the sheer joy of it and sharing it, to see music at its purest. Or to a playground to see play at its purest. I'd take them to a Thanksgiving dinner to see family, gratitude, and tradition all rolled into one.

The beauty of thinking this way - about being a tour guide to an alien - is that they probably wouldn't care about what's famous. They would care about what's real, and ordinary because those are the things that are universal. And I think these things - the best of who we are - do show that we are more than pieces of meat. Much more.

The best of who we are as human beings, are not big things. They are small moments of beauty, peace, love, service, compassion, and friendship. The best of what we are as a species is not indulgence, or perhaps even innovation. The best of what we are is our humanity, and the small moments where it's most alive.

We Can Now Manufacture Information. We Must Manage Its Pollution.

There is a new type of pollution, and we should call it that: information pollution.

This is the pollution that contaminates the quality of decisions, making them unhealthy like polluted water or air cause illness in our bodies. This matters now, more than ever.

Radio, television, telephony, and the internet exponentially increased the distribution and collection of information, but its generation was still roughly constrained by human creators and human activity. Generative AI can now manufacture information at an enormous scale. This is different than one person or company with a huge microphone misinforming or disinforming people.

Now, with generative AI, there's an increasing supply of information - that we use every day - that has slop in it. And people who want to misinform, or who even just want to produce it, can do so at a blistering, industrial scale. We read it all the time - LinkedIn, Instagram, websites, and even when it's used at our volunteer meetings or at work. It's not always intended to be disinformation, but it's not "clean" and we are exposed to it everywhere.

If our ability to make decisions depends on information, that information is getting more and more polluted - just like processed foods, dirty water, or filthy air.

It matters if our information is polluted, because decisions matter, both big ones and small ones. What if our information environment was polluted enough for estimates of GDP growth to be off by a fraction of a percent, either because the inputs are sloppy, the analysis was sloppy, or because a government can now manipulate how the data gets interpreted more easily with propaganda. Even a small deviation in those sorts of estimates would distort how companies budget and allocate capital by billions of dollars.

At a smaller scale, there's the decision about where to go on a date with my wife. I would use ChatGPT to research new restaurants and plays we could go to. But what if restaurant reviews are now synthetic or bots, what if more and more blogs are AI-generated? Now, the information I'm using to pick a place is distorted, both because of false information but also because of quantity favoring one restaurant over another. This little example is a smaller distortion, but the scale is huge, billions of people across the world probably make a decision like this every week.

And that's the point, just like air, water, and food - we are bringing information into our minds and bodies all the time. And everyone on the planet is making decisions all the time, maybe thousands a day. Even if the information stream we use is a little contaminated, it has huge effects.

Which now means we have to think about managing information pollution. It could be more like a park cleanup, where volunteers on social media already flag information as false. Or it could be more like a superfund cleanup, like in the math community who may end up taking years to verify work on the frontier of math that OpenAI dropped this week, work that has a lot of groundbreaking material but may also have a lot that is unverified, not cited, or even just slop.

Fortunately, we have approaches we learned when managing pollution in the natural environment. What if we had ways to test the quality of information like we did water? What if there was a clean data act, like there was the clean water act? What if we had a superfund program, for cleanup of huge contamination events? What if instead of reduce, reuse, recycle, a campaign was verify, modify, revise?

Whether we like it or not, the problem of information pollution is here. And we have to manage it.

I Need You

I don't like to depend on other people, and this is deeply programmed within me.

I want to be the one who gives, who has the capacity to help others and has the willingness and means to be generous. This should not be surprising because this is taught in both American and Indian culture. We're not supposed to be the ones who need something, we're supposed to be the ones who give back. We're shamed if we need to leech off the efforts of others and are lauded if we're the ones who invest in others.

Part of this comes from a place of virtue - the community gets better when we all give more than our fair share. But I am grappling with the reality that part of this is also a myth.

I cannot be the strong generous man who gives all the time. And at this point in my life, I am struggling. Every aspect of my life is hard, and I don't have the capacity to help others. Rather, I am the one who needs, and it has been emasculating.

The myth is that the world is separated into the needy and the generous as if it's static. That the haves always have and the have nots always need. No person can give all the time, our lives ebb and flow. No one person can always ebb or always flow. At this point in my life, I am taking a lot and giving little. I have felt shameful about it for a long time, honestly. The calls I wasn't returning, the deadlines I was killing myself to hit and still missing. The progress I wasn't making in the places I volunteer, and the backyard parties I wasn't planning.

My whole life I have been the guy that is always there, the one who could always figure it out. The one everyone could lean on.

And now, I'm not, and the reality that I'm not a super person has been hard to swallow. But perhaps this is the most important life lesson I could possibly have. That I am not a super man, and I never was - that I am simply a man. Simply a simple man. Who can give but who also must need. Someone who can ask to lend a hand, but also ask for a hand.

It has been the hardest and most humbling thing to be able to learn to say to my friends, my parents, to my family, my colleagues, my neighbors and to God: I need you - please, I need you.

It was so hard to ask my mom to come help take care of my kids while Robyn was out of town, or my mother-in-law when Griffin was in the hospital. Or when we had to ask a group of friends if someone could take Robert to soccer practice. And yet we did. And others accepted our call for aid, without levying an ounce of flesh from us.

I am learning this now at 39, because I never learned it in childhood: I am just a man, nothing deficient or super, just a man. And for a man to survive in this world he must give and also must take, that sometimes we are haves and sometimes we are have nots. Sometimes we can ask - do you need a hand, but to be human is to know that sometimes all we can say is I need you.

The Extraordinary Day

September 11 was an extraordinary day. It wasn't a good day, it was awful. But nothing about it was ordinary.

It was a day with extraordinary loss. It was a day filled with examples of extraordinary courage and bravery. But as I've aged, I've understood how extraordinary it was more deeply. When it happened, it felt like something at a distance, that happened to those people over there. I didn't know anyone who was directly affected by 9/11.

But now, it feels so much bigger. To have a mass murder numbering in the thousands is incomprehensible. 2,000 people feels so much bigger now than when I was in high school because I better understand the gravity and consequence of a single life.

I understand now, too, that there were people across the spectrum of humanity that perished - there is someone relatable to all of us that was lost on that day. There were wealthy businessmen and the people who cleaned the offices. Young kids interning, and people who just happened to have a business meeting that day, who were from out of town. There were first responders and priests. There were young and old. People who probably had just returned from their honeymoon or who had just welcomed a child. There were people there from all over the world.

Everyone of those people, I understand now, had an extraordinary story in one way or another, because everyone has an extraordinary story. More than 2,000 people who left their families devastated when they left. 2,000 plus people isn't just numbers - it was an extraordinary loss, which I didn't appreciate 25 years ago.

What got me much more deeply this year was remembering stories about United 93. There were people who called their spouses from the plane. Who took a few minutes to tell the love of their life, that they were going to try to take over the plane, letting it be unspoken that they would probably die. They called to say "I love you." And give their partners a chance at closure, and a chance to move on with their lives. A chance to avoid life's biggest wound - not saying goodbye.

It is something that haunts me. I didn't get to say goodbye to anyone close to me that has died. Not my cousin, Nakul. Not my grandparents. Not my father. Not my friend Wyman. These are among my life's biggest regrets, because I cannot say I love you to them now. I missed my last chance to tell these people, with the realest honesty and warmth how much they meant to me.

What an extraordinary act of mercy that is, to love and try to say goodbye - when you know your life is about to suddenly and tragically end. When you have minutes left and you call someone else not only because you want to talk with them one last time, but you know they would want to talk to you. It is selfless and brave. It is of the purest love. It is heartbreaking. And it most certainly is extraordinary.

I feel so much more sorrow and loss for my fellow countrymen at this 25th anniversary because as I have aged - and loved and lost - I understand the preciousness of a single life, and of mercy much more deeply. I know love and I know death and grief. I know what it feels like to know that you would die to protect your kids and your wife. I know the unsettling driving feeling to want to say I love you, just one more time. I know the joy of family bonds and what it feels like to be redeemed from loneliness.

The stakes of a life are so high. Even one life can be so rich and deep. Just one life, is self-justifying. One life is extraordinary. 2,000 plus lives, to lose that in the span of hours is loss so large that there is no other reaction than to be numbed to it.

I hope that is one of the lessons that we take away from 9/11 and that people, like my sons, who weren't even born when it happened, remember. I hope, beyond the geopolitics and the stories of bravery and courage, we remember the mercy people shared in the darkest of times. I hope we remember the immense loss that one life is, let alone more than two thousand. I hope we remember that every life is extraordinary.

Detroit adopted me

Detroit didn't raise me, but it did adopt me.

In 2011, when I moved here, I was a high-functioning person who was very lost, and lonely. I was a great yuppie, but I lived in only two dimensions: work and going to bars on the weekends.

But then when I moved here, I started to grow a life with more than two dimensions. In the past 15 years, this community has given me more than I could ever give back.

Detroit gave me my first grown-up job, a good one at that. I expected to go to DC — I'd interned there every summer. But I stayed because I wanted to be close to my parents. Even my father thought I was crazy to forgo the opportunities of a larger city.

Detroit gave me friends, when we were all figuring out our twenties in a place that was already showing glimmers of magic and resurgence. And it's kept on giving: more friends along the way, whether by luck at a bookstore or through our sons playing sports. I get to live in a place where I know people around town. Just last week, Robyn took the kids to the Rocket Mortgage Classic and bumped into a neighbor and two of Robert's soccer teammates.

Detroit is an amazingly interwoven big city, where people actually live in community.

Along the way the city taught me to serve. First with pro bono work for non-profits. Then working for the City at the Police Department. Over those years I went from a boy with hubris into someone with a greater understanding that service requires humility and listening more than achievement.

And at the most unexpected time, I met my wife here — through the friends I made when I first moved here. The old St. Cece's in Corktown is where we met, on a St. Patrick's Day pub crawl our crew organized, the day I was so happily drunk I started imitating a toothbrush. The city helped us find our way to dating, then let our young love grow and blossom. We married at a beautiful church downtown — Ss. Peter and Paul — and had a barn burner of a wedding reception; still the best party we've ever been to.

As a child, this was my American dream: to have a family and live in a place where neighbors cared about each other. Detroit gave us this dream. We have a sturdy old home with a yard that fills with fireflies on summer nights. And we know our neighbors, we stop on our walks with Riley, we trade desserts, and have had them in our backyard for pancakes.

Detroit has given our kids something that seems like it's on its way to becoming extinct: a childhood. Our culture puts adult pressure on kids way too fast. But this City has given us a shot at giving our kids beautiful family memories. They'll remember walking to Good Cakes and Bakes together and playing soccer in art parks filled with graffiti, or under the Ambassador Bridge. They'll remember going to a school in our own neighborhood where they're accepted even as an unlikely racial minority. They'll remember playing tennis and seeing the police horses at Palmer Park, and having a charcuterie picnic on the Riverwalk every summer. This is Detroit's magic.

Finally, Detroit gave me a spiritual home. I was wandering for a long time. Gesu welcomed me as a non-Christian for years. I didn't take communion, but people cared about me anyway. Our children were baptized there, and people look after and pray for us. Eventually, I was baptized there too. People embraced what I carried with me from growing up Hindu, and told me how Christian communities have coexisted with Hinduism in India for centuries. This is a place where I can pray as a man whose Hindu roots and Catholicism coexist. Gesu is where I have peace, can weep, and have fellowship over coffee and donuts. I spent over 35 years trying to find this. Detroit just gave it to me.

I can't claim to have been born and raised here. For Detroiters, that distinction matters. But the City took me, a lonely lost twenty-something, in anyway.

So many people here gave me the care and guidance to build the simple life I dreamed of. Detroit adopted me before I even knew I needed looking after.

Detroit is a city defined by its people and its neighborhoods, more than its buildings or its statistics. It's a hard-working place that finds a way to make it, and to make beauty out of nothing but grit and a prayer. I am grateful that y'all took me in 15 years ago, and let me become part of this community.

Thank you for giving me more than I could have hoped for. I am proud to be an adopted Detroiter, and become part of this place. Thank you for being my neighbors and letting me be yours.

Kindness cuts through

Kindness cuts through the noise.

I’m a bit surprised to be grieving the loss of a colleague I’ve just met. I maybe talked to her 5-6 times. It’s not the same grief as when losing a close friend, but it’s grieving nonetheless.

But from moment one, I knew she was kind. And that simple act, of genuine kindness shown by a person with no performance, no faking it, creates a bond.

That simple bond of genuine kindness, given and received, is hard to forget. It is something you remember despite having a busy life, and you hear it even amidst the yelling that never stops from people who make more money the louder they are.

I think that’s the selfish reason why I want to be a good person. Being a good person creates trust and that trust creates connection with others.

But as my ambition for applause wanes, I think I know why. What’s a life without friendship, without bonds? Is it worth it to satisfy ambitions if you are lonely?

That’s why kindness cuts through. When someone is kind to you, it means you are not fully alone.

Everyday Angels

It has happened over and over again.

The harder life gets, the more I weep, yes. The less I sleep, yes. I know I’m in a bad way when I am as stark awake as a pig is naked and the watch at my bedside says 3:30. These things come in waves for me and for everyone. The brutal days come for all of us.

And yet, the angels keep coming. This past year and a half since Griffin was born has been relentless with some combination of illness, grief, utterly dogged and pressure-cooking work, or some sort of issue with our home or car. The brutal days can’t stop and won’t stop coming.

And yet, the angels keep coming. Someone calls me out of the blue. Or maybe someone at work or our sons’ soccer team pulls me aside to share comfort and encouragement. Or someone at the grocery store or at the park will just beam because they see something in our family that reminds them of theirs, which brightens their day and mine. Someone will come up to us at church and say, “I have been praying for you.” Or someone in my family or an old friend will just show up somehow, appearing as if through apparition.

How do they know? These people, these wonderful souls, how do they know I need them? How do they know I’m out of strength, many times before I even know I’m out of strength? How do they keep finding me?

I don’t know who keeps sending them. Or why.

But thank God.

—

I feel like an old man now.

Not in the sense of my body or mind — I feel sharp and limber, though I can’t run it back like I used to. It’s that I can’t not wear my heart out in the open anymore. I can’t live as a persona instead of a person anymore. I can’t hold back the laughter or tears or joy anymore.

I can’t hide. From the mirror, from God, from my demons, from love, from anyone. It is only old men who have learned not to hide, and to have learned this from hardship and death, from marriage, friendship, and from four remarkable sons is yet another way I feel I’ve grown up too soon.

But maybe that’s part of why these angels keep showing up. Maybe angels find us precisely when we stop hiding — when our darkness and our light is unhidden. Seeing that tension and dance of darkness and light emanating from another soul is perhaps what draws them near, as if our aura puts out a bat signal if we let it, and the everyday angels all around us see it.

That is perhaps a lesson in being an angel just as it is a lesson in calling one. I have been the recipient of so much love — I hope I can mirror back even a fraction of what’s been poured into me. I hope I can be an everyday angel to someone every once in a while. It seems so selfish and wasteful to just take and take without sharing it back.

It seems to me the key is simpler than I thought. Maybe it doesn’t take a relentless regimen of character development to be a good person. Maybe I don’t have to journal religiously and collect constructive criticism from everyone I can to shape myself into the man of honesty, sacrifice, and devotion my father was.

I think being an everyday angel is much simpler. We open our eyes and ears and hearts. Look for the light and look for the dark, and then just drift toward it. Let our hearts and souls be called. Maybe being a good man, an everyday angel, is really that simple.

If I had a trillion dollars

Let’s say you had an allowance of $100 million per day.

To put it in context: $100 million buys a mega-mansion in New York, a fully outfitted private jet, or 400 Bentleys — every day. To spend one trillion dollars at that rate, you’d have to keep going for 27 years and four months. A private jet a day for 27 years.

I can’t fathom that much money. I cannot imagine the freedom or the shackles.

And what would I even do with it? I don’t even need one Bentley, let alone the nearly four million a trillion dollars would afford me. There haven’t even been half a million Bentleys produced, ever.

I heard that the wealthiest person in early 19th century America died from an infection that simple antibiotics would cure today. That’s the real wealth we all share — over time, humanity develops public goods that raise quality of life for everyone.

I love that Barenaked Ladies song, If I Had a Million Dollars. I wonder what I’d do with a trillion. I have no damn clue.

I’d hope that enough would be far less than $100 million a day, because it is now. I like my life. And we’re lucky to have enough and live in a time where entertainment is cheap and people with Down Syndrome aren’t condemned to institutionalization.

Still, I hope that I’d live modestly and use the surplus money to find the next antibiotics, the next sanitation, the next discovery we can’t predict — whatever it is that makes a future generation look back and wonder how we ever lived without it. Something that reduces gun violence, or increases survival rates for terminal disease, or makes energy cheaper and cleaner.

The best use of the money would be throwing it at something I could never predict, and probably never see the fruits of in my lifetime. Which is basically burning it — spending on something with no guaranteed return. I wouldn’t try to “invest” it in anything, because that implies a certain return and is not nearly ambitious enough.

I’d have to waste it, on something that might advance humanity or might be a total flop. All this assuming I could find those people that are creative enough to be worth wasting huge amounts of money on. Which is a weird problem to have.

I just don’t really understand mega wealth, I suppose. Do people that wealthy feel good about it? We aren’t mega wealthy. And yet, I think about money all the time as it is and it’s awful — I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a trillion dollars warping every relationship, every room I walk into. I’ve seen that prism destroy happy families, for far less than a trillion. And yet, that would still be a helluva lot better than having to choose between groceries and medicine.

There’s no winning when money is the thing you’re thinking about. Too little and you worry about it. Too much and it still consumes your thoughts. The songs that capture this paradox best aren’t the ones about getting rich — they’re C.R.E.A.M. and Mo Money Mo Problems. The trap is the same at both ends.

The real key for me has been wanting less. Keeping expenses low enough that what we have feels like enough. And thinking about love and life instead of ruminating about work and money.

Which is how yesterday went. I still had to work most of Saturday — which sucks. But despite that we made it to the dog park and the soccer field. We watched the World Cup and listened to good music while doing chores. I took our three oldest grocery shopping and we stopped for smoothies on the way home, just because it was sunny and refreshing. We ended the night watching A Goofy Movie on the couch because it was Father’s Day.

I want to be able to afford days like that.

I Do Not Want An Identity

I do not want identity. I do not want to be a brand.

I do not want you to know I went to school in Ann Arbor because I’m wearing the hat. I hope you believe I appreciate diverse perspectives and am committed to a better world because of how I treat you.

I do not want to wear a cross around my neck — as big as Flava Flav’s clock — for you to know I’m Catholic. I hope that because of how I care for others, and if I show up humbly and peacefully, that you would have reached that conclusion on your own.

I do not want you to have to see the idol of Lord Ganesha in our cabinet to know I was raised Hindu and have it enmeshed in my blood and bones. I hope that if I am truthful, dutiful, and righteous in thought and action, you would have just assumed as much.

I do not want to drape a flag over my shoulders or tattoo it on my arm for you to know I am American. I hope you will grasp that from my work ethic, my leadership, my creativity, and my respect for your life and freedom — that you can just tell: that man is a yank.

I do not want a bumper sticker or license plate to reveal that I am a Michigander and Detroiter. I hope that grit, amiability, and a community orientation ooze out of me so naturally it seems obvious.

I do not need these reminders. I do not want to need these symbols. I do not want an identity outside of the driver’s license in my pocket. I do not want a self-aggrandizing logo on a t-shirt to signal what I’m all about. I do not want these shortcuts — these shorthand descriptions of a life — to speak for me.

I want my actions, my professions, my sacrifices, and my works to speak for themselves.

We Don’t Have To Become What We Hated

Do you like your life — for the right reasons?

I see the challenges in the world. We all do. And sure, we can point fingers at Boomers — their indulgence, their punting of moral responsibility, their short-termism. I’ve done it plenty.

But I don’t want to hide behind that anymore. Blaming them dissolves my own responsibility. And as I enter middle age, I don’t have time for it. I could be closer to the end of my life than its beginning.

Which brings me to the question I keep coming back to: do you like your life — for the right reasons?

That question cuts through all the fluff. And it sets up the one that matters most: if not, what’s next?

So much of my inner world has been distorted by bad questions. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” “What gives your life meaning?” These questions sneak in a bias — that vocation is what matters most, that who we are is singular and fixed. It isn’t.

If you’re around my age, life is probably starting to feel stable. Kids might be out of diapers, or close. Work is in a groove, even when it grinds. We’ve survived the crucible years or are damn close.

That stability is good. But then what?

Do we just get comfortable and greedy and do the exact same things we’ve spent years criticizing Boomers for?

No.

We work on what’s next instead of falling into comfort and self-absorption. We have to re-anchor right when things stabilize — that’s exactly when we’re at risk of losing sight. Because the goal, at least for me, is to bend my life toward the highest human act: caring for others. We’re finally strong enough. Finally stable enough to do it.

The next few years — as millennials pivot into middle age — are generation-defining. I feel that personally. This sets up our penultimate act, the last stretch where we actually have the vigor to leave the world better than we found it.

Comfort is tempting. But it’s a trap.

If we mail it in during middle age, we won’t just be selfish. We’ll be hypocrites. We’ll have criticized Boomers for exactly what we became. That’s worse.

How we transition into middle age will define us — individually and collectively. Will we live up to our highest ideals, or leave the mess we inherited exactly as we found it?

What’s next isn’t far away. It’s now or never.

So — do you like your life? For the right reasons?

If we do, we already know what comes next. And the world needs us to go do it.

Races Worth Finishing

Our cousin, Tom, just finished the Cocodona 250 — a 250-mile ultramarathon that runs through the mountains and desert of Arizona.

Tracking his progress throughout the week and seeing him cross the finish line early Saturday morning on a YouTube livestream was absolutely incredible. Like an instant chills-and-tears kind of moment. Because it is, after all, a grueling race. Competitors have to go with little sleep for several days to finish, slogging through the terrain of the course nearly around the clock. A runner even died, sadly, on the course this year.

The winner was truly elite, finishing the course in about 56 hours — a record. But in races like this, for most of the competitors, being the winner isn’t the thing that matters. For difficult races like these, the victory is maybe to hit a new personal best, but most of all just to finish. Victory is simply to finish.

And the way so many people come together to get these athletes across the finish line is astounding. There are the race organizers and an army of volunteers. There are support crews and pacers. Then there are friends and family there in person cheering the racers along the route, hugging them at the finish. So many people come together to get a few hundred athletes to go a few hundred miles from one end of the Arizona desert to the other.

Mind you, this is not a transactional thing. Whether it’s an ultra, the Olympics, or even just a local marathon, people care deeply about helping these athletes finish the race. To me, this is humanity at its best — when a community comes together to help someone do what they set out to do, to help them finish the race. This archetype of a race, where the goal is finishing rather than winning, is a special type of journey to be part of — whether as a racer, the crew, or a cheerleader.

These races are also beyond athletics. We are part of them. We can be part of them without having to be or know elite athletes.

It is the race where the village is getting a child to read, graduate, or finish college. It is a community of faith walking together and helping each other lay down their arms and find peace. It is the web of friends and often strangers who pull together to get a family that is grieving tragedy back onto their feet, or to get a friend past a cancer diagnosis and into remission.

It was in the Apollo and Artemis missions to send people to the moon and return them safely back. It is helping our elders age and die with dignity. It is in the long arc of a true artist’s journey, where they toil and sacrifice to make something that tells a truth that hasn’t been told. It is in the journey of someone injured in the line of duty learning to walk again, or someone brokenhearted learning to love again. It’s the journey of couples struggling with infertility finding a way to start a family, finding one, or at least finding acceptance for what they cannot change. This is every journey of recovery from addiction. It is every race that starts with failure and ends with becoming whole.

It is a race that Robyn and I are running to finish with a marriage that is beautiful, loving, and sacred. This is why lots of us cry at weddings. We are there to witness the beginning of a race that we want someone we love to finish. And it is a race with each child in our life that we care for. Some set out to change the world. Some set out to be good people or to create a family of their own. Some set out for exploration and adventure. And for those kids with the deepest needs and the brightest light, they set out to live the fullest, healthiest, most independent life they can. They too are on a journey where the goal, the triumph even, is simply to finish a complete life as a complete person.

This is the point in drafting where I take a break because I’m weeping. Maybe you are too. And why do I weep? Why do we weep about these journeys of finishing?

Because these are the races that matter. The lion’s share of all the love, joy, living, dying, growth, lightness, and beauty happen on these types of journeys. These are the stories that, if we are part of them — whether we are the racer or the crew or just there to cheer — help us feel like we were ever truly alive. That we were here for something. We need something more than just to “win” to have honored something so small, but so sacred, as a life.

It is a blessing to be here for these journeys, to be part of these races, whether closely or from afar.

Congratulations to the finishers. To those who finished the Cocodona 250, and those who tried but couldn’t. Most of all to our brother, Tom.

But a toast, too, to those who came to a starting line, whether as a racer or to support someone who was. To everyone who saw a difficult journey ahead and decided to be part of it — not to win it, not for applause, but because it was a race worth finishing.

Thank you for your courage and your spirit. Thank you for letting me be part of your journey, and for being part of mine. And thank you most of all for starting something that makes a sacred, human life come alive.

“What shall I make?”

When I was a younger man, I had this little phrase that I kept close to my heart. I didn’t say it often, but I would come back to it when I felt lost in the sea of adult life—drudgery, hustle, responsibility.

“Make things beautiful and make beautiful things.”

It was a way of remembering who I was. The version of me that felt like an artist, who had big dreams, a little bit of flair, and a soul he let other people see freely and shake hands with.

Surprisingly, AI is helping bring that version of me back to life. At first, I let it create for me, and I didn’t like it. It felt hollow. It had no soul, and it wasn’t any fun. So I stopped letting it do that.

But now I use it differently. It helps me create more, and spend less time on the parts that aren’t that fun. It clears space instead of taking over.

And in a world where we suddenly have these power tools—tools to imagine, design, refine, build, and share, cheaply and almost delightfully—the biggest question shifts. It’s no longer “can I make this?” but “what shall I make?”

There’s so much I would love to make beautiful, or just make more beautiful, and more of it feels within reach than ever. My own watch straps. New variations of pizza dough. Another book. Choreography. A family cookbook. A trellis for the tomatoes in the backyard.

Tools aren’t really the constraint anymore. The limit now is more human than that—our imagination, our point of view, our ability to notice something and say, that’s worth making.

That’s why the humanities and the arts feel more valuable than ever to me. Not instead of STEM, but alongside it. We need to understand the world, the tools, and what’s worth doing with them.

If we can stay curious, be empathetic, and keep teaching ourselves, we can create a lot. But only if we have some sense of what is beautiful—or at least, if we’re willing to wrestle with that question.

That’s also why I think, perhaps paradoxically, that AI and robots might actually make us more human. Because the alternative to leaning into our humanity isn’t scarcity and poverty. It’s something worse—a kind of boredom that comes from having endless possibility, but no idea what to do with it.

Wouldn’t it be something if AI and robots ended up being the greatest catalyst for beauty humanity has ever known? It might be optimistic. But I think it’s possible.

But have to choose it. We could do a lot of destructive stuff with all of this, or we could commit to making things beautiful, and making beautiful things. And if we’re serious about that, then it becomes pretty important—for us, and for our kids—to wrestle with a deeper question: what is beautiful? Not in a shallow way, but in a way that is personal, soulful, and human.

To care for someone is an honor

We had four kids home sick over a week, and I stayed back with Emmett, whose fever breached 104 degrees. The first step in taking care of a child, of course, is to take off our armor. My heart has to be ready to care.

The armor exists because of the drudgery of the world, not because of my kids—but they have to deal with it just the same.

The first layer of the armor is anger, which keeps my kids in line when I just can’t—or just won’t. The armor is the exasperation on my face that keeps questions at bay, so I don’t have to weep during a Teams call about the status of IT projects. The armor is my cursing—at everything I can’t control—which injects a dose of illusion into the reality of how hard life is. The armor is the sarcasm that lets me talk back without admitting how sad something one of my sons said to me actually made me feel.

I had forgotten how much I was wearing, honestly.

But there was Emmett—eyes as red as his burning cheeks. He told me, so softly, with a quivering lower lip, in a mix of suffering and despondency, “I don’t feel very well, Papa.”

And the armor took itself off. It just evaporated from my chest and shoulders. I sat with him. Rubbed his legs. Even now, half a week later, I am crying as I write this—both because I remember his suffering, and because I remember the honor it is to care for someone.

—

In Hindi, there is a concept called seva. SAY-vah. Emphasis on the first syllable. The translation of “caring for someone” doesn’t quite capture the depth of what it means.

Seva is a giving of care, but it is also a giving of oneself. It is not done at arm’s length. You are there, enmeshed with someone as you care for them—as if giving them some of your care, your love, even a bit of your life force to spark theirs into healing. It is not just physical and emotional comfort, but spiritual as well.

I used to think my parents were giving me a chore when they asked me to do seva—for my mom or dad, my aunt, or my grandmother. I thought it was a task they were delegating because they had to wash a dish or cook a meal.

I know now that was precisely wrong. They were asking me to do seva—and doing seva for me when I was sick—to show me the way.

Seva is what we are here to do. It is an act that fulfills the human aspiration to grow our spirits. We do not do seva because it will be reciprocated, or even because it helps someone heal, though it does. We do it because it is the way of the light.

And that is why the tears came, as I rubbed Emmett’s legs and comforted his fever—with medicine, yes, but also with my unarmored, fully open heart.

To care for someone is an honor, and I felt its light.

To care for—and to do seva for—my child is one of the highest forms of that honor. To join ourselves to the way of the light is a gift. Seva is not a chore. It is what we were made to do.

I want to remember this.

When the armor feels most necessary. When time feels most compressed. When I feel like I have nothing left to give.

I want to remember the feeling in my chest as I cry these tears—how light it feels, how freeing.

I want to remember: when my child, my wife, my family and friends—or even a stranger who needs seva but cannot ask for it—is in front of me, I am here to care for you. To do your seva.

I want to remember that my heart can be open. That the armor can fall away. That seva is not just a chore, or even a duty—it is a gift.

And it is my honor.

The Boy Full of Joy

World Down Syndrome Day is celebrated on March 21 every year. This is symbolic: Down syndrome is the name we give when a person has a triplication of their 21st chromosome—hence the date, 3/21.

I knew none of this a year ago. Because one year ago, we had no diagnosis. We just had a sleepy kid with low muscle tone, who was born bravely and in a hurry.

He had three older brothers who adored him from the minute he was born, just down the stairs from their room. We gave him a name—Griffin—and with no diagnosis, no other “name” was needed.

Learning that there was a World Down Syndrome Day was fun and gooey at first, and then it felt like a moment of drowning.

I am finally beginning to let myself think about how hard Griffin’s life will be. He will spend more time in doctors’ offices than the rest of our family combined, and he may have already. He will face discrimination and be overlooked—by companies, schools, governments, and maybe even by some in the Church.

I don’t even know what language I’m comfortable using, but he does have “special needs,” and plenty of people who don’t know his light and inner grace firsthand will think treating him fairly is just too much work.

And, most darkly, there is the question of his lifespan. The thought—a cold, real, possibility—that I will outlive Griffin is demolishing. Knowing that despite medical advances that happen during his life, Robyn and I may have to bury our son—that our big three may have to bury their little brother someday—is enough to break a man where he stands.

Writing and reflecting is perhaps the only way I know how to put myself back together, so that’s what I have done.

I have not been able to stop thinking about two very difficult questions:

What makes a good life? Who deserves one?

What makes these questions difficult is not the answers, but the sacrifices the answers require.

A good life is pretty simple. It does not take being a multimillionaire.

It’s a place to call home. To be free and have agency in what happens to us. To love and be loved. To be able to learn and create. To care for one another and be cared for. To feel relatively sure you have a meal coming, and medicine when you need it. To be able to sit under a tree and pray. To have friends.

We all intuitively know this. We already know what makes a good life.

Before Griffin’s diagnosis, I believed that everyone deserved at least this. And that belief implies sacrifice. For everyone to have this, it know it takes paying taxes. It takes volunteering and looking after your neighbor or the other kids on the block, for no reward. It takes giving away your knowledge for free. It takes participating in civic life. It takes apologizing for mistakes and learning to be kind even when you’re having a bad day.

These, and more, are really hard sacrifices. And I have believed in making them and have tried to do so, however fallibly.

But now, for Griffing, I depend on everyone else to believe this too. Because he does have “special needs,” and I can’t fulfill them all—even if I were the wealthiest man in the world. It is a feeling of nakedness I would never have anticipated, but I have no choice but to place myself and Griffin in the care of others. I need others for him to have a good life.

Now, I can’t just believe that everyone deserves a good life. I can’t just be a small beacon that nudges the culture towards these sacrifices, without much consequences if nobody else cares.

Now, I have consequences. For Griffin to have a good life, others have to believe he does, too.

Now, my son’s life depends on others also believing in this vision of what a good life is, and that everyone deserves it—even if their needs are more “special” than someone else’s.

What I now depend on—other people’s generous and righteous beliefs—is what I probably have the least control over in the world.

When I was young, my dreams were so vivid and noble.

I wanted people to get along. I wanted to throw parties where other kids at my high school didn’t have to drink. I wanted to help people make their nonprofits effective. I wanted people who were excluded and misunderstood to be included. I wanted to write plays and stage them for free in public parks. I wanted to invent something that fixed something nobody else saw. To make it so that work didn’t have to suck, and to make government agencies super effective and virtuous. I wanted to comfort friends when they were sad and stand firmly beside them to witness their joy.

These were my dreams. deep down, they still are.

But as I’ve aged, the weight of responsibility has left me groaning. Bills. Taxes. Feeling like selling books is the only thing that justifies the time I spend writing. Hustling. The cost of organic eggs. Raising good kids and being good at my job. You know, grown up stuff.

All these things burn up all the oxygen the dreams I had as a boy need to keep breathing. These dreams have been living in thin air for so long, I wonder how long they’ll last. And now, on World Down Syndrome Day, the weight of responsibility felt at its peak.

But that boy—full of joy and optimism, untethered by responsibilities, perfectly content drinking cheap beer—is who I still am. Under all the armor and rain jackets, I’m still that guy who has faith that his dreams and sacrifices will be met with an outstretched hand by compassionate and generous strangers.

I don’t need to become him again. When I take all the heavy rocks out of my backpack, I am him. I am still that boy full of joy.

That guy is who my sons are mirroring when people say, “they’re just like you.” That guy is who they need. That guy is who my neighbors need.

That essence of that guy is what Griffin got in not one, but maybe three or four full measures. Even when he is ill, joy pours out of him by the bucketful. He may have needs that only about 1 in 700 people have, but his gift is also that rare, at least.

That gift of joy—whether it comes from his extra chromosome or not—is the spark for me to be that boy full of joy again, who dreams of that a good life and believes that everyone deserves it. Griffin’s joy sustains my faith that other people believe it too.

The Six Streams That Shape Human Life

Human beings are porous creatures. These six streams flow into us constantly.

Food.

Water.

Air.

Information.

Microbes.

Relationships.

The streams that shape human life are surprisingly easy to corrupt—and surprisingly hard to guard.

These streams shape our bodies, our minds, and the communities we build together. And unsurprisingly, each of them is vulnerable to corruption, because it’s easy to affect these flows without anyone noticing.

We ingest them largely automatically, without thinking. We trust that what we are offered is nourishing and healthy for us.

But temptation comes easily, and so do examples of corruption. Food additives can make things cheaper but affect our health. Algorithms feed us novel videos, but they can wreck our attention, our minds, and our sense of self. We can be in relationship with someone and absorb their love, but also harm that relationship when we fail to show up for them, or when we try to control them by withholding love.

We hardly notice in the moment when the big six are corrupted, and we trust that someone is watching. Surely someone is discerning whether these things are corrupted. Someone must be monitoring the air, the water, and the food. Surely someone isn’t letting the people we trust cut corners on ensuring information is truthful…right?

This is why societies build institutions around these streams. We create food safety systems, water utilities, environmental regulation, journalism, public health systems, and community norms because these inputs matter so deeply. These institutions exist to guard the flows that shape human life. But institutions cannot function on rules alone. They depend on people who are capable of noticing when something is wrong—people who can interpret signals, weigh trade-offs, and decide when the system is being bent or quietly corrupted.

And this reveals something about preventing corruption: we must be willing and able to discern.

This is not just a matter of transparency. Transparency is a precondition, but what difference does transparency make if we cannot make meaning of it? We have to be able to evaluate whether the inputs that shape individuals and society are corrupted or not.

Sometimes this discernment happens individually, and sometimes it must be collective. Any time we read a food label or look at an air quality report, we are discerning at the individual level.

But we also discern at the community level. Communities deliberate on questions like: Do we want this? and How will it affect us? Communities themselves are a kind of living organism. Just as our bodies must determine whether what flows into them is nourishing or harmful, communities must do the same.

To prevent corruption we don’t just need laws, and we don’t just need transparency—we need discernment.

Would they stop for us?

Encountering another intelligent species from elsewhere in the universe is a problem for the distant future. Still, it is an instructive one for our time.

Imagine that we had the capacity for first contact—say, through faster-than-light travel. Our interstellar flagship passes near a distant world. The first question its crew would ask is simple: Do we want to stop?

If they had the luxury of choice, they would likely evaluate that civilization along two dimensions.

First: What is their intent? Do they seek cooperation and mutual enrichment, or exploitation and dominance?

Second: What is their capability? Do they actually possess the power to carry out their intentions—peaceful or otherwise?

A civilization that is hostile and capable would be dangerous. One that is peaceful but utterly incapable might not be worth engaging. Intent and capability, together, would shape our decision.

Of course, determining either would be extraordinarily difficult. Learning to assess an alien civilization might take centuries. But these questions are not merely hypothetical.

We may create an artificially intelligent, Earth-based species in our lifetimes. But long before AI takes on physical form, we will face the same dilemma: What are its intentions? And how powerfully can it impose its will?

Yet before worrying about how we evaluate others, a more uncomfortable question presents itself.

What about us?

If an extraterrestrial civilization were passing through our solar system, how would they assess humanity’s intent and capability? Given the choice, would they stop—or continue on their way?

When I look in the mirror, and consider the history of our species up to the present, here is what I see.

I see a civilization whose intent has long been fearful and exploitative, yet has slowly, unevenly, inched toward governing itself more justly. Our past includes conquest, slavery, genocide, and monopolistic corporations. Empires swallowed continents. Entire peoples were systematically pillaged or murdered. Private power frequently corrupted public life. It is arguable that all these are still part of our reality.

And yet, over centuries, something has shifted.

Large-scale territorial conquest has become less acceptable, even when it still occurs. International institutions intervene—imperfectly, but meaningfully. Economic power remains unequal, but counterweights exist: unions, industry associations, regulatory regimes, and cultural movements that attempt to restrain abuse.

History does not move in a straight line. Exploitation resurfaces in new forms. But over long periods, the trajectory seems to bend—slowly—toward cooperative enrichment rather than exploitation. Two steps forward, one step back.

That progress matters. It suggests that, in the long run, our species has shown some capacity for moral learning. We inherit exploitative systems, but we also attempt—however inconsistently—to reform them rather than let them expand.

Our capability, however, tells a different story.

We have not harnessed the energy of our own planet, let alone our sun. We cannot survive beyond Earth without elaborate life support. We are actively degrading the habitability of the only home we have. We do not fully understand our ecosystems, our biology, or even our own minds.

Technological power has grown faster than wisdom. We build tools whose consequences we cannot fully contain. From nuclear weapons to climate systems to algorithmic platforms, our inventions routinely outrun our ability to govern them.

We are both feeble and reckless.

If I were the captain of a spacefaring vessel, I might conclude that, whatever our intentions, humanity remains a relatively immature civilization—morally improving, yet operationally juvenile. I would probably keep moving. Why risk engagement with a species still learning how to manage itself?

And yet, I wonder what we might still offer.

Perhaps our stories would matter. Homer and Shakespeare, Whitman and Rowling, express something enduring about love, fear, identity, and loss. Even an advanced civilization might find in human literature a unique window into our shared experience of consciousness.

Perhaps our experience with diversity would be instructive. Earth’s extraordinary ecological and cultural variation has forced us—imperfectly—to negotiate difference. Managing pluralism is central to our history. It may not be universal across intelligent life.

Perhaps even our physical fragility is meaningful. We are short-lived creatures, acutely aware of mortality. “Life is short” is not a cliché for us; it is a through line of how we navigate reality. For a species that lives centuries, or never dies, our relationship to time and death might offer unexpected insight.

It is possible that artificial intelligence will become our first true encounter with another form of intelligence. It is also possible that, centuries from now, we will meet non-Terran life. In either case, the same questions will apply.

What are our intentions? And are we capable of living up to them?

These questions offer a kind of civilizational north star. If we can cultivate a shared commitment to enrichment rather than exploitation—and if we can build institutions and technologies capable of sustaining that commitment—we will not only prepare ourselves for first contact.

We will make life better, here and now, for the people who already call our sacred, fragile, beautiful planet home.

A Mantra For Those Who Feel Squeezed

I think I’m at least 80% accepting of the fact, finally, that I won’t be a wealthy man. We’re blessed, and affluent by most standards, but our base budget is certainly humbled by the fact that we have four kids.

And this tension—between feeling like we’re making it but still feeling stretched—also exists with our time.

We show up for our kids and help out our family, friends, and neighbors as much as we can. But we also always feel like we’re drowning—the laundry, dishes, and daily grind are never stable. Despite the fact that we’d admit we’re doing our best and doing a decent job, it never feels like enough.

And despite all this, I still feel so much selfish guilt.

I don’t serve anyone in need whom I don’t already know, in any meaningful way, though my faith and my own moral sensibility demand it. I have let down friends—all the time, lately—it takes me months to call someone back or set up lunch, catch up over drinks, or deliver a meal to help out friends who are new parents.

We are part of the squeezed middle—we’re not living month to month with our money or time—but we don’t have enough time or money to easily trade one for the other. We’re squeezed.

And I don’t mean this as a “middle class” issue, per se, because there are plenty of families wealthier and poorer than ours, both in time and money, who feel squeezed. From investment bankers to blue-collar workers, I know families across the spectrum who feel this same pressure.

The squeezed are a surprisingly large cohort who feel stuck because they can’t trade time for money or money for time.

Leaving a Penny

I think the only way out of this is to help each other—even when it feels like no more than a penny’s worth. Little things matter. I’ve seen it in my own life.

There are a few families on our soccer team that carpool to practice. Freeing up one night per family, per week makes a difference. When other families at our school keep an eye out for our kids and we keep an eye out for theirs, it makes a difference. When someone comes with their pickup truck to help move some furniture, it makes a difference.

All these little things are like those old cups at grocery stores that said, “Have a penny, leave a penny. Need a penny, take a penny.” Little things that show up where you’re squeezed matter a great deal.

And something that feels small to us—like just giving a penny—can feel like receiving a gold coin to someone else.

For example, me shoveling my older neighbors’ snow barely registers as 20 minutes of extra work for me, but it’s unbelievably helpful to them so they aren’t beholden to unreliable help when they need their driveway clear to go to a doctor’s appointment.

Similarly, it felt very small to her when a good friend and neighbor came over to watch our kids for 20 minutes when Griffin was born and Robyn was conveyed by ambulance from the living room to the hospital—but to us, it was worth more than a bag of gold.

When we leave and take pennies, it relieves the squeeze. These little pennies are hardly worth just one cent—they’re often worth their weight in gold. “One cent” can feel like salvation when you’re being crushed.

I feel squeezed every single day of my life.

If I could afford to throw more money at problems, I would. But most of my problems wouldn’t get that much better with more money—grocery delivery doesn’t save me a trip because it’s never right, and I’d never be willing to outsource going to my sons’ soccer games, even if we could afford it.

And I’m unwilling to detach either. I’d rather live with the guilt of not meeting my commitments to my friends and people in need, rather than pretending like it doesn’t matter. Because it does. I don’t want to be less squeezed just for me, I want to also be there to stick up for those who have no penny to give.

I don’t think changing laws can help us, in the immediate anyway. I don’t think AI will save us either. The financial windfall that will allow me to gain hours of my time back is never going to come. And I’m tired of waiting for a hero to save me. We are the only heroes we’ll ever get.

The only way this works is if we help each other.

It’s good enough for it to be in small ways. These small acts of support are the only real alchemy I’ve ever seen work. Because when we leave a penny, it’s not one cent we’re leaving—we’re leaving something for someone else that’s worth its weight in gold.

So if you’re feeling squeezed, we need to stick together. Remember this mantra: take a penny, leave a penny. We are all we’ve got, and we are enough to get through this.

Griffin, a Diagnosis, and the Gift of New Eyes

When I tell people about our youngest son’s Down syndrome diagnosis, many people say, “I’m sorry.”

They don’t know what else to say.

But there’s no need to be sorry. He’s alive and well, we love him, and we’re glad he’s here.

And yet, I still understand and appreciate it when someone says, “I’m sorry.” Because even if they have never had a child with Down syndrome—or any other kind of condition that leads to developmental delays—they have some intuition that it’s going to be hard.

We all do, because we have lived in this world.

We all intuitively know that the world is not built for people like Griffin. We know it’s hard to always see doctors, and that some people will treat him badly. His life—and ours—won’t follow the “normal,” well-trodden path and that will, at times, be very hard.

The past eight months have already given me a preview of this tension: between who Griffin is and how the world is built.

Griffin is normal—just somewhere else on the wide bell curve of what life looks like. He was conceived and born as any other child. We made no alterations to him—he’s here as God made him.

Yes, he has a diagnosis. But that doesn’t mean he’s broken. He isn’t defective—he’s simply different. Just like kids with cystic fibrosis, dyslexia, deafness, or any other “diagnosis”—these kids were simply born this way. That is normal, even if different.

And this goes beyond medical diagnoses. Some kids are taller or shorter. Some are gay or straight. Some are different levels of athletic, artistic, or scholarly. All kids are different, on a boundless amount of dimensions.

All of these kids—and all of us as adults—fall into the category of “we were born this way” in one dimension or another. Made by God this way, by no choice of our own.

So there are people just born a certain way, and yet, we also intrinsically know that those same people will have to go through inevitable hardship because of how they were born interacts with the world we live in.

But it’s not all struggle. Robyn often reminds me that some things may actually come easier for Griffin—like kindness, joy, and forgiveness. He has this lightness of being I can’t explain, but I see vividly.

Still, some of the hardship just doesn’t seem right—for Griffin or for anyone else who was “born this way.” Especially the hardship rooted in having their needs overlooked or unconsidered.

Those needs show up everywhere—from schools and playgrounds to healthcare, websites, public parks, airports, road signs, and even neighborhood newsletters. These choices shape whose lives get to flourish.

Because on a planet with over 7 billion people and in a country of over 300 million, there will inevitably be so many differences and spectrums.

Every day, in small and big ways, we make consequential choices about who’s in and who’s left out.

Whose needs are considered and whose aren’t? Do we only build for people like us, or do we stretch to include those we don’t yet understand?

Of course, our lives and our world have trade-offs. There isn’t unlimited time or money. But there are a lot of smart people who care, who have time and a willingness to innovate to break trade-offs. And in many cases, there’s money we’re already spending that could be spent differently. We just have to see with different eyes.

Playgrounds are a good example of this, and something I see with new eyes now. There are ways to make playgrounds so that many different types of kids can play together. You just have to make different and creative choices about materials, structures, and things like seats on swings.

I see so much more clearly now—even if in a very small way—the ways in which people born “normally,” but differently in a particular kind of way, are overlooked because they are easy to ignore, or are less “squeaky” than I am.

And it doesn’t sit right with me. But I do get it. The more people we include, the more complex our decisions are. We have to be smarter and more creative to make a website that everybody can use well enough, compared to just what the majority can use.

But that still doesn’t sit right. I am not God, after all. Why do I get to decide who’s worthy, important, or loud enough to be included? I may not be able to break every trade-off and create some sort of prosperous utopia that works brilliantly and cheaply for everyone. But it doesn’t seem right to me to not even try—before overlooking, whether deliberately or simply because I’ve allowed myself to remain ignorant—the needs of someone in need. Which, aren’t we all, in some way or another?

Griffin’s Down syndrome diagnosis has given me the eyes to see this profound choice—who’s in, who’s out—more clearly. And more importantly, it gave me the eyes to see that I was more ignorant of my own ignorance than I thought I was.

But in addition to a realization about justice, Griffin has also helped me realize something about joy.

I can’t explain it, but Griffin has joy. And his joy honestly feels different. I don’t know why—whether it has to do with Down syndrome, or if I’m blinded by the fact that he’s our last child, or what. But his joy is different in a very special way.

Which is to say, the world would lose something extraordinary if he had never been born—or if his gifts were overlooked and never nurtured.

And not just Griffin. Every child—born “different” or not—has something extraordinary within them. Every adult too. When we overlook entire groups of people, we rob the world of that brilliance.

So, in addition to not being able to accept the injustice of deciding who’s in and who’s out, who am I to rob the world of these extraordinary things? The comfort of my own ignorance is certainly not more valuable than that.

Being Griffin’s father has already humbled me. Seeing the world through his eyes has taught me that I have a long way to grow in two important ways.

First, I ought to stretch whose needs I consider as widely as possible.

Second, I should assume I don’t understand other people’s needs and gifts as well as I think I do.

So instead of “I’m sorry,” after someone shares a tough reality, maybe it’s better to say:

“I honestly don’t understand what you’re going through. How are you all doing?”

Maybe that will open my heart even wider to understand, love, and include them.

My Karaoke Favorites

I started a “Karaoke Favorites” playlist some years ago. It’s full of songs I love to sing—whether while in the car, washing dishes, or if I’m really lucky, at an actual karaoke bar.

Here’s the link—it’s good:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1ZQC5uEW7XFEgYlwPWcGPv?si=xWp8MKqoQNSDeTVvHphsHw&pi=5uZpPxqKR9W9U

It’s interesting to look at what the songs are about. Here are a few examples:

Hole in the Bottle (Kelsea Ballerini) is a fun drinking song, about unwinding— after a hard day.

Beautiful People (Ed Sheeran f. Khalid) is about the stresses of fitting in with high society, when it doesn’t reflect who you are.

Refrigerator Door (Luke Combs) is about how all the photos and notes on your refrigerator tells the story of your life and what matters to you.

Hey Laura (Gregory Porter) is a desperate, yet charming track about a man who can’t get over a love, Laura.

Need a Favor (Jelly Roll) is the song of a self-aware sinner calling on God after he gets into another bad situation.

Here Comes The Sun (The Beatles) is about the sun emerging from a cold winter—a beautiful thought both literally and as a metaphor.

My Wish (Rascal Flatts, recently re-released as a duet with Carly Pearce) is a parent’s wish for their child’s life.

All I Know So Far (P!nk) is another song written for the artist’s child, sharing bold wisdom on how to live a free, meaningful life—from mother to child.

Knee Deep (Zac Brown Band f. Jimmy Buffett) is about getting away from the world to the refuge of blue water, blue skies, and a beach.

One Last Time (from Hamilton) is about the strength and courage of George Washington choosing not to run for a third term—and how to say goodbye.

Fill Me In (Craig David) is about young, lustful love.

Extraordinary Magic (Ben Rector) calls out the invisible grace, beauty, and future the singer sees in someone he loves.

Life Goes On (Ed Sheeran f. Luke Combs) is a heartbreaking track about grieving a loss.

There are over a hundred more on the playlist. I’m biased, but they’re all great.

The rest of the songs are invariably about love, loss, friendship, overcoming struggle, or something that radiates beauty.

It’s worth noting—and the whole point of me writing this—is that the songs we love to sing—our karaoke favorites—aren’t about work.

They aren’t about celebrating tyrants or liars. They aren’t about stealing or reveling in the exploitation of others. They aren’t about that feeling when your complicated Excel formula works.

When I am in my head, overworking and obsessing about something, this is what I remind myself: nobody would write a song about the bullshit I worry about.

If nobody would write a song worth singing about it, maybe I can let it go.

Three Lessons from a Benevolent Universe

I try to remember that everyone is going through something and has gone through something.

No matter how wealthy or poor, how powerful or meek, how healthy or sick—everyone suffers. And at times, suffers brutally. Grief, loss, and addiction affect everyone—whether it's presidents or paupers.

This is the first lesson I learned about suffering: if everyone suffers, and suffers gravely, then I have an opportunity to help them mend just by treating them with dignity. And practically speaking, I can’t handle having a different MO for people who I like and respect and trust, and for people who I distrust or even find repulsive.

My soul can’t code-switch in the same way that my language can.

If I try to selectively treat some people with dignity and not others, it feels like my character splits in two—like a self-inflicted Jekyll and Hyde. I lose myself. So I try to offer the same dignity to everyone. It’s all or nothing—not because it’s easy or even comfortable, but because it’s the only way I know how to stay whole.

What to make of suffering itself, though?

I had this thought experiment in the past week—which has been the most intense we may have ever had. Our family is entering a season of tremendous challenge, and equally tremendous joy.

And as I look to the horizon ahead, I had one of those raw, reflective daydreams that stripped my heart down to naked honesty.

Let’s assume there is a higher-order being that influences our lives, orchestrating at least some of the suffering and joy we experience. Let’s further assume that this being actually does care about us and wants us to thrive.

If you are a theist, that being could be a benevolent God. If you are a non-theist, maybe you still hold space for the idea that something greater—life itself, the universe, some force beyond understanding—is trying to help us grow.

If we assume that there is a benevolent being that truly cares about our long-run best interest, and that being is intentionally influencing the suffering and joy in our lives, there must be some reason.

So what are they trying to teach us?

I can never know for sure, but I think it’s something like this—something about how we are in relation to others:

Learn to take care of yourself.
Take care of others.
And let others take care of you.

Or—
Learn to be a light.
Help others find their light.
Let others find the light in you.

Or even—
Learn to laugh at yourself.
Help others laugh.
Let others help you laugh.

Each part of the triad points to a different kind of human bonding.

To love the self is to become a vessel—open to love, radiant with light.
To love others is to offer them that light.
To let others love us—that’s the hardest. It requires trust.
It asks us to believe that we’re worthy, and that others are safe enough to let in.

Again, I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think that benevolent higher being is trying to teach us this—though too often, our actions wrongly suggest otherwise:

Learn to make money.
Take money from others.
Prevent others from taking your money.

Or—
Learn to live in the shadows.
Put others in darkness.
Fight the people who put you in darkness.

Or—
Learn to create fear.
Project fear onto others.
Shield yourself from the fearful others.

The first triad is a lesson inviting us into trust, love, and connection. The alternative traps us in a cycle of fear.

The first is an open hand; the other is a dagger at the neck.

The point is in how we are in relation to others. I don’t think the suffering and joy the benevolent being is throwing our way is to teach us to be in a state of conflict and exploitation. I think what they’re trying to teach us is to be in a state of harmony and intimacy.

Every experience of suffering and joy follows this pattern of pedagogy:
Experience love.
Love others.
Let love in.

Not one, not two, but all three:
Learn to love (an act of the self).
Love others (an act onto others).
Let love in (an act of others onto us).

We can’t graduate with just one of these lessons—we need all three. Hinduism has taught me this. So has Catholicism. Even my reflections as an indifferent agnostic in my early twenties taught me this.

Life has taught me, through all gives and takes from us, that we need all three threads of this triad, braided together.

As I grapple with the road ahead for our family, we are starting down tremendous suffering—but probably more than our fair share of joy, too. In prayer, contemplation, and written reflection, I’ve come to this conclusion again and again—including this week—and more strongly every time.

Maybe there is nothing out there. Maybe there is. Your beliefs and your guess are as good as mine. But it is helpful to think as if a benevolent being is trying to teach us something.

Because the conclusion I’ve come to—over and over—is powerful and instructive:

All this suffering and joy reminds us that the meaning of it all is to refine our relation to others—
By experiencing love,
Loving others,
And letting love in… again and again.