I have a miserable, wretched sinus infection that sent me to bed way early last night. The last thing I saw before turning in was the news about Nice, France. Medication put me to sleep fast, though I was thinking about where we go from here as I drifted off.

I know what debate will rage in the media today. A few voices will call for love and peace. The real fight, however, will not be about using peace versus violence to fight terrorism. It will be about whose violence can be most effective at fighting terrorism. It will be about whose response to terrorism can be harshest, the most lethal, the most ruthless.

And the debate will be about “us versus them.” I suppose it will begin with “them” as Islamists. Some people will take it to mean all Muslims. Eventually, some people (as I’ve noticed on Facebook and Twitter) will make President Obama part of “them.” And then Democrats, the...

I think most people deeply desire the spirit, but they prefer the letter.

This occurred to me as I was thinking about plans.

How many hours of my life went into making plans? A lot of them. Those hours add up to years of my life.

And how many of those plans came to be something? None.

I don’t mean the plans were bad plans or I didn’t follow through. But even the plans I put into action changed and changed again. Then changed some more. In the end, what got me to the final destination was not the plan I made in the beginning.

As I reflect on this, all this planning may be the hotbed for a lot of my frustration, misery, and shame in life. All this planning sows the seeds of the failure I’ll feel later. As I get older, making plans gets harder and harder. Why? Because I know from experience what all that planning will get me in the end: Not much.

So why do I do it?

I came up...

As I posted the other day, it’s easy for me to write stuff on a blog or on social media.

The season we’re in calls for action. Doing. Replacing old habits with new ones. This is not the time for defense. It’s time for offense.

This is where I come up short of any ideas.

I could march in protest of guns, police brutality, racial profiling, and violence in general. Would I make a statement? Yes. Would I make change? I doubt it. We’ve had a lot of marches in this country over the last few months.

I could vote for candidates whose policies and voting records support economic and social justice. I could vote for candidates whose policies support common sense gun control. I could vote for candidates who speak the language of inclusion, peace, and reconciliation. I will vote for those candidates in November.

For some citizens, I suppose making statements and voting is enough.

As an...

I want to write something about Alton Sterling. About injustice. About how black lives matter.

I care. I really do.

If reading about Alton Sterling in the New York Times and writing a post about it counts as caring.

What does reading about Alton Sterling in the New York Times and writing a post about it do for Alton Sterling? What does it do for the next Alton Sterling? What does it do for all of the other Alton Sterlings out there who will not get shot by a cop, but will get shot by someone? What does it do for all the other Alton Sterlings out there who end up chronically unemployed? Or in prison?

Or successful by all counts except that they’re a stereotype in a blog post like this?

Do I even know what the hell I’m talking about?

I’m a 40-year old white guy from Ashland, Ohio. Sure, I dabbled in the race issue when I did a couple of summers in Mississippi. I lived in inner...

The number don’t lie.

This blog platform tracks “kudos” and subscribers. The social media on which I post also track “likes,” “retweets,” and “shares.”

And what do these quantifying/reporting/tracks tools reveal?

Nobody reads my blog.

And that’s OK with me.

Like multiplying monkeys drumming, we humans are finding more things to quantify and more ways to quantify them. What was once the work of a clerk counting inventory in a widget factory is now the daily norm for someone counting their “friends” online.

What happens when counting “friends” online becomes the norm?

We begin to conflate math with meaning, quantity with quality, totals with totality. Does the fact that I have 1,162 Facebook “friends” total say anything about the totality of those friendships? What does that number say about the friendships themselves? What does that number say about any one of those people? About...

Creativity (and the joy of it) may be the outcome of a plan, but it can never be the plan itself.

Following a plan is not creativity.

Creativity is going in a direction. You’re going north. That’s a direction. Creativity is how you respond to what you encounter along the way. It’s all the little detours and long cuts and side roads you take.

Following a plan caps the number of people along for the ride. It confines the route to the shortest point between A and B. It may allow for a fuel stop or restroom break at a stopping point we identify in advance, but we’re on a strict schedule so no time to explore.

You may arrive at your destination ahead of schedule or right on time. Recognize, however, that when it comes to creativity your destination is the end of life itself. The creative act reaches its end.

So if you truly want to be a creative person living a creative life, it has...

The pressure has never been greater to act smart, be funny, look good, and waltz through life with a never-ending stream of Facebook moments.

Even our messes, mistakes, and moments of misery get the “social media treatment.” You used to have to have a publicist for that kind of thing. Now everyone can spin. Now burning the morning coffee warrants its own news alert and press conference.

I wonder if social media is making it easier or harder for us to know and be known.

Social media makes it easy to count our “friends” in real-time. It makes it easy to keep up with what Rachelle from Mrs. McGee’s fourth grade class is eating for dinner. It makes it easy to share as much about myself as I care to share via GIF, photo, text, or video.

Do I know more about the lives of more people than I did before social media? Yes.

Do more people know more about my life than they did before social...

All of us live in a state of blessedness or a state of cursedness.

The state in which you live is up to you.

Faith is the difference. People who live under a curse are not aware that the curse is optional, that the power to be free is entirely in their possession.

A person of faith is aware that blessedness and cursedness are a choice.

A person of faith chooses to live in blessedness, no matter how much her circumstances seem like a curse.

Some people are aware that they can choose blessedness, but they’re afraid. At least when you’re cursed, you don’t have much to lose. Cursedness is predictable. Cursedness is oh-so-easy to manipulate into pity. Pity is food for the cursed soul.

A person of faith is a person of courage. She has the courage to lean into her blessedness. She has more to lose, yes, and the accepts that risk because it is a vital sign of life.

People who...

I grew up and have grown old believing that I am cursed.

Some people believe in sports curses and I am one of them. I was born in Akron, Ohio, on December 26, 1975. I lived the first 18 years of my life within a one-hour drive from Cleveland, Ohio.

Sports cast a spell on me and I recall the exact moment when it happened. It was January 11, 1987. The AFC Championship game between the odds-on favorite Cleveland Browns (playing at home) and the Denver Broncos. The winner would go to the Super Bowl. Cleveland led by seven points and looked to win with 5:32 remaining in the game. Denver got the ball on its own 2-year line. Cleveland’s defense–one of the best in the NFL that season–was reason enough to believe the game was over.

But then, The Drive. John Elway–whose name to this day strikes a minor chord–led Denver 98 years to a game-tying touchdown. The Broncos scored a game-winning...

Last night was Friday night. At our house, that means Takeout Friday. Tracy brought home fish and chips. We ate it at the table out on our deck. It was 82 degrees kissed by a demure breeze. Our neighbors’ daughter and her friends were having a pool party next door and we could hear them laughing and splashing and having the time of their ten-year old lives.

When the light turned nostalgic, we walked down the street to the park. Daniel–almost age 4–met a stunning 2-year old (you should have seen her eyes!) named Allie and they hit it off right away. Tracy ran into friends–other mothers who were at the park with their kids. Allie’s grandmother and I watched the two kids play like birds who just figured out how to fly. Arms-back, chest-out, chin-up running-jump joy.

When the orangish light began to turn indigo at the edges, we walked home. While Tracy read Daniel his bedtime stories, I...