My Story in a Sip...

I was nine years old, perched on a scarred pine pew in a one-room Kansas church the color of bleached bone, when I first felt the tug of heaven. The preacher’s voice cracked as the choir crooned “Just As I Am,” and something inside me whispered, That’s you, kid. I slipped down the aisle on knocking knees, traded boyish fears for holy hope, and walked back clutching a Bible too big for my hands and a promise too large for my imagination. From that Sunday forward I belonged to Jesus, and He’s never lost track of me—even on the days I tried to wander.

My childhood smelled of diesel, gun oil, and chalk dust. Dad wore Air Force blues by day and coaching shorts by night; Mom juggled payroll books and pot-roast pans with the calm of a field medic. They taught my four brothers and me that a handshake was a contract and lying was a stain that never washed out. Summers tasted of river mud, fireflies, and the metallic zing of a baseball off aluminum. One July night two great-uncles—Charles and Lloyd, both pushing eighty—invited me coon-hunting. We rattled across pastures in an aging Chevy, dogs yelping in the truck bed, the brothers arguing directions and laughing like boys. We never treed a single raccoon, but I learned that adventure has no expiration date and that laughter will echo long after the headlights fade.

Fast-forward a decade to a Wednesday-night youth service in tiny Lyons, Kansas. My buddy Lanny lured me there with rumors of “a sanctuary full of pretty girls.” He wasn’t lying. A brunette with waterfall curls and a voice like clear water sang two pews ahead—Bridy. Lanny had been courting her—poorly. I watched her eyes flash irritation his way and felt my own heart hitch. That night we ended up at a diner, Lanny between us like the world’s most oblivious chaperone. Thirty-four years, four sons, and two grand-babies later, Bridy is still my favorite duet partner, and Lanny is still shaking his head at how the Lord rewrote his love story.

We married on a bright, brisk October day in 1992, two twentysomethings with more love than money and more dreams than experience. God apparently thought we needed a crash course in logistics: He sent us four boys in five years. Those seasons blurred into Lego shrapnel underfoot, grocery bills the size of small mortgages, and nightly prayer circles where I asked God for wisdom, patience, and a miracle or two. We coached T-ball, fished for scorpions under river rocks, and turned living-room carpets into battlefields where tennis-ball bombs toppled plastic armies. Fatherhood proved equal parts holy ground and hilarious chaos—a boot camp in humility and joy.

Not every chapter read like a devotional. In 2021 my name landed in an SEC civil filing tied to an oil-and-gas venture I’d invested in. Headlines sting worse than hornets. I lawyered up, prayed harder, and learned public humility. Some friends disappeared; better ones showed up with casseroles and Proverbs. Through it all the Lord reminded me that stumbling off the narrow path doesn’t void the covenant—He just tightens His grip. The case eventually settled; the lesson lingers: build fences high, leave books open, and let grace do its deepest work where pride once lived.

Adventure kept calling. Mission trips to Honduras found me supervising a buddy changing his first flat tire on a lonely Roatán road, both of us laughing at God’s sense of humor. Habitat builds hammered into me that swinging a twelve-ounce Estwing beside homeowners rewires a man’s priorities. These days I invite anyone needing clarity to meet me for Coffee-Cup Coaching—no fancy syllabus, just Scripture, questions, and a mug big enough to float a canoe. I’ve watched entrepreneurs rewrite business plans, pastors rediscover their “why,” and college kids trade panic for purpose—all before the pot runs dry.

When the sun cracks the horizon, I’m on the porch with my Bible, journal, and steaming black brew. Mornings are covenant renewals: “Lord, lead; I’ll follow.” Afternoons may find me on a Zoom call guiding a startup CEO through servant-leadership principles or shoulder-deep in drywall dust helping a church remodel its fellowship hall. Evenings belong to Bridy—dance-lesson mishaps, Spanglish banter, or quiet strolls counting prairie stars. Weekends I morph into Paw-Paw, the human jungle gym. Grand-babies remind me that legacy is spelled L-O-V-E and that every wrinkle on my face has earned its place.

I love mountains that smell of pine and promise, beaches where the tide writes temporary psalms, and the Texas Hill Country when bluebonnets riot like confetti. A round of golf now and then reminds me I’m mortal; horseback rides in Costa Rica whisper that Eden isn’t entirely lost. Technology fascinates me—just enough to FaceTime grandkids and publish a blog. But give me a face-to-face handshake over an emoji any day.

My life mission has distilled into one long sentence with four commas: pursue God with passion, live life with purpose, love my wife and children unconditionally, and learn and grow to mirror Christ in a world cracked at the seams. If a sermon, screwdriver, or simple story can help somebody inch closer to hope, I’m in. I want my obituary to read, “He left every place a shade kinder.” Between here and that day, I’ll keep showing up—Bible open, coffee hot, heart honest.

So if you’re weary, curious, or just need a friend who’s ruined enough to understand grace, pull up a chair. I’ve got room at the table, an extra mug, and more stories than daylight. And if we run out of daylight, we’ll light a campfire and keep talking until the coyotes give benediction.

Whatever tomorrow holds, I know Who holds tomorrow—and that makes all the difference. Until then, may your roads be straight, your coffee strong, and your hope stronger. Thanks for listening to a kid from Kansas who’s still learning that every good story echoes the greatest Story ever told—God rescuing ordinary folks and giving them extraordinary purpose. Grace and peace, friend.