They’re all sacred.

While I’m learning to see this in small spaces, it was easy to recognize that in time spent with my Aunt Debbie and Uncle Mike. Twice they made detours on trips to visit us here in Columbus, OH, all the way from their home in Texas. They came on a Sunday once to our new church and dealt with probably-too-loud music, yet still were encouraging. Most recently they visited us in August, just a few months ago. Jessica and I met them over lunch at one of our favorite breweries. I ordered my favorite, a Columbus IPA, and when Uncle Mike put his drink order in, he said “Well I am in Ohio, so I think I need the Ohio Light.” It was special to have people we loved in our world. And it was fun to enjoy beers and lunch together. We talked about our family and their family. We showed each other highlights from our photo reels. They gave us three gift cards to Dick’s Sporting Goods for the boys because they knew how much they love that store. I heard about their church and we got to share about ours. We compared cars and we heard how Mike loves the style of wheels on all of the newer electric cars. We filled our stomachs with food and drink, and simply took our time together. It was a moment with loved ones, and I’m so incredibly grateful for that day.

It was sacred.

Last week, as they were driving home from Las Vegas after celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary, my Aunt Debbie and Uncle Mike were involved in a horrific multi-vehicle accident, and both tragically lost their lives. I am so thankful for the parts of my life that have been marked by both of them. From the memory I’ve shared, to borrowing Uncle Mike’s trumpet for my one-year stint in the band (and more recently them sharing that same trumpet with Jude, my oldest), to catching the same joy in Aunt Debbie’s laugh that I remember in my grandmother’s, to all the moments in time that hold Aunt Debbie and Uncle Mike in them.

We will be celebrating their lives on October 29, at Hunter’s Glen Baptist Church in Plano, TX. The reception is at 10:00 am followed by the service at 11:30 am. Thanks for the outpouring of love and support to our family, and continue to keep us close in your thoughts and deep in your prayers.

I didn't say "I'm so tired of influencers" because that would be too honest mean. But for sure the culture surrounding it.

From how we write, to how we interact with others, and in my world even in how we lead in a church, we are so quick to offer something. I have something for you that you can't figure out on your own, but I did, so let me share it with you.

I read something the other day about how we should normalize writing personal experiences and stories instead of countless curated advice pieces.

Wow, I want that.

I want to know what it felt like to go through some of your biggest moments, the good and bad, because most likely I have felt something very similar in my own moments. That's a beautiful thing about humanity. We may walk significantly different paths, but when we hear about an experience from someone, we can (and probably should) find ourselves feeling a little bit of what they felt. It might be a feeling vicariously through someone, but I think that might be a good thing most of the time.

Feeling what others feel could also build empathy in us for others, and since this is not a curated advice piece, I won't say that you and I could use more empathy in our lives. I won't.

So, here's a story:

I remember vividly a few years back sitting on the couch thinking about the long summer days beginning to wane, the light at the end of the tunnel after being stir-crazy from a year of staying home and relatively isolated, and how in just about one month we'll be trapped (again) by a calendar set for us by the education system.

Summer of 2021 for me felt like a caterpillar finally able to exit the cocoon and spread new wings, only to find itself in another cage, but not of its own doing. It felt a little bit like the way you feel during an MRI as you get conveyed out of the tube but know you have to return to your hospital room instead of home. Or even the way a lost cave explorer might feel as they finally make it to the light they've been following but realize they've only made their way to a bigger, and still far underground, room.

We were able to visit family in Texas earlier that summer, but hadn't planned any vacations because we simply didn't know what travelling would look like as the world was slowly crawling out of the Covid-19 shut downs. In fact, we had trips to Paris, Toronto, and Hawaii all cancelled over the last 12 months and we were still a little gun-shy to plan something again.

But sitting on the couch on that Monday night, Jess and I decided to surprise the boys the next morning with a road trip to Chicago. We looked around at hotels and Airbnbs and decided to just book a hotel on the way there, hoping we'd land a good location for a good deal. Our plans?

Wander. Experience. Eat. Drink. Play.

We woke the boys up a little before 4am on Tuesday, and were back home by Thursday. If you were to ask anyone from our family to list their top 3 vacations we've taken, this short, two-and-a-half-day trip would be there for most of us.

The weather was perfect and we walked everywhere. We did a lot of the things one does when visiting Chicago, and a lot of things that maybe aren't the norm. We walked across the bridges, took pictures by the Bean, visited the Navy Pier and rode on the ferris wheel, went to the tall building and did The Tilt experience, found a swanky rooftop bar, went to the big parks and found the small neighborhood playgrounds, found small coffee shops and the massive Starbucks Reserve, ate Chicago style pizza, went shopping, laughed, spent time together, and explored. It was so special.

The first day there felt like a week of existence in the best way. We arrived in the city around 9am and found a hotel for the next few nights. I won't go through the day, because all of this isn't really about our trip.

This is about a moment of a tiki bar, a cigar, a cowboy, and Malört.

Walking home the first night, all of us were exhausted from the day's adventure. The kids were 6, 9, and 11 at the time, and we walked over 22,000 steps that day. But even for Phoenix, the youngest, instead of irritation and melt downs, the end of the day brought a tiredness wrapped up with a blanket of a day well spent.

We had just finished a deep dish pizza at Lou Malnati's Pizzaria and were trying to make it home before the sun disappeared. Thankfully this was the middle of July: the height of early sunrises and late sunsets. On the way home we passed a cigar shop, some restaurants, and near the final turn to our hotel, I looked down an alleyway and saw a bright neon sign that simply said "bar". No door in sight from my view.

I'm an introvert who loves spontaneity, change, and to exist as a no one surrounded by everyones. So that neon sign was calling my name, to simply just see what it was, but we were tired and kept walking to our hotel.

When we got in, I thought about that cigar shop and that neon sign. It would be nice to grab a cigar for sometime the next day. It would also be nice to see beyond that "Bar" sign. I don't remember all that entailed, but I mentioned my thoughts, and Jessica, knowing me well, simply said something like "Go check it out. I'll handle bath time".

So I went for a walk.

It was a quick one. Down the elevator of the hotel, out the doors, and down the street. Dark was settling in, and the neon was burning bright. I walked down the alley and came upon a man standing below the sign, next to an open door that led to a stairwell down. I sent Jess a quick text: "I'll FaceTime you the whole time".

I almost turned back.

I wasn't going to get a drink or food, I simply wanted to see beyond. I wasn't sure if this was an exclusive bar, an extension of the restaurant out front, and was hoping it wasn't a club of a nefarious type (it wasn't).

The man blocking the stairs wasn't a host for a restaurant. He was a bouncer. And he was big. I gathered my words and said something like "Hi, would it be ok if I simply went and took a look at the bar? I probably won't stay, just exploring." The outline of color on the man was a mixture of a pink glow from above, an orange glow from the setting sun, and a blue glow from the stairwell behind him. He was kind, checked my ID, and waved me through.

He pointed me toward the door, and as I entered I saw death.

I mean not actual death, but the wall the stairwell descended beneath was covered with skulls and that blue light glow. It was like an ode to the Catacombs of Paris, and set the tone to the place just right. I finished the stairs, took a turn left and saw what I had wanted to see. It was a tiki bar, and looked like a fun stop for a date night, but not a place for three kids to join.

Turns out it was a fairly well known speakeasy / tiki bar in Chicago called Three Dots and a Dash. I walked around a little bit inside, and then made my way out. As I passed the bouncer at the top of the stairs, a quick head nod exchange was all that was needed.

I made my way out of the alleyway and to the cigar shop. By now the summer day couldn't hold on any longer, and it was nighttime in Chicago. The shop had a few chairs out front with its glass door propped open. There were a few people outside smoking a cigar, and a few people inside.

I enjoy a cigar every now and then. The slowing down, the deep breaths, and the scent of the tobacco smoke all create a unique moment in time. I've also had most of the cigars in my lifetime with my dad, and that is always sacred.

I am no connoisseur. I know the name of a few cigars that I enjoy, so my default question in a tobacco store is "Hi, I don't know much about cigars, but I know I like the Foundation Tabernacle. Do you have that, or a few in a similar vein as it that you could show me?"

I find that not pretending to know more than I do in a cigar shop (also everywhere) is disarming. No one wants to help a know-it-all. Good people want to help someone with questions. And truly, most people are good.

The man working behind the counter had a few follow up questions: How long of a smoke are you looking for? Do you like flavored or want to stay close to the Foundation brand? Do you want to smoke it here?

I hadn't really thought about smoking a cigar here. I was thinking of buying one and maybe finding time on day 2 of Chicago to enjoy it, or even bring it home with me. My answers were: Under 30 minutes, No flavored cigars, and Sure, I'll smoke it here.

I don't remember what I was given, but I paid for it, he cut it, and then a man wearing cowboy boots and hat let me borrow his lighter to light it. His hand, dark and deep brown, calloused and steady, extended the flame toward me. He had just lit his cigar and said I could join him in the chairs outside of the shop.

There were a few chairs open and so we sat, I gave him his lighter back, and then we introduced ourselves. I sent Jessica a text: "I'm smoking a cigar. With my friend Jay."

Jay was in his late 50s to early 60s, a lifelong flight attendant with Southwest airlines, and Chicago (and this cigar shop) were one of his favorite places to overnight for work. I asked about his travels, and he asked about my family. We heard stories from strangers over cigars.

I remember at one point, when my cigar was close to being done (and I needed to head back to the hotel), that he asked me if I've ever tried Malört. I had never heard of that word before, so my answer was obviously "no sir, I have not". He went on to tell me it's tale.

For decades, Jeppson’s Malört was this obscure, dusty bottle behind Chicago dive bars. Nobody ordered it except old Swedes, masochists, and bartenders hazing outsiders. Over time it stopped being "the worst liquor ever" and became a piece of Chicago's identity.

Thankfully, he told me how terrible it tasted, and how every Chicagoan insists you try it at least once. He stood up and said "Let's go across the street to the pub. I'll buy you a shot before you head back."

Jay stood up and began walking across the street. His boots clicked on the concrete as he walked with a slight limp.

This is the moment in movies that you look at the screen and think about how dumb that character must be to just go along with the ploy, or think about how lazy the writer was to let things unfold in such a familiar way. Everyone knows this is the oldest trick in the book and a sure fire way to end up as a bad headline in the news.

I got up and followed him.

He rested his still lit cigar on a post outside of the pub, I extinguished mine, and we walked inside. It was packed. He greeted the bartender by name and they talked like old friends for a few minutes. He then introduced me and said something like "This is my new friend Trae's first time in Chicago. He needs to try Malört". The bartender smirked a little bit as she grabbed three small shot glasses, a bottle from the shelf, and filled each up.

This moment did kind of feel like the movies, but not the scary ones.

It felt like those scenes where people are living. They're not overindulging and forgetting. They're not slurring and coping. Living.

We (Jay, the bartender, and me) raised the glasses and downed it. People around clapped and smiled and said things like "Now you've been to Chicago" or "Isn't that terrible??"

It wasn't terrible, but it was bad. Thankfully, I think I was well prepared so was able to tough it out.

Time had passed quickly, and I needed to head back to the hotel. I thanked the bartender, said my goodbyes to Jay, and made the short walk back.

Nearly four years later, I still think about this experience. The mixture of intrigue, exploration, skulls, a good cigar, human connection, and a bad liquor made for an elixir that comes around every now and then in life, just maybe in different forms. Sometimes you have to look for it. Sometimes it might show up on its own.

And I'd take that any day over what an influencer is trying to offer me.

then you teach. how to
craft. how to
do.

and then?

what do you
do?

for all you used to
do

is already being
done.

be.

If you’re new family, welcome. If you’re familiar family, hey again 👋.

I wanted to do a quick recap of me, The Artifice, what all of this is, and where you come in. The easiest way to get caught up would be to simply visit the archives to read and/or skim through any previous posts. There's not a ton. Some highlights:

Poems
When Dreams Become Sentient
I’ve Been Digging
Wild At Heart (But Not How You Want Me To Be)

Thanks for being here. See you again soon.

- trae

Groggy and puffy-eyed, my brain fuzzy, as if last night’s bourbon lingered too long. I hadn't had too much. I've simply reached that time in life where my body reminds me of its age more often than not. And this morning was a sharp reminder.

Our family of five had never been as spread apart as we were this week. Jessica, Endy, and Phoenix were heading back to Columbus from Texas for baseball games, Jude was staying in Texas to spend solo time with grandparents, and I was headed from home (Columbus) to Chicago for the Pastors, Priests, and Guides retreat at the Bellarmine Jesuit Retreat House.

As I packed for my trip the day before, I realized that we had no remaining overnight bags, so I stuffed a few too-small duffles with clothes and threw the rest of what I might need in the back of the Jeep. I wasn't entirely sure what to bring, so being someone who likes options (control issues? 😬), I packed accordingly.

I've never been a 'car guy', as they say. I've been content over the last 11 years driving a reliable small sedan. Mazda for a while, then a Nissan. Neither had a good stereo, so audiobooks via AirPods became my commuting habit. One way I'd categorize my 30s is as the decade-of-leadership-consumption-while-driving. I'm an artist, but a musician first. And I simply didn't listen to music for a long time. It was a weird decade.

Our vehicles have consistently been stories of blessing. This year, Jessica and I both had significant car upgrades. Jessica went from a gas-guzzling Nissan Armada to a brand new, fully electric Nissan Ariya. And I upgraded to a Jeep Wrangler with an impressive audio system.

I listen to music again.

This was the first road trip in my new Jeep. Some things of note:

• After some 20-odd years of roadtripping and traveling, sunflower seeds are still the greatest antidote to falling asleep at the wheel.

• When driving above 65 mph in a Jeep Wrangler, two hands on the wheel are a necessity. With the rugged suspension and big tires, a small divot feels more like a small canyon than a pothole.

• Indiana roads truly are awful. Like weirdly horrible.

• My playlist was an eclectic mixture of heavy, girl-pop, and classical music. Somehow, it worked perfectly.

The last 30 minutes or so of my drive was roof back, window open, Olafur Arnalds listening. The northwest side of Chicago was a perfect 65 degrees. Arriving just before 1 p.m., I felt transported back to high school.

Jessica pointed me toward the Pastors, Priests, and Guides retreat a few months ago. She's about a year deep in her training for Spiritual Direction, and a lot of ‘her people’ are deeply integrated in the retreat.

I felt the need to represent her well, I felt like I was representing a church that many of the other attendees were trying to run from, and as mentioned, I felt like I was back in high school because I was on the outside looking in—cautious of revealing myself, and simply unsure. Because who knew if I could trust these people?

I really didn't want this to be a networking event, or a ‘how big is your church’ church conference, or a ‘5 Ways To Grow Your Attendance’ seminar.

I quickly realized none of that mattered.

In all honesty, it took me until my drive home on Wednesday to fully arrive. But just as this post comes a few weeks late, so did my vulnerability take its time to fully present itself.

Our few days together were marked by much, but I've tried to categorize them a little bit below. My Enneagram 1 identifying self needs to tell you that these are in no particular order.

Ancient Meets Present
We sang hymns and new songs, observed the Daily Office (for those unfamiliar: it's like a spiritual check-in at specific times of day...structured prayers to help you pause and realign), recited verses of Scripture aloud together, and worked through other spiritual practices that followers of Jesus have practiced for centuries. It was another reminder that the foundations laid by literal saints before me have paved the way for church today. It reminded me that while many's gut reaction is to run from the past, there's immense beauty in honoring it, and so much that we can learn from it.

Retreat: A Rest, Reset, and Refill
This wasn't a conference. It was a retreat. When I think of a retreat (outside of my SBC youth group images of smelly and hot campgrounds where adolescents were sent off for a week to either find Jesus or their latest camp crush) I think of solace. Of solitude and silence, beaches and mountains, new cities and woodlands. The space created for rest was woven into each moment. Most of the retreat attendees spend their lives pouring into others. Pastors, artists, leaders all giving continuously to their communities. Instead of being the givers this time, we were there to receive. Freely.

A People With Purpose
I have this thing about me that no matter where I find myself, I feel like an outsider. It's kind of my party trick. Yes I know that it's a me problem, and I've made strides in my 40th year of life. While here I was different, I wasn’t an outsider. Each of us there embodied diverse Christian traditions that were still moving the same direction. Our retreat guides, spiritual directors, and retreat attendees were Methodist clergy, progressive church planters, megachurch evangelical church pastors, musicians, writers, artists, Catholic Jesuits, leaders, and followers—but overall we were all seekers with purpose. We were individuals from every corner of the church landscape, yet we shared a quiet and collective longing to grow, to question, and to explore how best to do this in each of our own communities.

Spiritual Direction
I've enjoyed asking Spiritual Directors over the last year or so to define what they do. One has been Jessica as she goes through her studies, one has been my Spiritual Director, Dan, who I have had the privilege of meeting with for the last 6 months, and then one was Archie, a Jesuit from Poland completing 12 years of study, largely focused on Spiritual Direction. I won't do their answers justice, but at its core a Spiritual Director is someone to walk beside you as you take steps on your spiritual journey. It's not pastoral care, it's not therapy, it's not counseling, but it probably involves pieces from all of those, with the overall goal to help you recognize the movement of God in your life. I had the opportunity to be in the room with a Spiritual Director who is years beyond me in age, and it was a special time of digging and inner discernment.

Affirmation and Validation
That ole party trick of mine? Creates some pretty isolating times where I find myself asking so often ‘What are we (the Church) doing?’. The retreat gave me some needed validation, that my thoughts and feelings about life and spirituality aren't new or foreign. It confirmed that the tension I feel as a 'professional Christian' is real. It reassured me that frustrations, worries, and hangups in our spiritual lives aren't negative, but contemplative questions worth exploring. It reminded me that all of the times I said ‘I'll figure it out’ and felt left to fend for myself, did in fact feel terrible, but I was still seen by Jesus. And I was seen at this retreat. Not fixed.

It's OK
A good picture to represent where my mind and spirit have been over the last year and a half came out of a spiritual exercise Father J. Michael Sparough led us in during our first session. It's me, on a dry desert road that resembled a scene from Breaking Bad. I mean not a drug or violent scene, just desolation and a hot, orange hue overlaying the image. You could see the heat waves rising from the earth, the road expanding in both directions further than the eye could see, and there was no sign of comfort in any direction. Nighttime was near. I was alone and frustrated, very disoriented, and felt like I had been here before.

Amidst the angst and irritation, I heard deep within the words 'It's OK' , and I've held onto them ever since. 'It's OK' is a lot different being said to me, than me saying to myself that 'I will be fine' or ‘I’ll figure it out’, which has become my default responses. In the midst of mess, I say that I'll be fine, but that's really me pulling back and feeling like no one else is with me, so I'll just have to figure it out alone. Instead, I heard that it's OK that I'm frustrated, or angry at that person, or that I don’t trust them, or that I don’t remember which way I was coming from nor which way to go now, or want more for my family, or…

‘It’s OK’ means I’m not needing to be fixed in order to be loved. I am being seen and loved, despite.

There's so much more to unpack from this, and I've done a lot of that with Jessica, my family, some close friends, and my Spiritual Director. The retreat was not about reaching answers but about living in the tension of questions.

I'm still there, and IT'S OK.

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There’s many I will miss, but here’s a few people worth following tied to this retreat:

Aaron Niequist


Nina Barnes

I feel like the hands of a watch
circling the cycle of contempt and joy
propelled by unseen gears beneath
and moved by an unknown touch.

Sometimes I love this place
Sometimes I hate it.
When will I steady my heart?
When will you take it?

These three pictures are from this time of year (April) in years long gone.
Time is a killer. A thief and a giver. A gut punch and an embrace.

This is the last one in my planned short poems.
I think it’s fitting to end with this one.

There will be a turning of time and something else will be next.

We’ll see each other again soon.

Thank you God
for the sun and the moon
and all you’ve done
in the skies and my heart
and how you loved me
from the very start.

It’s true. There’s something special about being able to receive something deep through simplicity without overcomplicating the words.

If you’re new here, this is part of a mini series of short poems I’ve been sharing. To catch up or re-read, visit the archive of poems:

Poetry

"When is the next XWRSHP album coming out?"

It's an endearing question that I know comes from a deep love and appreciation of our last project, but it often puts a pit in my stomach when I have to answer: "As soon as we get back to writing songs." The pit in my stomach is there because we simply haven't made time for it.

The years of 2020 and 2021 were full of consistent Thursday songwriting sessions, excitement for new songs flowing out fairly easily, and the joy of seeing how these songs written from our church worked really well in our church. It was evident that these were our (X Church's) songs.

Resonation is a good word for this.

We'll get back to a good writing rhythm—there's glimpses of it now. Jobs have changed, roles have grown, families have evolved, and we've all stepped into different stages of life. I've learned to be patient with myself here, and trust it will work itself out.

A few Sundays ago we brought out a song from our 2022 release, and just as it was when we first wrote it, just as it was when we first released it, it was my favorite song of the set that day.

I thought I'd share a little bit behind how that song came to be. I've never done so, and now feels like a good moment. Each song has its own, unique origin story, and this is how My Soul Sings came to be and a few details behind it.

Most of the time, we would grab a Thursday and write in the band green room right outside my office, but this time, Tucker, Pastor Tim, and I, went to a house a few minutes away from our offices to try and get one from beginning to end. We got close.

I remember a note from at least 10 years ago where I had written around a few verses from Luke (a book in the Bible) titled just as my Bible did at the time: Mary's Song.

I loved the idea of a song that simply said "I don't really know what to say (because words don't come easy for me), but my soul and spirit can sing it anyway."

And for 10 plus years, that song idea never left my Evernote.

We began sharing ideas and notes and Pastor Tim had those same verses from Luke 1:46-47 as a potential direction. We went with it.

I don't remember much about how the rest of the song came together, but I do remember we were really close by the end of the day. We let it sit for a while, and then landed on a solid structure of the song about a month later. For the first initial “full song demo”, it ended up pretty solid.

I also remember what song influences I was coming in with for this song. Each time I write seems to be different. I had the song Fix You by Coldplay and Sinking Deep by Hillsong Young and Free in my brain for this one. Both songs begin very subdued and chill, and then explode in the best way for the last third of the song. Both have a lead guitar line that was able to repeat and drone through an evolving bridge progression while somehow carrying the energy through the whole thing. And both have beautifully written melodies and lyrics that didn't need a lot to pair with it. If you listen to both of them, then listen to My Soul Sings, you’ll hear the influence.

One thing I love to do is to make a song interesting for a musician, yet still very simple for the average listener. I don't do it well often, but I think we did it here with My Soul Sings. Much of this is music-theory-based, and if that's not in your wheelhouse, just know that I think what we did was pretty cool. If you need to skim the next few paragraphs, I won’t be too upset.

The song is primarily in 4/4 meter, but there are a few strategic moments where a measure of 2/4 time comes in. If you were to count, the intro and interludes of the song are counted like this: | 1 - 2 | 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 | 1 - 2 | 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 | (and repeated).

The end of the first chorus has a measure of 2/4, the end of the second and third chorus each have measures of 4/4, and then the final chorus goes back to ending with a measure of 2/4. Even though these choruses vary, it doesn't just feel correct, it is correct. This song needed that.

When we demo out a song, this usually looks like me putting rough ideas down for main instrumentation on my own. I'll write and program what I envision for the drums (as only a guitarist can), put any lead guitar parts in that I hear, and lay down a layer of bass and synth to glue the demo together a little bit. Often times these lead to more fully developed parts or ideas that the musicians working with me bring to life better than I ever could.

For My Soul Sings, I knew the build / explosion moment toward the end needed three things: a driving pulse of some sort to move the moment forward with energy, a great lead line to carry through the whole thing, and big drums. So, that's what happened.

The 16th note pulsing synth came first. And then came the drums.

I'm a guitarist who is a drummer in his best dreams at night. The drum parts I think of usually aren't possible by a real drummer— not because I'm like some musical genius, rather because I just don't think like a drummer who has to actually play the instrument.

The tom hits in the bridge build follow this pattern: A / B / B / A. The first two measures of tom hits are the same as the seventh and eighth measure tom hits, and the third and fourth measure tom hits are the same as the fifth and sixth measure tom hits. Kind of like a bookend.

Then I looped it for a while and worked on the guitar part. This actually came pretty quickly, and we kept the lead line I wrote. It was a nice droning and airy part that feels like a really natural loop, which lifts the bridge to its full energy.

The chord structure from the bridge build through the bridge is also pretty unique. This is a rough view of the chords and doesn’t reflect the exact timing, but using the Nashville Number system, it looks like this:

Bridge Build - | I       | IV     | vi     | IV
Bridge 1 - | I     | IV     | vi     | IV
Bridge 2 - | I     | IV     | V  vi | IV
Bridge 3 - | iii    | IV     | V     | vi
Tag - | I     | IV      | V     | vi
Instrumental - | I     | IV     | vi      | V

To connect the dots some, a lot of slight chord variations to further bring massive energy.

The last quirky element that again, just worked, was the tempo changes. Here's the text I sent our producer:

So to clarify: we started the song at 75BPM, jumped to 77BPM for the third time through the chorus, moved up at a ramp from 78BPM->81BPM during the bridge build, landed at 81BPM for the bridge and instrumental, and then dropped down to 77BPM for the last chorus through the ending. Truly, we didn't do this to be weird artists. I really feel like the song needed it, and we were able to do it, so we did.

Whew.

For those that don't care about all of that and are still with me, I feel privileged. I know this isn't for everyone, but I also know that this is for someone (and maybe a few someones).

Wherever you find yourself, thanks for sitting here with me for a while.

Here’s My Soul Sings:

• on Apple Music

• on Spotify

• on Youtube

Many of you are already connected with me and XWRSHP on Instagram, but if not, follow along at any/all of the accounts below:

• @traecastles (all things just me)

• @xwrshp (all things X Church Music)

• @thex_church (all things X Church)

You can throw as hard as you want
and hope with your whole heart
but,
I’m only a wishing well

This one truly is a minimalistic poem. The date I have for this in my Evernote account is September 2009. Two years married at the time. No kids. Still learning who I was as an adult (still am).

I’ve come back to it countless times. It was originally three lines. Then that one day I mentioned here briefly, I put a comma after “but”, made a line break, and realized it was finished.

You tell us to lift our voices
With prayers that fill the room
To shout praises as loud as we can
But I’ll never be as loud as you

I get so overstimulated
Trying to speak but overrun
By the haughty phrases and heavenly gazes
I will always be outdone

Do we have to be the same
Or can I just be me?
All this talk about being loud
Sounds a lot like a Pharisee

I’ve made about twelve attempts at subtext here…to explain, to soften, to show you that I can hold a mirror.

Then I remembered I’ve already done all of that. Don’t forget about my disclaimer.

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This is a story of a boy. A normal, but extraordinary boy. One with imagination and dreams like most boys.

The boy's earliest memory of it dates back to a classroom drawing at age six. The teacher instructed the class to draw anything the mind could conjure. No limits, no walls, only the edges of the paper to contain whatever he could dream.

He carefully held his yellow-orange No. 2 pencil and began. And somehow, it came out better than his six-year-old mind could fathom. He couldn't believe it. What he dreamed of was no longer just a thought. It existed in reality. Two dimensional reality, but it was here.

For the next several years, he sketched it on paper again and again. Sometimes a near replica of the first. Other times with slight variations or adjustments. Many times with different mediums, maybe crayon or paint or the fancy $100 set of Prisma Color Pencils he could use in Art Class.

At 17, he found himself in a new class—Ceramics and Sculpture—but with a familiar prompt.

Create what you want. No limits, only the clay in your hands today.

The boy was ready. He could have taken out his notebook of sketches for reference, but he didn't need to. The dream was more a part of him than it was a part of the paper. He began to sculpt, and soon, there it was. It didn't take him long. He had thought about and sketched this for years. The same thing that was in his mind before he could even speak. It was here, in three-dimensional form. His dream had taken shape.

He placed the sculpture where his teacher instructed, in line for the kiln. All that was left for this piece was the fire.

The first bisque firing strengthened the clay, preparing it for the final glaze firing. His teacher said it would be a week before it was complete.

It only took 5 days and today was the day to retrieve his piece. He couldn't wait. He walked into his Art Class and saw it. It was perfect, yet imperfect. He took out his notebook of sketches now, and couldn't believe it. What he had drawn more times than he could remember through childhood, and what was only a thought before that, now had a greater existence. He looked closely at the paper, then looked closely at the sculpture. The form was different, but the same. A little more refined and a little more formed than what the paper could reveal. He turned it over in his hands and felt the hardness of the clay. The smoothness of the glaze.

This was more than his dream. More than his drawings. He couldn't have imagined this, it was simply more.

He went home and set it on his desk near his bed. It would be one of, if not the, first thing he saw every morning when waking. He wanted to keep this dream in his view from the beginning of his day.

Years went by and the boy grew up. He met a girl, got married, had a few babies, and moved across the country. The last thing he thought he would do. But he brought his sculpture with him. It sat on his bookshelf in his office now. It had a little bit of dust on it, but not too much, because he often went through his spaces and got rid of the clutter that time leaves behind.

One day, this boy was working very hard. He had been working very hard for years. On his own for most of it. He and his sculpture, weathering the demands of the days.

Then more recently, with others. People who found him and also who he found and in turn brought alongside. He and the others worked as hard as they could. So hard that he didn't recognize it at first. The movement on his bookshelf. Like the rise and fall of breath in the deepest sleep. Slow, steady, effortless.

His dream moved. He was certain of it. He swiveled his chair and watched, trying not to blink. Nothing. For a little while at least.

But soon, something. His sculpture moved. Around two inches to its left. It moved like a snail, somehow adhering to the surface below and oozing along without the trail. He couldn't believe it. He always thought of this as possible, but never believed he would see it. He stared for a long while, willing to see it move again, but only saw stillness.

Days passed and he'd think he see movement in the side of his vision, but never as clearly as before. He would dust it regularly, polish it, place it in good light, and even offer it to others. Sometimes he would have to repair chips or cracks in it. It looked different than when he first got it from the kiln. It looked different than when it only existed on paper as a sketch by a child. It looked different than the dream he had held in his mind. But he didn't mind. It seemed, somehow, better. Stronger.

After some time (months, maybe years), the boy began to forget about that moment he saw it move, and when he did think of it, played it off in his head as a fantasy, until one morning he stepped through his office doors and there on his bookshelf, his sculpture was missing. Not missing because he lent it to someone. Just simply, gone.

He searched the office, expecting to find the sculpture fallen or misplaced. But it was nowhere. There were no signs of struggle, just an empty space where it once sat. He felt a flicker of sadness pulse through his body, but then something else. Joy? A quiet knowing? An understanding that this day would come?

Yes.

He quickly packed his stuff back up and left his office. He needed to walk, to think. He didn't know where it had gone, only that it had to go. The sculpture was never meant to stay.

Time passed. He didn't search for it, but he also never stopped noticing.

One afternoon, he sat at a café, and something caught his eye. A shape, a form. Not exactly like his, but close. The curve of the edges, the way the light reflected off the sides. It was familiar.

On another day, he saw it again. This time in a painting at a boutique in his favorite part of downtown. Not his dream exactly, but this painting was touched by it, he was certain.

And then in the work of a friend. A phrase in a song that echoed what he once had held in his own hands.

It had traveled and grown. His dream had stepped into the world, beyond him. It now had life.

And that was always the point.

Back in his office, his bookshelf was no longer simply empty, it was waiting. He picked up a yellow-orange No. 2 pencil, ran his fingers over the blank page, and began.

Time to dream.

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This story isn't just about a boy. It's about all of us. Life is full of dreams becoming sentient, growing beyond us, stepping into the world, living on their own. It's a beautiful process, and also a very difficult one.

If you're possessive, controlling, or self-centered, you'll hold a dream too tightly and it will never become what it could be. If you're careless, complacent, or distracted, you'll never cultivate a dream into something real. If you're cautious, fearful, or hesitant, you'll never take what's in your mind and bring it to life.

This story is also about my wife, Jessica. This weekend marks the fifth Inspired Conference (I think?), and the first one she's not leading. I've seen her make sketches of this dream over the last five years. I've seen the sketches begin to take shape in the physical world. And now I see it moving and breathing and becoming, and not simply staying still on her bookshelf. No longer something that is just hers, but something alive.

I've seen the challenge of letting it change, and I've seen her joy in watching it become more than when it was just hers.

I couldn't be more proud of Jessica. The Inspired Conference is here because of a dream that she took a risk on. She envisioned it, drew it, sculpted it, nurtured it, invited other people in, and let it grow beyond.

Now she's bringing new dreams to life.
So am I.

And so should you.

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I didn’t mean to stop—
Expecting
light more than the dark.

I never wondered when—
The shadows
left our sides,

and the warmth
went quiet.

I never asked where—
The golden glow had gone,
until again my face it found.

Hello, again, sun.

This is a fitting week for this poem. I so easily forget the feeling of the sun. Apricity offers a whisper of warmth, but the Spring Sun begins to speak aloud. It was warm and sunny in Columbus, Ohio this week. I guarantee we’re not done with Winter yet, but this was a welcome reminder.

(Apricity: The feeling of the winter sun on your skin…Jessica taught me that word. It’s just the best.)

There are significantly more people that this is going out to today than there were last week, and I'm so grateful for that. So today, I wanted to do a quick recap of me, The Artifice, what all of this is, and where you come in.

The easiest way to get caught up would be to simply visit the archives to read and/or skim through any previous posts. There's not a ton. Words have been staying inside me more often than being released over the last few years.

But, sometimes getting the highlights is even better:

• I'm Trae, an artist and musician who grew up in the Dallas / Fort Worth area playing in punk bands, hardcore bands, and leading worship at churches. Now I'm in Columbus, Ohio figuring out how that cynical hardcore kid is supposed to exist as a 40-year-old executive/creative/worship pastor at X Church. I get to do life with my best friend Jessica and our three boys Jude (14), Endy (12), and Phoenix (9). I wrote about Phoenix on this post. I'll write about the other two soon. All three are just so special.

• The Artifice is where I share parts of me that I believe belong somewhere beyond just me. Not because I have it figured out or because I think I have deep wisdom to impart, but because nothing has shaped me more than being invited into someone else’s inner world.

• Some of what I'll share will be words, some will be images (usually photos), some will be my current muse, and maybe a little bit of something else at times.

• What do I ask of you? Well, not much really. Just be you. I love when this moves beyond a one-way-message though. So hearing your thoughts in a comment or email back is always a gift. You can agree, disagree, love, or hate it. I still want to know.

For some it's very easy to spew words and thoughts into the world for public consumption.

For me, it's not.

When you engage or share or reply, it reminds me that we're in this life thing together. You'll see buttons to encourage it, and if you feel inclined, it would be a gift.

Alright. I think that covers it. Thanks for sticking with me.

I mentioned I'm in the middle of sharing a series of short poems, and here's the first one I shared:

Look for the next one sometime next week.

For now, let me leave you with a few of my current loves:

Sammy Rae & The Friends

Brain.fm

Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke

Morning Pages

Cosmos and/or Foto

And finally, some unsolicited advice: if someone frequently uses phrases like “trust me” or “just believe me” in their conversations, well, don’t.

Bye for now.

Like seasons change
familiar roads to foreign scenes
this year has made
a stranger out of me

But good or bad
I don’t really know
because I’ll always see
the dark in my soul

Like many of these short poems, I’ve sat on this one for a while. I thought it was the beginning of a longer writing. I thought that for it to be “ok” I had to bring some kind of redemption to the end of it.

But, I realized a few weeks ago, that this poem didn’t need anything else.

It was complete.

We stepped out of the terminal into a place where we knew very little of the language, had only an elementary idea of how to navigate, a general direction where we were supposed to go, and no real sense of familiarity.

Nice, France in October is beautiful. Our whole trip felt like we were living scenes out of a movie. Nice like geese, but with an 'N'.

Nice held treasures for me and Jessica waiting for us to explore and find. And we did. We had a loose agenda—just a few specifics—but most of our time in Nice was spent following where the city led us.

By day two, our blood ran with espresso, rosé, and Aperol. Our stomachs full of baguettes, pain au chocolat, and tapenade. We walked the old narrow roads, explored the picturesque beach, missed the bus and hailed an Uber, hiked from the 12th-century commune of Éze—a mile and a half down to the metro—in our "fancy" clothes. We ate late dinners, went to Jazz clubs, swam in the Mediterranean on a 65-degree day, smoked cigarettes like the French, imprinted the sensations of the trip in our brains with the new Coldplay release, and soaked in the unknown.

Stepping into a foreign land takes effort, but what the experience and the destination demand is worth it.

I've spent my whole life feeling like a foreigner.

The language is different. The customs, unfamiliar. I've learned to translate, to adapt, to get by as if I belong. I've watched the way others move, speak, and work. I've reached into the depths of 'who I am' and tried to match the pace and volume, and I've misled all of you. The Artifice.

I'm an introvert living in an extrovert's world.

For most of my life, I've mistaken less for less than.

Quiet meant weak.
Slow meant behind.
Simple meant shallow.
Still meant stuck.

This year I've been digging, and I'm beginning to have a few words as a result. Not many words—because many times (at least in my world) I think less is more, especially when it comes to words.

Quiet means steady.
Slow means methodical.
Simple means intentional.
Still means present.

And maybe you're not used to this world because you've never had to translate, to shrink, or adjust. Maybe less feels foreign to you.

Well, welcome to my world. Come with me for the next few weeks on a series of selected short poems spanning the last 15 years or so of my life.

Will you sit with me here for a while?
No need to say much.

Just be.

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Three pieces of gold for us today:

• Be kind to everyone.

  • The cashier clearly having a terrible day and putting that on you? Yes them.

  • The coworker who so obviously positions themself endlessly to get ahead? Them too.

  • The sibling that will not relent? Also them.

  • The hungry, homeless, addicted, abandoned, and neglected. Yes, yes, yes, yes, and also yes.

• Be able to teach.

  • You have something to offer, who can you bring along with you? Even when you don’t feel like it. Life is so much more than a feeling. If we waited until we felt like we had it all together, we would never move. Or for some of you, you may have a thought process that allows you to feel like you have it figured out already and so you move way beyond your actual capacity, understanding, and abilities. Let feelings play a part, but don’t be guided by them.

  • Embrace humility, recognizing that teaching is also a path to learning.

• Be patient with difficult people.

  • See the first point and do the same here.

  • There’s an interesting spectrum we have to walk, between giving away our time frivolously and being stingy with it. I’ve had leaders tell me before to avoid the people who require extra time, grace, and effort because the cost of return is much smaller than investing in the people who would reciprocate benefit back my way. Sounds like a business transaction rooted in greed and worry.

  • Being patient is being generous, and I'll choose generosity—with its inherent risks, spontaneity, and humanity—over hoarding 'what's mine.'

Seemingly counteracting. Because I don’t think they do.

The way these qualities merge to shape a person who isn’t a one-dimensional stereotype of a human is something elegant and powerful. Like the violence of an ocean wave whose sounds can lull you to sleep, or the apex of a symphony that creates emotions of both dread and awe.

I’m glad I had a multi-dimensional father to raise me.

When I was a teenager growing up in the Bible Belt in the late 90s / early 2000s, I was somehow lucky enough to be in my most formative years in both the height of Purity Culture and the Christian Masculinity Movement. Twenty years later, I’m still recognizing components of each that shaped so much of my brain. And twenty years later I’m still doing the work in rewriting some of those neural thought pathways.

The book Wild at Heart was like a second Bible in these years. I felt really bad after I read it because I really didn’t like that second Bible that I was supposed to like.

My 16-year-old brain summarized the book kind of like this:

Every man wants to be (needs to be) an action hero like you see in the movies. The author referenced William Wallace from Braveheart as the ideal man that all of us wanted (needed) to model. I had never seen the movie then (and still haven’t), but I did see that one clip in many a youth pastor’s sermon where Mel Gibson yelled a lot and ran in slow motion. The book taught that a man was born to be wild, born to fight, and born not to get stuck in boring everyday life. Essentially, if you’re not sleeping outside, licking the dirt, and eating only food that you killed with your hands, then you are not a real man. Oh, and the kicker: your primary objective in life, like every good action movie hero, is to rescue the damsel in distress who is helpless without you. You, the mighty warrior come to save the vulnerable and obviously incapable woman.

I’m not sure what made me start thinking about this. A significant personal battle I often encounter is the resistance against being constrained by labels. Being boxed in. Throughout my 39 years, I’ve contended with various categorizations imposed upon me. Here are a few:

• You’re a male. You should always be tough.

• You play music. You probably aren’t a good athlete.

• You are an athlete. I bet you can’t dance (ok that is so true).

• You go to church. You don’t have fun.

• You like beer. You are struggling deeply.

• You play video games. You’re so lazy.

• You work at a church. You are judging me.

• You are very particular. You’re just negative.

• You took too long to share your thoughts. You must lack confidence.

I’m doing work inside and getting out of those labels. Maybe I’ll write about that someday. For now, it’s the male stereotype, and as a result, the female stereotype that the book Wild at Heart portrayed.

My thoughts on this are nothing new, and I’m probably a little late to the party in sharing them anyway. (If you haven’t yet, read MY DISCLAIMER).

I think the book Wild at Heart had great intentions, and probably some solid truths in it. One of the beauties of life and learning and Jesus is that we are all so different and all so unique and all so unbelievably multi-dimensional. Wild at Heart, as a 16-year-old, was incredibly one-dimensional and did more than just create tension in me, it made me angry.

Angry because I did love the outdoors a whole lot and I felt pretty tough. I also loved art and flowers and music and cooking and video games and technology and romantic dates with my new girlfriend (spoiler I married her and we had three kids) and had no desire to go hunting or watch Braveheart (still don’t).

It tried to box me in. And so did that influential adult dude (NOT my dad) who read Wild at Heart as his second Bible and thought any male that differed from his vision of what a “good Christian guy” was, was weak and failing.

I’m old enough (and therefore have learned a lot about myself) to know that so many of my internal thoughts are self-imposed and not entirely accurate views from others. But as a teenager, I had a hard time deciphering this from reality. If the book said it, and the book was being pushed by people I trusted, then I was broken, right? So yes, I was angry, but I was probably most angry at myself. At the time, I didn’t know any better.

Grasping my own flaws came naturally to me, but becoming someone like William Wallace was still far out of reach. What my mind understood as reality was that I was the one at fault. If the book said it, and people I trusted said the book was right, I would have to find the exit in the maze of internal inconsistencies on my own.

Welcome to the mind of an Enneagram 1, where most of the time it’s always your fault.

But then I would step outside of myself, outside of where I was at fault and needed repair, and I would look at the females in my life. I’m one of the rare few who had a stable family with parents and siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles who loved me for me. They probably (definitely) thought I was weird, but they loved me nonetheless. I had two sisters and a mom who weren’t the helpless damsels needing rescue. They were fierce and tough and also gentle and beautiful.

And then my girlfriend at the time. She didn’t need to be rescued. She didn’t need to be saved. She needed someone to come alongside her on this quest of figuring life out. Her helping me when I was weak. Me helping her when she was weak. Together. So I did.

The portrayal of the one-dimensional female in Wild at Heart simply didn’t hold fast to the females I had encountered in my life so far. I don’t think I knew any males that fit this mold that was taught to me either. Which then clued me in, because those paradoxes lived outside of myself which made it more believable. So maybe, the narrative I was being fed wasn’t the full story.

The full story.

Life seems to be a lot about learning the full story. When you’re young it’s easy to see your life as a single route from life to death and everything in between. But think about every little choice, every small decision (conscious or subconscious): there has to be an inconceivable amount of both possible and then realized pathways, that if we were to map out all of them, would fill an infinite amount of papers.

It reminds me a little bit of one of my favorite author Blake Crouch’s thriller novel and soon-to-be Apple TV series titled Dark Matter. You follow the main character down different choices he makes and you see how each choice creates an entirely new world: The Multiverse.

That should be how we think about people. We are a Multiverse. A person is incredibly detailed and complex and can’t be pinned down to a linear definition. They have a personality with layers of depth to unravel and learn through the years. They have dreams and desires that can (and should) adapt and evolve and not be confined to last year’s yearnings. They have hobbies that encompass a variety of interests that on paper shouldn’t overlap but do.

People are multi-dimensional, but all too often try to fit everything of themselves into a narrow channel and end up getting gridlocked like the Ever Given did in the Suez Canal. That caused a disruption in global trade for only 6 days. Many of us stay immobile for years. Some are stuck for life.

Books like Wild at Heart probably didn’t intend to be part of the constrictive tunnel vision humans experience, but they surely don’t help us explore the endless parts of who we are and who we are to become.

Now what? Simple. Embrace the tension of your own evolution, see others well, celebrate all of our differences, have fun and explore your true self, and offer a generous and deep grace in it all.

SOUND & FURY, Sturgill Simpson

Every now and then an album tips me into the country world ever so slightly. This is one of them. Although it sounds more akin to a funk / rock album at times with heavy guitars and disco-like synths, Simpson is without a doubt a country artist.

The FUJIFILM X-T5

We bought this right before my 6 week Sabbatical this Summer with the help of an incredibly generous gift from my parents. It was the perfect addition to what ended up being the best, and longest vacation we have been on. Memories made and memories forever captured. Because of some of the proprietary technology in this camera, it feels a little bit like my high school days of shooting film. Yes I’m that old.

THE CONTEMPLATIVE PASTOR, Eugene Peterson

I judge books by the cover all the time. Literal books…not people. Eugene Peterson is one of my favorites, however, this would NOT be a book I would pick up because of the cover, and quite honestly the title as well. But this is very much a Jessica book, and it came highly recommended to me by her. I’m only about a third of the way through this short book and I know it will be a reread in the near future. Reading this is a bit of an affirmation to my mind.

WINTER WALKS

Jessica had a great idea for our family this year. The five of us are going on at least one substantial, outdoor walk a week in 2024. Three out of four walks of the year so far have been COLD. Like sled-down-the-hill-across-the-frozen-pond cold. And all of them have been special.

CHATGPT, OpenAI

Yes, AI is incredible. Yes, AI is scary. But that’s what they said about the Internet and e-mail (I guess they were right). Like many of you, I would assume, I use ChatGPT just about daily. It doesn’t work as a quick question then blindly copy-and-paste your obviously robot-created paragraphs. But it does work when you train it. It works for idea generation, organization and productivity, it’s my go-to “Just Google It” replacement, I use it for all things SEO, and it’s more recently been the place we’ve uploaded all of Phoenix’s blood tests for the last year for analyzation and a sounding board for any questions me and Jessica can throw at it.

What are you loving right now? Tell me.

A deep breath of sorts.

One of those deep breaths you take driving through the hills on a warm summer night when the sun is setting and the winding road takes you through an unexpectedly cool patch of air in the woods.

A deep breath that you take as you execute your first cannonball of the summer off the diving board as a 10-year-old after your last day of school.

That breath that you take sitting on the porch on a perfect evening with a good bourbon in hand (neat) and your favorite people.

The kind of deep breath you take at the end of the day where you've done what you were made to do and you're resetting for the coming dawn so you can do it again.

I drove away from X Church today with the gift of a sabbatical for part of this summer and I couldn't be more thankful. I'm thankful for the team I get to lead and do life with, thankful for the church that our family calls home, thankful that I get to do this not only as a job but as a deep-rooted passion, and especially thankful for the leaders I work for and with who have gifted this to me and my family.

Gifts come in many variations. An extended leave to reset, recharge, and renew so I can do this until I'm 95 is one I never thought I'd receive, and if I were completely honest with you, one that began to put a wide variety of thoughts and emotions in me.

But Jessica, as she does, threw truth at me the other day that I'm holding close for the next several weeks.

There’s a book in the Bible called Ecclesiastes, that much of me always resonates with, for better, or for worse. It almost has an existentialistic vibe:

…so says the writer of the ancient text, as well as 20-year-old Trae’s metal band Losing All Hope.

Ecclesiastes 9:7 simply says "So go ahead. Eat your food with joy, and drink your wine with a happy heart, for God approves of this!"

I love how Eugene Peterson said it: "Seize life! Eat bread with gusto, drink wine with a robust heart. Oh yes—God takes pleasure in your pleasure! Dress festively every morning. Don’t skimp on colors and scarves. Relish life with the spouse you love, each and every day of your precarious life. Each day is God’s gift. It’s all you get in exchange for the hard work of staying alive. Make the most of each one! Whatever turns up, grab it and do it. And heartily!"

I don't feel like I've earned or deserved this gift of time any more than anyone else, but what I am going to do is be thankful, seize this part of life, and live it to the fullest.

And I’ll be slowly winding up for all that comes next. See you soon.

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It’s always dark.

The temperature is often in the low twenties, but sometimes it’s a rare, windy, and warm morning that is a deceptive windup for the real winter that is close by.

When the alarm goes off at 5:59, I rarely hit snooze anymore. In my 38 years, that’s new for me over the last year. Maybe waking up early had to develop with age. Or going to sleep early had to develop with age. Which helps in the waking up.

From my place in bed, I can see the living room lights winding around the hallway corner and barely hear the playlist that has begun our day for the last several years. I love waking to the lights and music precisely set to aid in ushering in a new day. Sometimes, like today, the smart home devices I’ve connected together and programmed to begin our days work how they’re supposed to.

I roll out of bed and walk a few paces across the hallway to wake up our oldest, Jude. He’s 12.

He’s always been one to lay in bed for hours on end at bedtime, his mind taking ages to slow down to the lull of sleep. We’ve begun encouraging him to read until he gets tired at night, and that seems to help.

When I come into his room, I use the hallway light to give him the first bit of light for the day, quietly wake him, and head out to start our coffee.

We’ve pre-measured coffee the evening before so all I have to do is flip a switch on our MoccaMaster to begin the brew of our favorite beans, Rost Coffee. Yes, I know that grinding coffee the evening before degrades some of the freshness, and yes I also know that I am ok with that. Saturdays are for Chemex, or AeroPress, or French Press, or another slow-brew method. Today is a weekday, and time dissipates quickly if you don't try to capture it and order it correctly.

We have lights under the top cabinets that once on, stay lit until the evening. These aren't smart lights, so I make the curve around the kitchen and turn on each of them with the flip of a few switches.

I head back to my room, change into my workout clothes quickly, throw my blue sweatshirt on, pull on the hood, and walk back down the hallway into Jude's room again. The lights in his room are still out. He's still sleeping. I usually say "Alright buddy, time to get up. I'm going to turn your lights on now".

I don't know if he needs the warning before the lights flood his room, but I know that I do. "Alexa, turn the lights on in Jude's room." It's about 6:06 in the morning now.

I leave his room and walk out the back sliding door. The air is cold. And dry.

It's still dark.

The ramp on our deck creaks and cracks beneath my feet as I take the path toward our detached garage. Instead of walking on the concrete, I cut through the flower bed that has a layer of river rocks on it. River rocks instead of mulch make for less upkeep.

I love that in the Winter, the river rocks seem to freeze together. There's no movement or settling in the stones as I step, only a rigid bed laid across the frozen dirt.

One of the best thrift store finds we’ve made is our kerosene heater. Twenty dollars of fuel gets us about two and a half weeks of heat for our morning workouts. I turn it on high and move to the other two small electric heaters and start them too. The barbells rest right over one of the heaters to hopefully take the chill out of the bar before we use it.

The heaters are set, the workout is written, and the lights and music are on. It’s about 6:12.

I head back inside because the coffee is ready by now. I fill up my Fellow mug, give Jude a hug goodbye because I won’t see him until I get home from work, and head back to the garage to begin.

Jessica does the rest of the morning routine with Jude. She is the best mom to our boys. She is a mixture of toughness, consistency, beauty, intuition, and so much more. Putting words together to describe her has never been easy because I always leave something out.

After she gets Jude on the bus, she’ll meet me in the garage about halfway through my workout to begin hers and I’ll go wake up Endy and Phoenix after I finish mine.

I walk outside, winded from the workout, and there are hints of light in the sky. It’s more like a black-and-white photo because of the grey, Winter skies. No pigments of color yet because of the flat light, except for the yellow hues of the porch lights and light peaking from the windows of our home.

The morning has begun well today. It’s 7:25, and I’m about to wake up the other boys.

There’s magic in the first 85 minutes of my weekdays this year. It hasn’t always been like this, and maybe it won’t last terribly long. But for now, I’ll remember the details that add up to what usually makes for a good beginning.

Good beginnings. That’s what I’m writing about. For me, good beginnings set the pace for what’s next. It’s taken me a while to have good beginnings like today.

Here’s to growth.

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