Hey everyone.

This past month I published my first book, “The Summer of Battle.” It’s a group of short stories about a boy who moves to the middle of nowhere, and discovers his big backyard is full of strange creatures and dangerous adventures.

I hope kids will enjoy this book (especially 8-12-year-old boys), as well as grown-ups who like to read to their kids. I hope some grown-ups will enjoy reading it themselves and feel like a kid again.

If you want to check out the book, the good news is you don’t have to face the disappointment of it being all sold out at the bookstore. You can buy a copy here on Amazon—I’m told their supply is endless.

Thank you for following my writing and being such an encouragement to my creativity over the years. It’s a gift for an author to have an audience to write to. I don’t take it for granted.

Hope you enjoy the book and thanks for continuing to follow me here!

I finally watched the newest edition of the Indiana Jones saga, The Dial of Destiny. It did not disappoint.

It certainly could have. Indiana Jones has aged into a curmudgeonly professor, seemingly growing weary of his post as he nears retirement. The movie could’ve devolved into an old man’s quest for discounted produce, limping to the saga’s ending with Jones taking a grocery cart to his Achilles and spilling blood all over aisle 8.

But of course that’s not what happened, because in the 70s there are still Nazis around! And who better to give them a fitting, hilariously gruesome death than Dr. Jones? This movie had (almost) everything we wanted. Improbable chase sequences with tuk tuks outmaneuvering Merecedez Benzs. Disgusting things squirming out of centuries-old skeletons. Explosions leaving all the bad guys dead but Jones practically unscathed, simply needing a dollop of aloe for his first-degree burns. And Nazis. Lots of ’em. Some assuming Jones is just one of the Jungen and letting him snoop as he pleases. Others sounding the alarm passionately before taking skull-cracking projectiles to their face holes.

If there was one disappointment in the movie, it was that the Nazis didn’t get it bad enough. We were accustomed to watching their faces melt and heads explode when looking at the Ark, or rapidly deteriorating into a pile of bones when drinking from the Grail. I was expecting some version of Archimedes’ Sun weapon to send a million-degree ray through the German ranks and piling those boys up like frankfurters. But one drowned and the others crashed in a plane, and I realized that the director was a little more concerned with reality in his flick. But I know Spielberg would’ve served up another top-10-most-awful-ways-to-die.

So what does this have to do with Christmas? Nothing really, I just wanted to talk about Indiana Jones and Christmas. But as I was thinking about it, the stories do have one remarkable similarity. What’s amazing about the Jones saga–and what will really always keep us coming back for more even if Indy returns as a fedora-donning zombie with a whip–is the adventure to discover history. The Dial of Destiny was yet another entertaining trip back in time to ponder the genius of Archimedes.

Indy always had something his counterparts lacked, which was the passion and knowledge to discover the truth. He studied ancient texts, he learned the languages, he cracked the codes, and he took the risk of finding out where something was, or if it even existed.

When we look at the Christmas story, we can observe similar knowledge and passion in its people to discover, and yes, make history.

Take the magi, those three rich old dudes riding camels in your Nativity. While there’s much we don’t know about them, the Gospel of Matthew offers intriguing clues to reveal they were just as nerdy about history and ancient texts as Dr. Jones. These wise men from the East were very likely from Babylon, and they understood the stars and Israeli folklore. They may have observed some remarkable events in the night sky in the last BC years–from the king planet Jupiter forming a conjunction with the mother planet Venus, to its settling around the king star Regulus in the Judah-lion constellation of Leo. They may have known their Hebrew scripture, thanks to Daniel and Israel leaving their culture behind in Babylon hundreds of years before. Prophecies in the Book of Daniel and Numbers would’ve helped them estimate a Messiah king would come in the time they were living. And all of these clues would’ve prompted them to take this expensive, several-month journey to Israel to find this King of Kings.

Or take the shepherds outside of Bethlehem near Jerusalem, who knew all about the Temple sacrifice system and how their little lambs would be used for Israel’s atonement. Then the angel comes, heralding the birth of Israel’s long-awaiting king, with the sign of “swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” Why, that’s what they as shepherds did to their newborn lambs to keep them spotless for sacrifice. Was this that type of king, and would the God of Israel choose these poor, insignificant men to join the story? They had to go see.

Or take Mary and Joseph, perhaps teenagers in the sleepy town of Nazareth, whose lives are turned upside down by their angel encounters. Both descending from the royal line of David, they would’ve been acutely aware of their ancestors’ lengthy, hundreds-of-years wait for the promised Messiah. Now like Indy, they found themselves wrapped up in the story, with the Hitler-esque Herod bent to destroy it all. But amidst the danger they took their faith steps and journeyed to Bethlehem to deliver their son. Only later would they understand the significance of their adventure, which ushered in the turning point of human history.

Indeed, all the people in the Christmas story were on their own dial of destiny. Prophecies to be fulfilled, ancient text to be illuminated, arduous adventures to seek, lives at stake, and ultimately a treasure to behold. Like Indy, it’s possible for all of us to explore and join the story. Ancient scripture is still being revealed. Recent archeological finds like Hezekiah’s Gate and the Pool of Siloam inspire wonder that the ancient stories are true. As time passes from generation to generation, new things are revealed. But only because someone does the digging. Only because someone looked at an ancient text and wondered if it was true. Only because someone took the effort and ardor to search, and go on the adventure.

I hope you may see this Christmas as an invitation to go on the great adventure our Maker has set out for us. If we have just a mustard seed of faith, we may be taken on a journey as grand as Dr. Jones.’

Really, what’s more exciting than the World Cup? Oh I’ve anticipated your canned answers. Promotions. Weddings. Babies. The Super Bowl.

But does the whole world care about your career? Think about the stress of planning a nuptial, the responsibility of caring for a helpless human. And we all know the Super Bowl is merely a side dish to your gormandizing 18-layer bean dips.

This November and December (really?) the world tuned in to watch the World Cup. That’s right, not just America, but every continent—probably even Antarctica—was watching. Yeah. If I lived in a glacier and waited around all day for a penguin to walk by I’d be sure to find a satellite TV and beam up that footy.

The whole world. People of every tribe and tongue. Even countries that suck at football. (I’m not going to desecrate this post by calling the world’s game “soccer,” because most of the world got it right when they noticed it’s a game where the foot kicks the ball and that’s about it.)

As I was saying, even countries that are crappy at football watch. Including America! Every nation cares, and that’s a beautiful thing.

The problem with exciting things is people can’t help but talk about them and need to share the news as quickly as possible. That’s fine when the game is in the North American Eastern time zone and the big matches are played at prime time.

But when the Cup is 7,000 miles and 8 hours away, the games come on in the morning and middle of the day. That’s just bad for people who before the Cup had things going on, like employment. Because folks like me have to record the games and watch them at night. By then all the beans are spilled like a busted Moe’s burrito. Friends and family have all texted me results and I might as well skip to the goals because that’s the extent of my drama.

To be fair, people weren’t texting me like a sports ticker and saying “Brazil 1 – Germany 0, goal by Neymar in the 80th minute.” That would just be cruel and unnecessary. But I did get results in a matter of words. “Viva la France!” Sounds like they won. Au revoir, drama. “Go USA!” Did they lose? Nope, no lucid chap would say that after a loss. “What a game!” I’d have settled for 90 minutes of crumpling thespians inhaling magic spray. At least then, I still don’t know what happens. No one says “what a game” to 0-0 or 1-0 or 1-1. So as long as that’s the score while I’m watching the replay, I mostly know what happens.

Or perhaps you sought to do me a solid and not reveal anything, with a simple “Did you see the game?” Even then you texted at 4:00 for a 2:00 game, which given the standard two hour matches means there was no extra time, which means I will know the result as the game nears the end of my recording. If I had a VCR I would beat it with a Nike boot. And not really because I’m mad at you but because it seems like the best use of a VCR at this point.

Anyway, I’m kidding about all the lovely souls who shared the World Cup with me over texts. But I’m not kidding about me turning off my phone for the month in the 2026 edition.

Now the World Cup is over just in time for the Christmas season. Many of us can add this time of year to our “excited list.” Just as the Cup is seen by many as worthy of urgent news sharing, we’re quick—and often unconsciously so—to extend a “Merry Christmas” to others. Yet I wonder if it’s lost it’s luster.

After all, this recent Cup feels like the biggest deal in the world to us football fans. Argentina and Messi have achieved their glory (if that was a spoiler then somehow you’ve eclipsed me as slowest recording watcher.) And while it’s top of mind now, what will we say in 4 years? Or 5 World Cups from now? Does anyone fondly reminisce about the 1934 World Cup and Oldrich Nejedly’s goal-scoring prowess?

Likewise, when we speak of Christmas’ origins, can we even remotely relate to the story of an ancient Israeli virgin who had a baby in the presence of shepherds, wisemen, and angels? It can sound and feel like a fairy tale. Perhaps nice to tell as a story, but not more than something for the kids to believe.

It might only be a story worth retelling if its believers made it a story worth reliving. I confess as someone who actually believes this story, my life is too often too pedestrian to remind anyone of the story’s meaning. You may know others like this, “followers” as bland as shepherds’ cloaks and failing to produce the miraculous, or even magnanimous, like their savior.

But maybe there is someone who takes their “Merry Christmas” to heart, who goes forth from the story and loves the poor, sits with the sick, invites in the lonely, and gives generously to the needy, like the stories of their Christ. If you find this person, and they happen to wish you a Merry Christmas, they probably mean it from the deepest part of their being. That to them, there would be no greater joy to have Christmas—”Christ’s Mass”—find its way into someone else’s heart.

What else is there to say, then Merry Christmas!

Who goes on a hot air balloon ride?

Other aviary options are more accessible, predictable, efficient, practical, and thrilling. We don’t often see hot air balloons and usually we have to go looking for them. They don’t really get you anywhere, which makes you think twice about the expense of taking one.

They don’t seem safe. Our experience with balloons is they pop. Add to that what keeps the balloon moving is a massive propane flame, literally towering inside the balloon, its sheer heat sunburning bald spots. Mix in wind and bird beaks and if you thought about it long enough, you may conclude you’re effortlessly floating through the atmosphere on an imminent death machine.

Alas, the hot air balloon is no death machine. It’s a simple, yet well-constructed marvel that’s expertly guided by a pilot with only two propane torches at their disposal.

A couple of weeks ago in Asheville, NC, I went on a hot air balloon ride with my wife, a pilot, and four other people. Stuffed in the basket like picnic sandwiches, we took flight and rose to 3,000 feet.

In a balloon, I found there are two unique sensations that distinguish it from other experiences.

The first is the tiny amount of space you take up in the open sky. Unlike a large plane, observation deck, or helicopter, you’re floating in a little basket with nothing else around you. It’s eerie to be in the middle of the sky with such a small vessel holding you up there.

The second is the quiet stillness. When the flame isn’t burning and the people aren’t talking, the flight seems motionless and deaf. You’re literally standing still in the air.

The small area of quiet stillness allows one to reflect on a world without sound, or motion. Below you, chaos and cacophony are kings. Their throne is speeding cars, blaring sirens, flashing lights, walkers, runners, bikers, yard workers, bulldozers, tankers, and a thousand other comings and goings. Yet from above it’s imperceptible. If a village screamed you wouldn’t hear it, if the earth quaked you wouldn’t feel it.

On a day like this, autumn’s peak bursting with warm hues stretched to the horizon, it would seem there’s no better use of time then to cease one’s frenzy and be forced to look at it all, 3,000 feet up in mid-air, no less.

It was up there I realized—or was in a fresh way reminded—that resting in motionless awe is one of the deepest yet simplest of human experiences. Looking upon such beauty in such silence can only be explained as something we were meant for.

If only we could fly in a balloon so often.

“Dad, can we go in the water?”

Why do children pose this question in our most comfortable moment? Can’t they see we’ve finally made it to the site, erected all our crap, nestled into our chair, cracked a cold drink, and enjoyed a settling exhale?

No. They don’t see that. All they see is you’re not doing anything. To them you are free as a bird, or to be more precise a pelican, that is likely just eager to plunge into the cold, wet water.

“Maybe a little later, buddy. I just sat down.” The predictable, canned answer flows from my mouth without blinking. This is the retort that’s necessary to maintaining the present comfort. I’m not saying “no” and I’m sprinkling a seed of hope that sometime—later, maybe today or this week or lifetime—I’ll go in.

Ah but they have a favorite card to play, too. The shoulders slump, and head drops, and a disappointed “Okayyy” is dropped. It stings a little and we worry the moment could be missed.

Most of us parents know this scenario and feeling. Countless times we’re asked to do something that in the moment we’d rather not. My son asked me to go in the water this week at the beach. At the time I was trying to fish (trying, definitely not fishing) and I felt the tide wash in and cover my feet. Borderline icy, and a full-body immersion seemed outrageous.

My “maybe later” comeback wasn’t accepted. The boy was bored, the ocean beckoned, and a shared experience was possible. If by chance, Dad relented and was OK with getting cold for five minutes.

Deny yourself. A concept so simple to understand yet so hard, counter-cultural, and impractical to carry out. It defies natural instincts—comfort, success, even survival. To deny one’s self is to often deny common sense, to be willingly against me.

So why do it? If I lived in a world created for me, there’d be no reason. Yet I actually find myself in a world with others, a world made equally for everyone. In that sense self-denial is as practical as teeth brushing. Denying oneself is necessary for me, and others, to get by in this world.

I look back at my boy. The first denial will be going back on my word from ten seconds before. Am I the kind of Dad who doesn’t stick to his word? Yeah, might have to be.

We’ll go in, I tell him, but it’s my duty to forewarn the misery that will ensue. It might be too cold. We may not do it for long. He doesn’t care, his fresh smile tells me. Meanwhile I grumble through the self-denial and wade uncomfortably into the gelid breakers.

Then the last moment before the literal plunge, all instincts telling me this won’t be worth it. On “three” we go under the wave. My lungs contract and my body screams “why?” We both emerge with a holler, shaking.

And laughing.

We do it several more times. “It feels kind of good now, doesn’t it, Dad?” Yes, it kind of does.

We walk up the beach. He’s filled. And I find that I’m filled because he’s filled. Sometimes what’s on the other side of “deny yourself” is the moment that everyone needs. It’s the moment that will never be documented if missed, but will forever be remembered if made.

Again, the Teacher was right. He knew what we didn’t, that to deny yourself is the path that leads to life.

And a lesson with the endless opportunity of being retaught. If we let it.

And they came up and took hold of his feet and worshipped him.

Observe these woman who have just visited their Lord’s tomb. They came forlorn and bewildered. No doubt they traversed the paths and hills agonizing that they’d soon see his torn body, as motionless and dead as it was at sunset two nights before. Alas, they arrive to see no body. Nobody that is, but a celestial one, who tells them the very dead man is not dead.

Goosebumps. All their preconceived notions about what “dead” was are shattered. They run to tell about it, but are halted by the non-dead man himself.

Think of when you’ve wanted to do something so badly for so long but couldn’t. Was it to celebrate a victory, after countless 2nds, 5ths, and lasts? Or to reunite with someone dear in a country faraway? Or to one day get that date with the boy or girl you’ve crushed on for years when every day you doubted its possibility?

Imagine these women who suspected their best friend was also their savior, was also the king of the universe, but couldn’t know it for sure, and couldn’t outwardly esteem him as such, for in his life he was a mortal. Then in this moment they see him and his fixed, non-dead body and recognize that everything they wanted to be true about him was, and if that was true, there was no other appropriate response than to fall down and worship him. All they had ever pent up because of customs and doubts they now poured out.

What if we, too, were withholding the emotion and activity that we were made to pour out? What if we released the river in us and let joy flow? Or shall we fortify the dam and let rise the longing?

Recently, my wife and I paid a visit to her sister and family in San Diego. I realize that already I sound cool, because I know someone who lives there and visiting people in exotic places sounds like something I can just do.

Unquestionably, San Diego has gravitas. Nobody who hasn’t been there knows anything about it, other than the city has been endowed with Heaven’s climate. Flawless beach weather everyday where you can walk outside naked and feel physically comfortable.

Other than that, what does this place have to offer? To me it was just Anchorman scenes and a bad football franchise that ain’t even there anymore. Well, I learned there’s indeed more to this place than I thought.

Shortly after exiting the airport, we were greeted by the picturesque bay and harbor, filled with sails and yachts, flanked by scores of palm trees, all with the backdrop of downtown high rises. What would’ve made for an incredible poster was indeed the handsome reality of Southern California.

Upon greeting our sister Andrea, her husband Taylor and our new precious nephew, Jackson, it was off to drink beer.

After all, San Diego has one of the greatest craft beer scenes in the world. I think my family there thought all I wanted to do on our trip was visit breweries, which is an excellent assumption, but not entirely true. All I wanted to do was visit breweries with the baby. Enjoy the new nephew on our terms at our fun places; that’s how we Millennials do it.

So on our first day, we headed to Ocean Beach, one of the last remaining surf towns in Southern California. We first visited Belching Beaver, because if you can fit “belch” and “beaver” into your business name, you’ve won. Afterward we walked to Ocean Beach Brewery and enjoyed a dinner of fresh fish as the sunset over the Pacific. Oh, what a horrible time. Then, a friendly fellow who may have been high asked me to smell a flower. I declined, only because the flower was so small I was concerned his fingers would go up my nose, and I didn’t fly 2,500 miles for that.

The following day, I got up for an early run. The Reeves live in North Park (you’re cool if you know where that is), so I didn’t have to go far before I reached Balboa Park, the great city park in San Diego. If only I could run somewhere new and beautiful every day, gosh, I’d probably be in slightly better shape than I am today. Later that morning, I had the pleasure of driving though the city to pick up my other sis-and-law and her fiancé at the airport. People say people in San Diego drive crazily. But people say that for every big city. I think there are just bad drivers everywhere, because hey, we’re all operating metric tons of steel moving at 80 mph. Yes, it’s freaking crazy.

In the afternoon, we had fish tacos by the harbor. Meh… Just kidding, it was terrific. My best taco had octopus. I’m glad we’re putting the octopi to good use. After lunch, I walked off my octopus at Point Luma, a historical site featuring a lighthouse and panoramic views of San Diego and its bay.

The day only got better, as I emptied a gift card to buy lots of So Cali beer and then watch my beloved Wolfpack whoop hiney in prime time, i.e. 5 pm PST. Watching sports on the West Coast is so money. The best part of all of this was doing silent cheers so we wouldn’t wake the baby. Silent cheering and dancing is really fun. It would be great for a whole stadium to do it as a thing, like a blackout or the wave.

The next day we hiked Torrey Pines National Park. More beauty and wonder, and more exercise to mitigate my rapidly expanding octopus/IPA gut. That afternoon, we explored North Park, enjoying great ale and reggae at Rip Current Brewing and an outstanding burrito at Lucho Libre, a hilariously pink joint celebrating Mexican wrestling. Then it was on to the Reeves’ neighborhood brewery (Thorn Street) where we watched the US triumphantly defeat Panama in their World Cup qualifier, with the blessed ignorance of the proceeding nightmare match. Then back home for burgers, fire pit, cigars, blah blah blah best day ever.

Next morning, we went to the harbor-side market and bought a fish—a huge, newly dead 16-pound skipjack tuna to be precise. Then it was onto to Little Italy for their Farmers Market, where we tried poke-stuffed uni. That’s raw tuna inside a sea urchin. Good golly listen to what we humans are doing. Then, just when I didn’t want to have any more fun, we visited Ballast Point Brewing, Liberty Station, and Stone Brewing. Yes, I got to visit my favorite brewery in the world. I sampled four delicious beers beside a coy pond and even bought a corduroy hat. That was a pretty good day.

All in all, it was one of the best weeks of my life, and our time with family and our new nephew was simply splendid. I definitely recommend San Diego, unless you are against fun, beauty, and factually the greatest city in the history of mankind.

On August 17, 2017, our sweet Lilly passed away. Though words cannot sufficiently express our sadness for her death, nor the memories she gave us, nor the joy that she brought us, I’m going to try. Because what would be worse would be to stay silent, something old ‘Lil would’ve never stood for.

What Lilly stood for most was, of course, food. Literally, on her hind legs, stretching her diminutive yet plump frame to the extreme to extend her snout over anything holding grub. Lilly may not have been a purebred beagle, but her head and her stomach couldn’t have been more pedigree.

Lilly lived to eat and had a knack for finding food. While she did have a good sense of smell, any of us could find food if we spent our whole lives sniffing for it. When we were in the kitchen, so was Lilly. Like a night watchmen on patrol, Lilly paced back and forth surveying the scene with faithful vigilance. Often she would position herself directly beneath us while preparing food, and she didn’t seem to mind that we were always tripping over her.

But she was keenly aware of when her favorite foods were out, accentuating her puppy face for carrots (her healthy favorite), popcorn (her favorite to catch out of mid-air), and any meat imaginable. I never saw a deeper sense of purpose and urgency in Lilly then when I would pick the carcass of a rotisserie chicken. As her generous keeper, I’d always drop her the disgusting part.

But more than anything, the prospect of food led Lilly to incredible mischief, from the hilarious to the infuriating. On her first Christmas, she found and ate Uncle Billy’s entire fruit cake, then pooped in his room. One Easter she ate a bag of chocolate candy, then spent the night howling and racing around the Gnisci’s backyard while Charlie held the leash, watched her frantically poop, and prayed she didn’t die. Then there was the Thanksgiving where Lilly ventured upstairs during dinner, came down and moseyed under the table, and then hacked up a Brillo pad she’d seized from the laundry room. I have witnessed Lilly jump on a table to eat a stick of butter, a wedge of cheese, and a plate of cinnamon rolls. I’ve witnessed Lilly overturn a trashcan to eat a sweet potato, a bratwurst, and a whole chicken drumstick. We learned that true rage ensued when we attempted to remove something delicious from her mouth. Over time, we simply followed the sage words of Cousin Eddie: “It’s best just to let her finish.”

Lilly’s mischief extended to her love for adventure. She didn’t stop being a hound dog when she ventured outside. I loved letting her out on spring days when there was a rabbit or two in the yard. She would put her nose down immediately and begin zigzagging at the scent, then blast off like a greyhound as the rabbit took off. The rabbit would always find its way through the fence and into safety.

But a fence didn’t always stop Lilly. Half my yardwork over the last decade has been patching holes she dug to exit the premises for an excursion. Sometimes she’d be gone for a few minutes, sometimes for a few hours. She typically returned with a grin, panting and ready for water, often needing a bath due to something awful smeared on her coat.

She loved the outside and her fellow creatures. We’ve watched her run squirrels up trees, bark at hawks in the sky, and come face to face with a groundhog. A week before she passed, I had let her outside in the morning to do her business. Minutes later, Danielle awoke to what sounded like barking and scratching under the house. I went out to inspect and opened the crawlspace. As I peered in, there was Lilly (how did she get under the house?), pawing at an open storage container. I stepped in to the crawlspace, approached the container, and tapped it. Slowly and creepily, two black ears rose above the container and immediately alerted me to what Lilly was so excited about: a raccoon. I whisked Lilly out of there, and thankfully the raccoon found its way out too through the hole Lilly had dug under the A/C unit. It was a disaster averted, with the end result being a little bit of duct repair and cleaning up some poop Lilly left behind in her excitement.

While she was definitely a Snoopy dog, Lilly broke the mold with her zest for swimming and retrieving. When she was young, we took her to the beach to fetch sticks in the ocean with her friend Boone. Lilly was a natural, and simulated an otter swishing through the water, using her tail as a propeller.  So arduous was her effort that she suffered a sprained tail, which sadly couldn’t erect for a few days. In our backyard, we’d have her run down sticks, tennis balls, and the occasional frisbee. Occasional because when she flagged down a frisbee, she ate it.

But there was one thing that Lilly loved more than food and adventure: people. No, not people outside of the house like joggers, bikers and UPS men—she barked like hell at them. But Lilly loved her people. She’d let us know it when we returned home, jumping on her hind legs and moaning with glee as we pet her. She loved to be with us, whether it was under the dinner table, on our couch, or in our arms. She loved to be pet and scratched, and she loved a good belly rub. Even after the rub down, she would still slide back and forth on her back, then jump up, sneeze, and shake it all out. It became a ritual she sought out, often turning over immediately on her back when we went to pet her.

Lilly loved Hudson and Ella Jane. On her last night with us, when she lacked the energy to move about, she mustered the strength and voluntarily came into the room to say good night to the kids. She let them hug and kiss her, and even stayed in their room for a moment as we put them down. She was a best friend, unto the end.

We miss Lilly and are reminded of her, or her absence, every day. For one, we have to clean up any food that falls on the floor, something we haven’t had to do in 10 years. As I walk around my yard, I chuckle at my beat-up fence and all the rocks and twisty-ties serving as barricades. Mostly, we are reminded of Lilly in the quiet. No sniffs, barks, growls, jingles or scratches that we’d grown so accustomed to.

Lilly lived an incredible 10 years. That’s a good life for a dog, but a really good life for Lilly, considering all the messes she got herself into and, remarkably, got out of. If all dogs go to Heaven, then I’m sure Lilly had a good shot. Perhaps she’s feasting at the Lord’s table, or more accurately, on top of it. Wherever her soul is, there is laughter there.

No, Lilly never caught a rabbit. But she was a damn good friend of mine, and of all of us. She’ll forever be treasured as our first family pet. We’ll miss you, sweet girl.

There I was about a fortnight ago, lazily sprawled upon my couch, watching the NBA Finals and witnessing greatness. 

It’s funny to witness greatness from your couch. I mean, a short hundred years ago you had to put clothes on and travel to some distant venue to witness an athletic triumph. Now I vege out on comfy cushions for two hours, even propping up my arm to maximize remote efficiency and minimize human effort, while LeBron soars like a pterodactyl to make the greatest block of all time, and I’m like “I’d clap, but my arms are asleep,” so instead I acknowledge the remarkable human feat with a barely audible grunt. So I witnessed greatness.

Not only was I pulling for greatness, I was pulling for LeBron. There it is, I said it! Drag me out into the public square and hack-a-Shaq me to death. Cry foul just like the whining superstar whom you can’t fathom how I could appreciate. Really, unless you’re a Clevelander, pulling for LeBron is taboo.

What’s not taboo (though it should be) is the litany of cliches about why LeBron isn’t great, or at least not one of the greatest. He’s not a closer like Mike. He shrinks in big moments. He gets all the calls. He’s built like a fortified steam engine, how could he not be great? I mean, if he were 6 feet and had little muscles he wouldn’t be so great. Right, because then he’d be me. 

So I try to be objective, but LeBron haters (and there are scores of them) generally won’t have any of it. It’s like he could score all 150 of his team’s points and someone would say he’s a ball hog. He’ll never win the minds of those people.

So when I hear the foolish arguments, I notice my pulse go up a tick and and my brain telling me to take deep breaths. I feel the anger brewing inside of me. If LeBron were here he would tomahawk slam a basketball down your esophagus. 

Equally, my conversational adversary is also getting worked up. Their voice raises and their cheeks redden. Then I say something incendiary like, “LeBron would eat Jordan’s lunch,” and watch the incensed volcanic eruption of incantations spewing from their mouths. “You’re effing nuts! Do you watch sports?! You’ll burn for this, Spigot. Burrrrrn!”

In the midst of these arguments, I wonder why we are so defensive about something that has absolutely zero bearing on our lives. LeBron is as present in my life as a North Pole elf. Yet I talk, read and think about him more than than I do my own family. Why?

Do you remember as a kid, you would proudly proclaim to the other kids who your idol was? My idol was Ron Gant. Who the hell is Ron Gant you ask? Well that’s a fine question.

Ron Gant was an outfielder for the Atlanta Braves. He was a good player, but not great. But something about the way he played left me enamored. I watched his every at bat. I collected every one of his baseball cards, outnumbering Cal Ripken, Jr. and Ken Griffey, Jr. cards combined. I wrote him letters and sent him pictures to autograph—which I never saw again—but you can bet your baseballs I gave Ron Gant the benefit of the doubt. He was just way too busy enjoying the awesomeness of being Ron Gant.

Now, I’m going to make an extremely rash assumption that Ron Gant was not your idol. But I’m going to make a less rash assumption that you had one. It could’ve been another athlete like Michael Jordan, a pop star like Michael Jackson, or a Commy politician like Mikhail Gorbachev (no?).

But as we aged, we stopped caring about who was the greatest shooter or guitar player. We stopped giving the benefit of the doubt to our idols who made poor choices. We stopped fawning over people and getting all neurotic when we actually saw them in person.

Or did we?

Perhaps our infatuation with stars is not as overt as it once was, but is it any less passionate? No, I’m not physically falling over and worshipping stars, but don’t I get all cranky and flustered on the inside when they’re struggling in a game, or flopping on stage, or being ripped by a media personality?

The truth is, we defend who we love. We defend our spouse, our kids, our best friends, and of course, John Stamos. If someone attacks them, we unleash the claws like Wolverine.

Wait, wasn’t this post about LeBron? Yes. In fact, I love LeBron. Which sounds really stupid when I say it. I don’t know him at all. I’ve never seen him in person. He is just a big, great basketball player in my TV. But more than that, he is the greatest player of my generation. He is an athlete I strangely take pride in. Like he is some small part of my life. Like I cling to his legacy as if it were my own. Like way deep down, I just want to marvel at his greatness.

Or, do I just desire to marvel at someone great, period? What is this part of me that infatuates itself with other humans who are the same species as me? It seems weird. It seems misplaced.

I can only conclude that my desire to marvel at and ascribe greatness to someone is because I was created to do so. But when that someone, that idol, a being as temporal as myself, is elevated to the throne of my affection, is it any wonder I am left with such emptiness?

What if I was made to marvel at something greater? Indeed, if I was made at all, by more than a chaotic and fortuitous conglomeration of stardust, would I not esteem that Maker? Could it be that the amazingness of me, you, LeBron and every human are simply reflections of our more amazing Maker? And wouldn’t I desire to marvel at that Maker, to behold Him, to love Him?

Possibly. Yet I find myself much more easily captivated by greatness that is obvious, observable and tangible. Why toil to pursue something more abstract, uncertain and non-empirical? Quick-fix greatness witnessing is readily at my disposal.

I don’t even have to get off my couch.